Lace And Shadows

LACE AND SHADOWS An Ellora’s Cave Publication, February 2005 Ellora’s Cave Publishing, Inc. 1337 Commerce Drive, #13 Stow, OH 44224 ISBN MS Reader (LIT) ISBN # 1-4199-0111-7 Other available formats (no ISBNs are assigned): Adobe (PDF), Rocketbook (RB), Mobipocket (PRC) & HTML LACE AND SHADOWS © 2005 CATRIONA MACGREGOR ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part without permission. This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. They are productions of the authors’ imagination and used fictitiously. Edited by Pamela Cohen. Cover art by Syneca.

Warning: The following material contains graphic sexual content meant for mature readers. Lace and Shadows has been rated S-ensuous by a minimum of three independent reviewers. Ellora’s Cave Publishing offers three levels of Romantica™ reading entertainment: S (S-ensuous), E (Erotic), and X (X-treme). S-ensuous love scenes are explicit and leave nothing to the imagination. E-rotic love scenes are explicit, leave nothing to the imagination, and are high in volume per the overall word count. In addition, some E-rated titles might contain fantasy material that some readers find objectionable, such as bondage, submission, same sex encounters, forced seductions, and so forth. E-rated titles are the most graphic titles we carry; it is common, for instance, for an author to use words such as “fucking”, “cock”, “pussy”, and such within their work of literature. X-treme titles differ from E-rated titles only in plot premise and storyline execution. Unlike E-rated titles, stories designated with the letter X tend to contain controversial subject matter not for the faint of heart.

LACE AND SHADOWS Catriona MacGregor

Catriona MacGregor

Chapter One Jessamyn Radcliffe watched from the shadows of the second-floor balcony as the carved double doors below swung open onto the foyer. Mrs. Carruthers again. Jessamyn suppressed a surge of hope. The real estate agent had brought many prospects to view her home, but months of such visits had produced no buyer for Bonnie Doon. Mrs. Carruthers swept in, her footsteps echoing flatly on peeling linoleum laid twenty years before. Once marble would have rung beneath her tailored navy pumps, but the heavy Italian tiles had long since been stripped away and sold. Like everything else at Bonnie Doon, Jessamyn thought. A trailing cobweb snagged on the realtor’s linen suit and Jessamyn smiled at her frantic effort to brush it off. These days, cobwebs and dust were as much a part of the house as the white-columned verandah. Or Jessamyn herself. She’d tried to like Mrs. Carruthers. A new owner was Bonnie Doon’s only chance for survival, and the agent was her best hope for finding one. But the woman was, to Jessamyn’s mind, no better than a carpetbagger, intent on making a killing from Bonnie Doon’s faded glory. “I appreciate your patience with this little detour,” Mrs. Carruthers said over her shoulder. “I left some paperwork here, then the sale fell through at the last minute. They found something in better condition,” she confided, raising one steeply arched brow. “Further from town, though, and with much less character.” The realtor’s companion stepped inside and Jessamyn edged deeper into the darkness. She knew they couldn’t see her, but she pressed the bell-shaped lace and satin skirt of her ballgown against her legs until it ballooned behind her. Old habits died hard. The man hesitated in the doorway. The afternoon sun through the front windows cast him in silhouette and, though Jessamyn could tell he was tall and slender, she couldn’t see his face. He stepped with feline grace to the center of the foyer. Turning slowly, he took in the leaded glass sidelights flanking the entrance, the carved doorways leading to the parlor and dining rooms, and the wide staircase that wound upward from left to right. His gaze brushed past Jessamyn’s hiding place on the second-floor balcony and she caught her breath. She knew him!

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She pressed a trembling hand to her deep décolletage and stepped to the balcony rail, the memory of that night replaying itself in her mind like a scene from the old movies she’d watched so often when the house had been occupied. He had stood at the foot of the staircase, a tall stranger in traveling clothes beside her father. She remembered thinking it odd that the handsome man wasn’t dressed for her party, and had called down to Papa to ask who he was. The man looked up at the sound of her voice. Their eyes met. In that instant, Jessamyn realized they shared a bond that stretched far beyond the confines of her insular world. She’d been wrong to scoff at the words of the ancient slave woman who’d told her fortune earlier that day. “Tonight you’ll meet your true love,” she’d said, and Jessamyn had laughed. But now she knew the old woman had been right. She knew the man was her destiny. She’d started down the steps toward him and… Jessamyn shook herself back to the present and stared at the man below. He couldn’t be the same one, not after so many years. She studied him more closely. She’d only seen the stranger of her memory a few moments, but every detail of his appearance was engraved in her mind. He’d been tall, towering head and shoulders over her slight father like this man towered over the unfemininely large Mrs. Carruthers. Jessamyn herself was smaller than men of even average height, and she recalled with pleasure how especially dainty she felt when the eligible male on her dance card had been over six feet. The man’s gaze flicked again to the balcony as if he felt her stare. Like those of the stranger, his eyes were dark. His hair, too, though Jessamyn could make out bright strands of amber where the light from the entry struck. He wasn’t old, probably in his early thirties, but his face had a chiseled quality that gave it depth, as though he’d done or seen things beyond his years. His cheekbones were high, his cheeks smooth planes beneath them. Jessamyn found herself licking her own lips as she took in the full, sensual mouth beneath his strong, straight nose. She imagined that mouth on hers, on her body, the long, slender hands cupping her breasts, moving slowly between her legs as she parted them eagerly for him. A shudder ran through her. It couldn’t be coincidence. This was the man of her prophecy, the man she had waited more than a lifetime to meet again. She watched him caress the faded wood of the staircase newel post, then stifled a cry as she suddenly felt a warm hand move along her hip. She glanced down in amazement. The skirt of her ballgown was still in place, but she felt his touch as though he was stroking her own hot, bare flesh instead of cold wood. How? He spread his palm to feel the smooth arc of turned mahogany against his hand, and Jessamyn trembled as the phantom touch moved behind to cup her rounded bottom, then stroke smoothly down the back of her upper thigh. She gripped the balcony railing, willing him to stop, yet praying he wouldn’t. It had been so long since she’d known a man’s touch, but why was this happening?

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She was tied to the old house, unable to move beyond the formal gardens outside, but when had she become one with the house, sharing its sensations? She was more certain than ever. He had to be the man she was waiting for. Mrs. Carruthers had come through for her after all. The agent had been watching the man, as well, her expression eager as she took in his unexpected interest. Eager, and more than a little lustful as she, too, seemed mesmerized by the movement of his hand on the dark wood. Hussy, Jessamyn thought, then shuddered as the heated caress moved to the inside of her knee. It trailed upward, slowly, and she squeezed her eyes shut, waiting, willing him higher, parting her legs ever so slightly beneath her full skirt. “If you like, Professor,” the woman said, “I’ll be happy to take you through the house. Let’s look at the downstairs first, then upstairs, and then the grounds if you like.” He murmured agreement, taking his hand from the staircase post, and followed her through the parlor doorway. The burning touch on Jessamyn’s thigh disappeared, leaving her stunned and yearning for more. While they viewed the ground floor, she paced the balcony, struggling to recover her senses. How had he done that? she wondered. She’d never responded to a man’s touch like that before, and this man hadn’t even really touched her. What would it be like if he did? She imagined his caresses, that searing touch continuing up the soft flesh of her thigh to the moist core of her sex. The thought sent waves of need through her, leaving her aching and empty. The scene shifted and she pictured him stopping her on the balcony, pinning her hard against the wall, his mouth hot on hers as he raised her skirt and petticoats. Then his hand was inside her pantalets, stroking her as she stood for him, his fingers exploring her hot, silken folds, seeking out that most sensitive of places, probing, thrusting into her as she arched against him in pleasure. She leaned on the rail, letting the image take her, throbbing with need and frustrated that she couldn’t put into words what she visualized. Her era had been so filled with taboos about what happened between a man and a woman, even about the details of human anatomy. She hardly knew what to think, what to imagine, so limited was her knowledge of her own desires. He’d carry her to their bed, then, lying her down and slowly, ever so slowly, stripping her gown and undergarments from her body as he touched and tasted every inch of flesh he bared. Though she’d never experienced them herself, she’d occasionally witnessed such acts between men and women, as, over the years, she’d watched the goings-on of the living occupants of Bonnie Doon. Would he do the kinds of things she’d seen? Taste her? Explore her with his mouth? The very thought that he might and the realization that she wanted him to made her feel wildly wicked.

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Her nipples hardened beneath her chemise as she thought of him kissing them, suckling and nibbling, his tongue trailing moist heat across her skin. He’d kiss her belly, then and slowly work his way downward. His mouth moving against the softness, making her tremble at the unaccustomed touch, the unfamiliar fire racing through her. She’d part her legs for him, spreading them so he could move his head between them. Letting his tongue… Oh, God, she thought with frustration. What she wanted him to do to her she could hardly imagine, so foreign were the sensations swirling through her. She’d never experienced such vivid and lustful daydreams. It seemed as though she’d actually known such passion and longed to again. Who was this man, that he could provoke such a wanton response in her? The sound of approaching voices sent her darting back to the shadows. The realtor and her client started up the grand staircase. As they neared the top, Jessamyn moved closer, drawn as always, by a force beyond her control, her whole consciousness on edge. The air around her quivered with tension, as her body, incorporeal though it was, still shivered with her wild fantasy. Nerves resonating like plucked bowstrings, she watched the pair for any sign of the stumble she’d learned to expect at the uneven fourth step from the top. It didn’t come. This time. They reached the landing without incident and moved unseeing within inches of her. Jessamyn could feel the man’s warmth as he passed, and she basked in the energy that washed over her. The heat and the memory of his unintentional caresses settled low in her belly, and she stifled a laugh at the building of sensations she had thought she’d never feel again. She wanted him, as she’d never wanted any man before. Steadying herself against the balcony rail, she closed her eyes, her tension at guarding the stair pushed aside by this new, strange response. She heard steps nearby and glanced up. The professor stood at the rail beside her, completely unaware of her, his expression thoughtful as he gazed down at the entry. Up close Jessamyn saw that his eyes were the color of old sherry, rich brown with highlights of bronze. He stroked the mahogany rail absently with his thumb, as though lost in thought, and Jessamyn nearly bit through her lower lip at the gesture, feeling her breast under that hand, her nipple tightening in answer to that caress. Merciful heavens, she thought, why was this happening? What could it mean? Then he turned to face Mrs. Carruthers and, for a second, seemed to look right at Jessamyn. She felt herself caught in the depths of his gaze. She was right. He was the one. Involuntarily, she stepped toward him. The professor shivered, snapping out of his reverie with a sudden look of surprise. Too close. Jessamyn jumped back, self-conscious. “Did you feel that?” he asked Mrs. Carruthers.

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“What?” The realtor’s expression was guileless. “The cold there at the railing. Like walking into a refrigerator.” The tall woman moved to the railing to stand beside him. “I don’t feel anything.” The professor shook his head. “No, it’s gone now, whatever it was.” “Probably a draft,” Mrs. Carruthers said. “You know how these old houses are. They never have much insulation, so it’s not unusual to find drafts and cold spots, especially if it’s breezy out. Now, let’s take a look at the bedrooms.” She led the way across the balcony. The professor trailed behind her, but he threw one last glance at the railing where Jessamyn stood. Jessamyn maintained a safe distance behind them while they explored the upper floors, knowing she mustn’t slip up again. It wouldn’t do to frighten him away before he even had the chance to save her. Fortunately, he didn’t seem compelled to touch and caress any other features of the house. Another experience like that and Jessamyn was sure she’d swoon into a quivering mass, or grab the man and ravish him then and there, Mrs. Carruthers be damned. Like the rest of the house, most of the upper rooms were devoid of furniture, their crackled paint and marred floors laid bare to the visitors’ inspection. Jessamyn felt her cheeks flush. She hadn’t really noticed the condition of the rooms before. To her eyes, the decline of the house had been so gradual as to go undetected. After a brief visit to the musty attic to view what little furniture remained with the house, the pair started back to the grand staircase. Jessamyn again took her station on the landing, watching them with fearful anticipation and sighing with relief when they reached the bottom without incident. Mrs. Carruthers paused in the foyer before leading her client out to the gardens. “A lovely house, isn’t it?” she asked tentatively, clearly hesitant to pressure him. “Yes, lovely.” He paused, frowning slightly. “Look, you’re probably going to think I’m crazy. I certainly do. It’s not what we discussed. It’s not like anything you’ve shown me so far. But it’s just the kind of house I’ve always wanted.” His glance darted toward the balcony. “May I see the grounds?” Mrs. Carruthers’ mascara-fringed eyes widened in surprise. “Are you sure, Professor?” Then, as if realizing what she’d said, she continued in a rush. “I mean, that’s wonderful. I know you’d be very happy at Bonnie Doon. The house has such potential. Naturally, you’d need to do a few minor renovations. One has to expect that in a house that’s over two hundred years old. But that’s half the fun, isn’t it?” She flashed him a dazzling smile. “Maybe, if you’re not on a deadline.” His own smile was tolerant. “But I’d like to have the house in habitable shape before my fiancée comes down after summer semester.” “Don’t give it another thought, Professor. I know a number of contractors and designers who’ll be thrilled to help you. All with restoration experience, of course. I

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don’t think you’ll have any trouble meeting your deadline.” Mrs. Carruthers sounded smug as she led the way through the parlor. The kitchen screen door slapped closed behind them and brought Jessamyn back to reality. She clenched her fists, crumpling the frothy lace of her overskirt. “A fiancée,” she said aloud. “He’s buying my house for a fiancée.” How could the true love of her prophecy belong to another woman, especially when his slightest touch sent such fiery pleasure through her? She trembled and gripped the railing. A thousand faceted chandelier teardrops suspended above the entry began to tremble, then jingled like demented sleigh bells. The walls resonated with her building energy. With a cry halfway between a sob and a shriek, Jessamyn hurtled down the curving staircase. Just as she’d fallen over a hundred years before. But this time her body, its flesh and bone long since dust, dissolved to mist and joined with the rising maelstrom to roar through the empty house like a hurricane. Bret Tyler returned to the house after a brief tour of the overgrown, weed-choked garden and similarly neglected grounds. He had to stifle a laugh at Mrs. Carruthers’ sudden change in attitude since he’d expressed interest in the property. Suddenly, Bonnie Doon Plantation had become, in real estate parlance, a “fixer-upper with loads of potential” rather than the white elephant she’d despaired of ever selling. He couldn’t really blame her. She’d brought him to the house on an errand and ended up with a serious prospect. She was probably afraid he’d change his mind if she talked about the house in less than glowing terms. She’s afraid I’ll see what a money pit this place is and come to my senses. He thought about the last half dozen houses Mrs. Carruthers had shown him. All had been exactly what he’d told her he wanted—tasteful, but modest, attractive, yet practical. Not one had held the slightest interest for him. He’d shrugged them off and, resigned, Mrs. Carruthers had driven him to the next house on her list. Hell, maybe he was crazy. His pragmatic fiancée, Carla, would certainly think so. She shared his affection for old houses, but she’d never have gone for something in this condition. Neither of them was do-it-yourselfers and she’d see no point in expending the time and money necessary to make Bonnie Doon livable. He walked to the front of the house, aware of Mrs. Carruthers’ silent presence behind him. She apparently deemed it prudent to leave him to his thoughts, rather than push the house further, but he could feel her appraising gaze. He glanced at her. The realtor’s bright pink lips curved in an encouraging smile and Bret thought again how fortunate he was that Carla hadn’t come down to Charleston with him. Carla didn’t trust women who wore lipstick in colors “not found in nature”. Personally, Bret didn’t care how Mrs. Carruthers applied her makeup. She’d been infinitely patient with him, despite the fact that up to this point he’d given her no solid hope of making a sale. Her tolerance counted for more with him than her appearance. 9

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“It could use a fresh coat of paint,” she spoke for the first time in several minutes. Bret smiled at the understatement. It would have to be one thick coat of paint. The exterior of the house was downright decrepit. Graying white enamel had flaked off the walls and the tall, fluted columns leaving leprous patches of bare, weathered wood. Several panes in one front window were broken and shards of glass littered the porch. Strips of white latticework at the base of the porch had come loose. Bret stepped through a tangle of weed-choked ivy and knelt to press them back into place. A dry fragment snapped off in his hand and he stared at it, sadness welling in him. Above him, the house seemed to gather her dignity about her like an old-South matriarch, clad in tatters, but unbroken in spirit. He rose slowly and stared up at it. History was his field, not architecture, but he guessed Mrs. Carruthers hadn’t exaggerated the age of the place. The house seemed to stare back at him, equally appraising, through dusty, multifaceted eyes. He fought the urge to examine each window for spying faces, so strong was his sense of being watched. Absurd. Behind him, Mrs. Carruthers cleared her throat. Bret jumped. How long had she been standing there? He’d completely lost track of her in his contemplation of the house. He noticed she held a small rectangle of red cardboard that proclaimed “SOLD” in white block type. “What’s the price?” Bret surprised himself by asking. This was insane. The house was nothing like he wanted. It would take months to restore and the cost, even if only cosmetic repairs were needed… He shook off the thought. There was just something about the place. It almost seemed to call to him. As for Carla, well, once he had the house in decent shape, she’d see his point of view. The realtor’s smile dimmed slightly. “I’m afraid it’s somewhat above the range we discussed.” She hurried on uncomfortably. “But the property is still a good buy, especially for such a piece of history.” Bret nodded his understanding. “Well, price isn’t a big issue. I just set a practical target amount for the houses I was looking at.” He glimpsed dawning hope in her eyes as she named an amount, nearly twice the price he’d planned on, and he responded without flinching. He had pointedly ignored the trust fund he’d come into on his twenty-first birthday. After a dozen years, the interest alone should cover the down payment. Bret gazed up at the house again. He knew, without understanding how or why, that he’d come home.

*****

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“Haunted?” Bret stared at Harry Osborne, alert for any other signs of insanity in Bonnie Doon’s longtime caretaker, now his employee. “When did this start?” The older man ran a hand through his thick, graying hair and frowned. “’Bout a week ago. The mason complained about drafts in that blue bedroom on the second floor. Then a couple carpenters started missing tools. Since then it’s been strange noises, footsteps, voices.” “What, no floating objects?” Harry shifted uneasily, his face grim. “Well, now that ya mention it…” “You’re kidding me, right?” Bret waited for an answer. This was all he needed. When Harry only stared at the floor, he continued, “When? What happened?” “Last night.” Harry scowled. “Books in the library. They moved by themselves. Or so the fellows said.” “Did you see anything?” The caretaker shook his head. “Is this going to slow down work?” Bret looked around the parlor. The changes were astonishing, beyond what he’d expected. Fresh paint and new plaster gleamed. Polished hardwood had replaced the yellowed vinyl flooring throughout the house, with the exception of the newly marble-tiled entry. Not a single cobweb remained. The house seemed to glow, almost preening under his ministrations. Harry had brought down some of the better pieces of furniture from the attic where they’d been stored, and Bret had started arranging them throughout the house, but he was no decorator. He’d tried to put at least one item in each room, even if only a chair. Anything to make the place feel less abandoned. “Do they want more money?” Harry shook his head. “Naw, this ain’t about money. These men are superstitious. Island folk, most of ‘em. The old beliefs go way back. Back before their families even came to Sou’ Carolina.” “Mrs. Carruthers never mentioned anything about the house being haunted.” As if she would, Bret thought. Still, weren’t sellers supposed to disclose that sort of flaw to prospective buyers? He glanced at Harry who stood contemplating the grain in the oak floorboards and looking uncomfortable. “How long have you worked here, Harry? Have you ever noticed anything odd?” “I been workin’ for the Radcliffes since I was sixteen years old.” Harry met Bret’s eyes with his pale blue gaze. “That’s nearly forty years, in the house and out. And I never heard nor saw no ghost. ‘Course there’s plenty of other ghosts in the area, if you believe the legends. But I reckon you know about the Edisto Light, since you grew up in these parts.” “Of course.” Bret remembered the legends about a mysterious light moving through the woods. A lantern, the stories said, carried by a headless Rebel soldier. He smiled at the memory of sleepless, frightened nights at the Boy Scout camp on

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Wadmalaw Island, imagination stoked by campfire ghost stories. “Yarns like that are a childhood requirement. But the Edisto Light doesn’t have anything to do with this house. So what’s going on and why’s it starting now? And what are we going to do about it?” Harry scratched his chin. “Well, most of the heavy work’s done. There wasn’t much structural work to do, since the place was kept up pretty well that way. What’s left, a couple bedrooms upstairs, some exterior work, the new furnace and water heater, I can finish up over the next few weeks with a little help. And there’s still plenty to do in the gardens since I’ve mostly just been keepin’ the weeds and grass cut low while the house was on the market. You could probably pay off the crew and move in anytime.” He gave Bret a sly look. “’Less you’re afraid of ghosts, that is.” Bret laughed. They were further along than he’d dared hope. Carla couldn’t object to the amount of work that remained by the time she got here, and she’d never have to know how much effort went into the place before her arrival. “Tell the contractor I’ll have his check for him tomorrow. And I don’t believe in ghosts.”

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Chapter Two Jessamyn gave the clump of sourgrass sprouting between the flagstones a halfhearted kick. Her foot passed ineffectually through the green stalks, leaving them undamaged. She wasn’t concentrating. Just wait, she promised the offending weed. Bret would take care of it. Like he’d taken care of her house. Like he’d soon take care of her. The mere thought of the kind of care she hoped Bret would provide sent fresh heat rushing through her, and she suppressed a pang of guilt at her unabashed lust for a man who was clearly spoken for. She didn’t understand how or why, but they were meant to be together, of that she had no doubt. Why else would the touch of his hand on the stair rail nearly have been her undoing? How long must she wait before she could feel his hands on her body? Soon, she thought. Workmen had been busy in the house for months, but finally the hum of saws and clatter of hammers had ceased, leaving Bonnie Doon almost as peaceful as it had been before Bret’s purchase. The house was livable. Soon he would take possession of the house. Of her. Jessamyn entered the backyard through the little gate at the side of the house. She could have appeared anywhere in the garden just by thinking about it, but preferred to walk through the fragrant shade of the wisteria-draped pergola that led to the garden. Beyond the pergola, sweet roses and gardenias, honeysuckle and overgrown boxwood, azaleas and weeds, all grew together in lush profusion, scenting the late spring air. Today, Jessamyn sensed the decay and disrepair. Weeds choked the flowerbeds she had once carefully nurtured. Cracks and stains marred the carved marble benches placed around the walkways. Ivy and morning glories nearly obscured her old wishing well in the center of the yard, its ornate cap of once-white wrought iron, perched atop the bricks like a domed birdcage, now peeling and dark with rust. “Damnation.” The word slipped out unchecked. Bonnie Doon had come to this under the care of her brother’s descendant, the recently deceased Thomas Radcliffe. Her who-knew-how-many-greats nephew died inconsiderately, Jessamyn thought, intestate and debt-ridden. Now, for the first time in its long history, the estate had passed out of the family. She could almost picture the plantation’s founder, Charles Radcliffe, spinning in his grave. Her eminent ancestor, a Jacobite sympathizer who’d fled Scotland mere steps ahead of the hangman after the Pretender’s defeat at Culloden, would have to rely on a stranger for the maintenance of his legacy. But Charles, who had rebuilt his fortune privateering in the Caribbean, probably wouldn’t begrudge Bret the ownership of Bonnie Doon. In fact, the old pirate would be 13

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pleased with Bret’s efforts. Jessamyn certainly was, but she’d been sure of him from the first. When the restoration team arrived, Jessamyn had followed Bret from room to room with the workmen, telling herself she was approving his instructions for the renovation, but secretly hoping to feel again the sensations she’d experienced on his first visit. Under Bret’s guidance, the ancient house slowly regained its grace and dignity, while her desire for him built to a fever pitch. Each touch of his hand on wall or window or rail sent waves of pleasure washing over her. She’d come to know the parts of the house that corresponded to each area of her body and could tell where he was simply by the rush of sensation in that portion of her anatomy. Running his fingers over the parlor wainscoting sent electric tremors down her spine. His touch on a windowsill in the dining room was soft fingertips along her throat. And the time he’d brushed away dust from the fireplace mantel in the master bedroom, she’d felt a hot caress between her thighs that would have left her gasping had she been able to draw breath. His visits to monitor the work were frequent, but each time he stayed just long enough to leave her wet and throbbing with need. “The walls are prepped for paper as soon as y’all decide what you want, Professor.” Harry’s voice from inside brought Jessamyn’s thoughts back to the present, and she effortlessly moved herself from the garden to the parlor. “Thanks, Harry. I was hoping to find some hint of what the original paper looked like before I decide.” Bret led the way up the stairs, a garment bag and briefcase in his hands. “Well, since Bonnie Doon has been lived in almost the whole time it’s been standing, ain’t too likely there was much original left to see. People tend to throw out the old and start all over, in my experience.” Jessamyn moved to the top of the stairs to monitor Bret’s passage over the fourth step. Bret winced as he passed near her on the landing and glanced back at Harry, catching him mid-shiver. “Kind of a cold spot here at the top of the stairs,” Harry said, an I-told-you-so note in his voice. “I’ve noticed it,” Bret said. “Might be a good idea to upgrade the insulation.” He grinned at Harry’s snort. Jessamyn smiled too. Bret wasn’t about to let the caretaker’s hints about ghosts ruffle him. That pleased her. She followed them into the bedroom he’d had painted the same shade of periwinkle blue as when it had been hers. “The new plasterwork looks great.” Bret stared up at the embellished ceiling. “They did a nice job,” Harry agreed. “Cleaned up the masonry on that fireplace, too, without having to replace it completely.” He hesitated and glanced back toward the hall. “Look, Professor, are you sure you want to move in here now? Alone, I mean?”

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“I thought the ghost business was superstition, Harry. Don’t tell me you’ve started seeing things.” “No, no,” Harry’s reply came quickly. “Just those cold spots. But the phone’s not hooked up yet, and there’re no neighbors for miles. If anything happened…” “What could possibly happen? Besides, I’m looking forward to a few nights here alone. The library’s a mess. I’ve taken a couple journals and ledgers back to the hotel with me, but I really need to get in there and sort through everything. The sooner I get started the better.” He’s moving in tonight. She could almost feel her pulse pounding at the thought of being alone with him. Soon he’d be hers. They could talk. Touch. Love. The intense loneliness she’d suppressed so long stirred an aching need deep inside her. Over a hundred years, with no one to talk to, no one to laugh with, no one to touch her, as a woman wanted, needed, to be touched. A sob broke from her throat before she could stop it. Bret, closest to her, jumped. His foot connected with the edge of a framed full-length mirror leaning against the doorjamb beside him. Heavy and unbalanced, the mirror slid to the floor and landed hard, the brittle glass shattering. One large fragment bounced out of the frame and lay reflecting the embellished ceiling. Grant’s garters, Jessamyn swore, as Bret and Harry recovered their wits. She hadn’t intended to scare them. “You okay, Professor?” Harry’s voice trembled. Bret nodded and bent to pick up the shard from the hardwood floor. “Fine. Lucky it fell on its back or we’d have a real mess. What do you suppose that noise was?” Harry raised an eyebrow. Then, in response to Bret’s scowl said, “Birds. Yeah, that’s it. Birds in the eaves. It’s spring, ain’t it? Whole roof’s prob’ly full of nests.” He frowned at the shattered mirror. “I’ll go find a trash bag. No sense scatterin’ bits of it through the hall.” He made a quick exit. Alone, Bret knelt beside the mirror. A frown creased his brow. Jessamyn watched him brush his fingers across the space left by the fragment. Something appeared to be hidden behind the mirror. He hesitated a moment, then began carefully removing pieces of the splintered glass, stacking them neatly beside him. When the last of the glass was gone, he held the frame at an angle to better examine the painting he’d uncovered. Well, Jessamyn thought, I wondered where that had got to. She stood behind Bret, looking over his shoulder at the painting of a young blonde woman in a white and blue gown. Her birthday portrait. She’d sat for Scarborough only a few weeks before she turned eighteen. The artist had painted her in her ballgown, posed at the foot of the grand staircase with the railing spiraling up behind her. She had seen the completed portrait only once, the evening of her birthday ball, just hours before she died.

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Bret turned the large painting to catch the light. “Fantastic,” he breathed. “Incredible.” Jessamyn smiled coquettishly from old habit. She felt her cheeks warm and wished, for the thousandth time, she had the delicate lace fan that matched her gown. Did he find her attractive? She hoped so. She smoothed the lace-over-satin skirt of her gown. Unlike the house, her clothing hadn’t changed. The fact both comforted and annoyed her. She touched her cheek. Did she still resemble the dewy-faced child in the picture? She’d looked so innocent, then. Deceptively so, for she had not been inexperienced, having discovered not long before some hint of the pleasures her body could give. Her betrothed, a neighbor boy not much older than herself, had awakened her to sensuality. She hadn’t loved him, but she’d been fond of him, her brother was his best friend, and their marriage would have joined two large properties into one immense plantation. When he died on a mission with a band of Rebel raiders not long after their betrothal, she’d found no shortage of eager young men willing to comfort her in her grief and further her education in other areas. She’d declined, stupidly, and regretted that decision many times since, especially when observing the occupants of the house engaged in intimate activities. While she had learned much from her mostly unintentional voyeurism, her own experience was sorely limited, a situation she was eager to change once Bret moved in. Jessamyn studied the portrait. She’d worn her hair up for the sitting, piled on her head and cascading down her back in golden ringlets. For her birthday ball itself, her hair had been more simply dressed to allow for the rigors of dancing, pulled back softly from the sides of her face except for a few delicate tendrils, then long and curly in back. The way she wore it now, she thought, winding a strand with her finger. Harry’s steps sounded in the hall, and he entered the room clutching a fistful of black plastic. Bret didn’t look up. “Professor?” the older man began. Bret waved Harry closer. “Here, come take a look at this.” Harry stepped toward the window, glancing down with a scowl at the pile of shards on the floor. “Don’t worry about that now,” Bret said. He turned the picture for Harry to view. “Have you seen this before? It was behind the mirror. Isn’t she beautiful? Who is she?” He looked again into the sparkling blue eyes of the young woman in the portrait. Harry glanced at the painting and wrinkled bushy, gray brows. “No, can’t say I’ve seen that one around. Behind the mirror, you said? Odd place…” He reached forward and ran his fingers over the painted surface. “But look here, Professor. This might be helpful.”

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The caretaker’s fingertips rested on the floral pattern along the wall behind the girl. The excitement in his voice shook Bret out of his reverie. “The wallpaper. Here, above the girl. It has to be the original paper, Professor. I bet we can match it.” The temperature in the room suddenly plummeted. Both men shivered and stared at each other. An hour later, Jessamyn watched Bret guide a worried Harry to the door. She really shouldn’t have chilled them, but they’d deserved it. At least Harry had. Wallpaper, indeed. “Look, stay at the hotel one more night,” Harry urged. “Tomorrow I’ll move back up to the caretaker’s cottage. Then I’ll at least be within shouting distance.” Bret shook his head. “Harry, this is a drafty old house, with loose floorboards and bad insulation. You said yourself you’ve never noticed anything strange here. Besides, if there’s a ghost, it should be grateful to us for restoring the place. If I were a ghost, I would be.” Harry’s expression remained doubtful. Bret laughed. “Look, my car’s right out front. I promise if anything weird happens, I’ll go back to the hotel.” He eased Harry out the door, closed it behind him, and watched from the front window until the caretaker’s truck pulled away. Then he crossed the marble floor and stopped at the bottom of the staircase, a strange expression on his upturned face. For a moment, Jessamyn thought he looked right at her and she almost dashed back to the safety of the hallway shadows. But no, even when she wanted people to see her, few actually could. Bret stared past her. His gaze seemed to follow an invisible someone down the stairs. He bowed gracefully, a passable effort in Jessamyn’s opinion, then reached up to take the hand of his phantom belle. Of course. He was playacting. Pretending to greet his ladylove at a ball. Jessamyn giggled silently and skipped down the stairs. She stopped a step above him and studied his face as he looked through her. The dying sun slanted in from the front windows and sparked his chestnut hair with touches of copper. Long lashes framed his amber-highlighted brown eyes. At last, she thought. She reached out and before she could stop herself, touched her fingertip to his mouth. Bret’s eyes widened as he jumped back from the staircase, trembling. He pressed a hand to his mouth, then looked at his fingers. Honestly, you’d think I bit him. Jessamyn stepped down to the floor and stood just far enough from Bret that he wouldn’t feel her chill. Her head barely came to his shoulder. She longed to see how her arms would fit around his neck, but she didn’t dare touch him again, not yet.

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She followed him upstairs, watching carefully as he passed the fourth step. He entered the master bedroom, and Jessamyn bit her lip. If he touched the mantel, she couldn’t be responsible for what happened. She hesitated at the door. A lady didn’t enter the room of a single gentleman. Fortunately, however, she was no lady. Bret sat down on the bare mattress of the antique mahogany bedstead and rubbed his lips. Something, or someone, had touched him there, he was sure of it. He’d felt cold for a moment, like he had in the blue bedroom, but the touch was warm, the fingers soft. It was too real to have been his imagination. He’d only half-believed the workmen’s tales of disappearing tools and strange noises. He’d dismissed the odd cold spots in the house as drafts or areas where the insulation was bad. Now he wasn’t so sure. Even the skeptical Harry was becoming a believer. Bret had always had an open mind. He was even something of a romantic, he thought, grudgingly admitting what Carla had always maintained. Still, he’d never had an experience that suggested the existence of ghosts. If they could exist anywhere, though, it would be here. If any house could be said to have a personality, it was Bonnie Doon. He’d never have considered himself psychically sensitive, but from the beginning the house had seemed intensely feminine to him. Maybe it was the rich floral fragrance of spring blossoms in the garden or the musky warmth that had to be due to old wood and plaster in a house closed up against the afternoon sun. The first time he’d entered the house, it had almost seemed to sigh around him, drawing him deeper into its womb. His response had been visceral, and visible. Fortunately, the real estate agent had been too busy pointing out details of the house to notice. He wondered how many of her clients became turned on at the sight of a curved staircase. He glanced around the room, trying not to stare into the growing shadows. Whatever was going on with the house, it certainly seemed to mean him no harm. Quite the contrary, if his gut instincts were correct. He shook his head. “This is silly,” he protested aloud. “I’m getting hot over a house.” He really was letting his imagination, coupled with the fact that he’d been away from Carla too long, get the better of him. Rising, he paced the room to clear his thoughts, then took a deep breath and considered the question. If ghosts existed and Bonnie Doon Plantation was haunted, what then? He recalled the stories he’d read about ghosts—the scientific ones, not the campfire variety. If the accounts of hauntings were to be believed, ghosts affected matter and had energy. Maybe they were a form of energy themselves? Living people had energy—a life force. And since, by the laws of physics, energy could neither be created nor destroyed, it followed that it had to go somewhere after death.

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Wasn’t it plausible that it might become what we called ghosts? The theory seemed logical to Bret. At least as logical as the subject of ghosts could be. He rubbed his forehead and stared out the unshuttered window that overlooked the backyard and gardens. He’d had too little sleep lately, between his first few weeks teaching at Ashley College and worries about the remodeling. Exhaustion was making him punchy. It was near dark and the rising moon was full. In the dusky shadows, Bret could make out the dilapidated outbuildings that had once been the plantation’s slave quarters. Beyond them, a light flashed. Bret blinked hard and looked again. The beacon moved briefly, then it was gone. Harry’s mention of the Edisto Light and its headless bearer came forcefully to mind. Bret spun away from the window and his gaze strayed to the shadowed corners of the barren room. Maybe he’d look downstairs for an extra lamp to use tonight. Bret awoke to a gentle tickle on his cheek and sleepily reached up to brush away the offending feather. He opened his eyes briefly. The digital glow by the bed read midnight. He rolled onto his side, snuggling deeper into the pillow. The touch on his cheek grew bolder. Not a feather. Fingertips. A caress. He knew he had to be dreaming. He really had been away from Carla too long. Celibacy wasn’t sitting well with him right now. The room was warm and he shoved the covers down around his hips, baring his upper body to the stir of air from the open window. The touch on his cheek moved along his jaw to his throat. If this was a dream, it was damned realistic. The room smelled of honeysuckle and heat. Certain he was wide-awake now, Bret rolled onto his back and lay still, not sure what to do. He usually slept nude, but had considered keeping his briefs on in case he needed to make a quick escape. Then, deciding it was ridiculous to let Harry’s worries get the better of him, he’d discarded them before climbing under the covers. Now he wasn’t so sure he’d made the right move. The room glowed with silver-blue light. Moonlight, he told himself, from the dormer window at the end of the hallway. But would moonlight shimmer and pulsate like that? He waited and nothing happened. Of course it was moonlight, he thought, irritated with himself. He must have been dreaming. “‘I ain’t afraid of no ghost,’” he quoted aloud and chuckled sleepily, then closed his eyes. Soft hands stroked his bare chest, molding to the curves of his pecs, trailing fingertips over his nipples, moving slowly downward. His eyes flew open, but above him he saw only the coffered ceiling. The caressing hands reached the edge of the covers and paused. Bret caught his breath at their touch low on his abdomen, warmth pooling in his belly as he stirred in arousal beneath the thin sheet.

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“Okay, I take it back,” he breathed huskily. “I believe in you, all right?” He paused. The house responded with silence that continued unbroken. Bret lay back down and pulled the covers to his chin. His last memory before falling asleep was of silvery feminine laughter from the darkness. The dream resumed as sleep overcame him. He imagined the sheet sliding back down off his body to bare him completely, but he was too drowsy to reach for it. It was only a dream, anyway, and he wasn’t cold. Far from it. He stretched languidly and caught a glimpse of movement at the foot of the bed. He was no longer alone in the room, but he felt no fear or even shock at the realization. The blonde young woman stood before him, her hair unbound about her bare shoulders, a cascade of golden waves. Her full lips were parted, as though she was breathing rapidly, and her magnificent breasts, nearly exposed by the deep neckline of her gown, rose and fell rhythmically. She was beautiful and he could feel her hungry gaze like a caress on his naked skin. Though he knew he was still asleep and dreaming, Bret’s body responded automatically to her stare, his cock giving an involuntary come-hither twitch that drew her attention. She smiled and licked her rosy lips, then leaned forward to run her fingers slowly along the top of his foot and up his ankle. Bret’s breath caught in his throat. She continued to caress her way slowly up his legs, stretching over the end of the bed, the better to reach him. Her position offered him a tantalizing view down the front of her gown that nearly bared her breasts, like peaches ripe for plucking, and he found himself longing to taste them. He gasped as she stroked upward, her goal in sight. Then she was on the bed on her knees, moving slowly up the length of his body, exploring him with ardent hands. He was lost in sensation, the lace of her skirt soft against his skin, the satin a cool contrast to her fiery fingers on his hips, his belly, his throbbing cock. He had no sense of her weight on the bed. She seemed to float above him, yet surround and encompass him at the same time, as if consuming him bodily. Then she released him and he felt as though he’d fallen back to earth. He waited, pulse pounding, every nerve aflame, as she rose and lifted her full skirts to reveal smooth, creamy thighs. She straddled him and he reached for her, his hands moving up her silken legs to grasp her hips, bare under the skirt and petticoats, and pull her down onto his eager cock.

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Chapter Three Bret stared, glassy-eyed, at the students seated in the history department lobby. If they were all here to avail themselves of his office hours, his morning lecture must have really been muddled. He gulped the cooling remains of his black coffee, hoping for an immediate caffeine jolt to carry him through until lunchtime. It didn’t come and he fought to keep his eyes open through the parade of students. By eleven-thirty, he’d answered the last question on “American Political Development from the Reconstruction through the Turn of the Century”. He closed his office door and walked to the window to stare out at the southern spring morning. Clouds of azaleas, in shades from white to fuchsia, blurred together with pink dogwood and the glossy green and cream of magnolia trees. Bret blinked to clear his hazy vision. What had happened last night? He’d hardly had time to think about it this morning, and now, in the brightness of day, he could almost dismiss it as a vivid dream coupled with exhaustion. Almost. The rumpled sheets, damp with sweat, the pillows strewn on the floor, even the lamp knocked off its table beside his bed, he could blame on the nightmares. Well, not nightmares, exactly. Nightmares weren’t generally as pleasurable as what he’d experienced last night. He felt a twinge of fresh arousal at the memory. That had been some dream. But the rest? He touched a finger to his lips. No, that had happened well before he’d gone to sleep. He was sure of it. A knock at the door disrupted his thoughts. “Come in.” The door opened a few inches and a young man poked his head inside. “My office hours are over,” Bret said, glancing at his watch. “I have time to answer a quick question or two, but I have an appointment in about twenty minutes.” The visitor eased into the room and stood to one side of the doorway. He was older than Bret had first thought, maybe in his mid-twenties, and not one of his students. He looked like a poster-child for the All-American Boy, average height, sandy-haired, broad-shouldered, lightly tanned and athletic without being beefy. He was nicely dressed, vaguely preppie, in crisp jeans and an oxford shirt. He had a frat boy air about him, but Bret tried to suppress his prejudices. “I’m not in any of your classes, Professor Tyler.” He stepped forward and extended his hand. “Oliver Delacroix.” He gave the name a French pronunciation. “I’m a grad 21

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student. Working on my master’s in American history. I saw your notice on the bulletin board for a research assistant.” Bret half rose to take the proffered hand. Oliver’s grip was firm without being overbearing. Bret released his hand and gestured to a chair. “Great,” he said. “No one else has asked about the job yet. I guess most students would rather work at the school than off-campus. And I’m afraid I can’t offer credits.” Oliver leaned forward, his pale blue eyes intense. “Right, well, frankly, Professor, I’m more concerned with making a little money. See, my family thinks I’ve been a scholar long enough. They’re kind of insisting I find a ‘real’ job. High paying positions for history majors aren’t exactly plentiful, though. Right now, I work part-time at a men’s store in town.” “I understand,” Bret said. His family had paid for his education, but most of his friends had been starving students at one time or another. “Well, this would at least give you some research experience. That should be useful once you complete your degree.” “What would the position involve?” Oliver asked. “The house I bought has an extensive library, really the only part of the house left in its original state,” Bret explained. “It looks like it was used as a repository for every journal and scrap of paper the family generated in the last two hundred years.” Oliver nodded. “That’s Bonnie Doon Plantation, right? I’d heard you bought the place. Old local houses are a hobby of mine. Are you planning a book on the area? I enjoyed your biography of Eliza Lucas, the indigo planter.” “Thank you.” Bret smiled, but took the apparent flattery with a grain of salt. The kid was looking for a job, after all. “I suspect much of the Bonnie Doon material is historically significant. I’m working on a Civil War history, but I’m not sure yet what local slant it’ll have.” He handed Oliver a tattered journal, the most recent book he’d taken from the house. Oliver opened the book gently, almost tenderly, and scanned the brittle pages. Well, he knows how to handle old books, Bret thought. He continued aloud, “The library is a mess. The books need to be organized, the journals catalogued, that sort of thing. I’m hoping they’ll provide my source material. Your work will be pretty mundane, reviewing and documenting the books, running a few errands, taking books in for restoration and so forth. I want to start as soon as possible. I can’t pay a lot, but if you’re interested, I’d be willing to give it a try.” Oliver sprang to his feet. “I’d appreciate the opportunity, sir. When can I start?” “Could you come by tomorrow afternoon? I realize it’s Saturday, but it would be a good time to show you the house and grounds. We can work the hours around your other job and you can start Monday, if you like.” Oliver leaned over the desk and offered his hand again. “Tomorrow would be fine, sir. I’ll be there. Thank you, Professor.”

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The younger man left, closing the door behind him. Bret allowed himself a smile of satisfaction. He’d almost given up on finding an assistant. Now he could start on the library in earnest. He sat back down, then the thought hit him. What about the ghost? What would he tell his new employee? Bret drove back to Bonnie Doon with the pleasant sense of anticipation that he recognized as eagerness to begin a new project. He really had no evidence that the house was haunted. Sure, he’d had a strange experience the night before, but the more he thought about it, the more certain he was that it had been a dream. In fact now, after a completely normal and rational day, the whole idea of ghosts seemed ridiculous. He headed out of the city, crossed the bridge over the Ashley River, then swung east toward the coast. The late afternoon sun glowed hazily through thick atmosphere that held the promise of summer’s humidity. A sweet tang of salt marsh filled the air. Bret muttered a thankful prayer that it wasn’t yet full summer. After several years in the north, he’d need time to reacclimatize. A feeling of homecoming struck him. He’d always known he belonged here. His childhood memories were full of endless summer afternoons, hot and gardenia-scented, easing gently into warm, sweet nights. He recalled eagerly awaited twilights when he’d catch lightning bugs among the honeysuckle hedges at his parents’ house. And later, when he and Carla drove along the river or parked at the beach. Flowers weren’t all that bloomed early in the hothouse climate of South Carolina and the two of them had been intended for each other almost from birth. Bret turned onto the tree-lined avenue that led to the house. His parents and Carla’s grew up as neighbors. Their fathers had attended Annapolis together, then served in the Navy. Both families decided to make Charleston as stable a home as possible for their children and bought houses next door to one another. So what was more natural than that their children should one day marry? He and Carla had been playmates from his earliest recollection. At sixteen, he’d discovered more to his feelings than friendship. She, one year younger, had felt the same, and in the heat of youthful passion had consummated their relationship soon after. Their engagement began unofficially on that day and lasted through high school and college. They separated briefly while Carla studied in Paris and Bret finished his graduate work at Columbia, never doubting they would return to one another. Their reunion coincided with the start of their careers and neither felt any urgency to get married. The initial teenage rapture had faded, but their relationship remained friendly, caring and comfortable. Like a well-worn pair of sneakers. The thought popped unbidden into Bret’s head, followed by the memory of the sensations he’d experienced the night before. He felt a tightening of response in his groin. That had been some dream. He drove past the final pair of live oaks into the clearing in front of the house and stopped abruptly. Early evening sun painted the white columns with rosy highlights

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and glowed golden on multipaned windows. Bret climbed out of the car to absorb the effect in full. It reminded him of the midpoint scene in Gone with the Wind, the sunset glow on Tara just as Scarlett bit into a raw radish and declared she’d never be hungry again. His stomach rumbled at the reminder of food. If he’d known his appointment with the contractor would take so long, he wouldn’t have skipped lunch. He unlocked the front door and stepped inside, pausing a moment in the foyer to watch gold-tinted motes of dust flicker in the fading light. The house seemed unusually dim. He flicked the light switch next to the door. The crystal chandelier above the entry remained dark. Harry had probably stopped by to do some work on the wiring and left the power off, he thought, wishing the caretaker had given him some warning. At least the stove was gas. In the kitchen, he dug up candles and a flashlight while his dinner cooked. The can of chili heated on the vintage range and washed down with nearly a quart of still-cold iced tea was far more satisfying than Katie Scarlett O’Hara’s raw radish. Bret placed his dirty dishes in the sink and collected his notes, candles and flashlight to head upstairs to the library. In the foyer, the golden glow had faded. Shadows closed in from both wings of the house, leaving the entry in graying light. Bret caught a hint of motion above on the landing and glanced up. Pale mist swirled in the darkness, coalescing until it seemed to form a figure. It wore a white gown trimmed in blue. Above the hoop skirt and fitted bodice, skin gleamed a creamier shade where a deep décolletage revealed the tops of full, rounded breasts and a delicate face was framed by long, golden tresses. Bret blinked. The figure vanished. He squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them slowly to look again. Nothing. He massaged his forehead and noticed his palms were sweaty. Last night must have had more of an effect on him than he’d thought. Scanning the balcony once more, he saw no phantoms of any kind. Odd, he thought, for a moment she’d looked so real. So familiar. Then recognition struck. Of course she looked familiar. She was the girl from the portrait behind the mirror. The girl from his dream. He’d stared at the picture long enough, no wonder she was ingrained on his memory. He’d have to take another look before he started in the library. She had obviously made an impression. No wonder he’d had those dreams the night before. He took the stairs two at a time, confident in the diagnosis of his hallucination. At the top, the balcony wasn’t as dark as it seemed from below. The periwinkle blue bedroom with its bay window was brighter still. Setting his books and candles on the iron bedstead, Bret wrestled the life-size portrait across the room and leaned it against the windowsill to study it in better light. The artist’s style was familiar. He glanced at the signature. William Scarborough, as he’d expected. He smiled to himself. Carla, an art historian, would be thrilled to have a painting by the famous South Carolinian. Bret studied the work, the lovely young

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woman with her honey blonde curls, luminous blue eyes, plump breasts and tiny waist. Something else about the painting caught his attention. Scarborough’s portraits were generally faithful, yet somber, renditions. But this girl had a liveliness that transcended the artist’s solemn hand. She stood in the portrait, her hand on the stair railing, as if he’d caught her at the moment between racing downstairs and dashing out the front door to some mischief or other. The ballgown and upswept hair seemed formal trappings the artist had insisted on, not a part of the real girl at all. She wasn’t smiling. At first glance, she looked serene and thoughtful. On closer inspection, though, Bret saw the gleam of humor in her eyes. She looked at him and he felt they shared some amusing secret. Lost in the sapphireblue depths, he felt the unmistakable stirring of desire, knowing that it had been her delicate hands exploring him last night in his dream, her velvety heat engulfing him as she lowered herself onto his cock. He blinked suddenly, realizing the room was darker now. He’d lost track of time for several minutes. Small wonder he’d imagined her on the balcony after viewing the portrait the first time. He’d gotten hard just looking at her, and although he’d always considered himself an art-lover, he’d never quite had that response to a painting. After last night’s dream, though, that response was understandable. He glanced toward the window and the rapidly fading sunlight. At this rate, he wouldn’t get any work done. He leaned the painting gently against the wall and gathered his things, giving the portrait one last look before leaving the room. Perhaps tomorrow he’d get Harry to help him hang it over the mantel in the parlor. Somehow that seemed a perfect place for her, right in the center of things. Back in the library, he forced himself to turn his attention to his work. He lit the pair of large candles he’d found and placed one on the library desk by his flashlight, the other on the fireplace mantel. Together, they almost provided sufficient light for reading. He’d have to give himself points for working under conditions authentic to the period. Spreading his notes out on the desk, he scanned them, wondering if he might need anything else once he started. His mouth still burned from the chili, and he thought of the pitcher of iced tea in the refrigerator. Well, if he didn’t bring it up now, he’d think about it all evening. He grabbed the flashlight on his way into the hall. At the top of the stairs, an icy blast of air engulfed him. He shuddered, tiny hairs prickling at the back of his neck. “Drafts,” he told himself firmly. He started down, scanning the darkness below and feeling foolish. Nothing moved in the shadows. At the fourth step down, he raised his foot, lowered it to the next tread, and felt— nothing. The step was gone. Momentum carried him forward. He tried to recover, to throw his weight back. Vertigo seized him. He grabbed for the rail and missed. Balance gone, he pitched forward, hurtling headlong into the foyer below.

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Strong arms, fine and narrow as bands of tempered steel, wrapped around him from behind. Bret felt himself yanked backward, then pressed firmly to a seat on the step. Only then was the hold released. Bret gasped to catch his breath and turned to thank his rescuer. Above him the shadows lay undisturbed. Below, full darkness obscured the foot of the stairs. He was alone.

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Chapter Four Bret sat motionless, his rear planted firmly on the third step from the top. The flashlight lay near his right foot, one step below, its beam spotlighting a point on the far wall. He snatched it up, clutching its long-barreled handle like a club. The beam trembled in his grasp. His feet rested on the fourth step down, he realized. It hadn’t disappeared. He took a deep breath to ease his racing pulse and ran his free hand tentatively down the stair. The tread of the fourth step felt thicker than the others. In the dark, the unevenness must have thrown off his rhythm and caused him to stumble. But what…or who…had caught him? He didn’t want to think about it. The cozy library suddenly appealed to him. He rose on trembling legs to climb back to the landing. A shriek of terror ripped the darkness. Icy wind rushed past him, carrying the rustle of fabric and a faint scent of honeysuckle. Bret grabbed the railing against the force of the blast. Below him the stairs rumbled with the sound of a body tumbling head over heels. It landed with a thump on the marble floor below. His breath coming in short, ragged gasps, Bret loosened his death grip on the rail and aimed the flashlight beam down into the darkness. Something white lay at the foot of the stairs—a young woman with golden hair, the woman from the portrait, from his dream, her ballgown tumbled about her, revealing slender legs clad in lace pantalets. She lay twisted, her head at an odd angle. His breath caught in his throat. This had to be some kind of a joke gone wrong. Someone had been hiding in the house to scare him, and now she’d fallen. He rushed down the stairs toward her. Midway down, the flashlight winked out. Darkness swallowed him. When he reached the bottom, the girl was nowhere to be seen. He peered blindly into the shadows, his heart hammering in his ears. A couple quick steps would get him out the front door. He could just leave now and contact Harry in the morning. Part of his mind scolded him for considering running. Another part reminded him he’d left his car keys upstairs. He turned back to the staircase and ascended rapidly, fighting the urge to look over his shoulder. If he made it upstairs, he thought, he’d go into the library, close the door and stay there until dawn. No matter what. He reached the room and sank against the doorjamb, allowing himself the luxury of several deep breaths. Safe. 27

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He glanced up. Across the room silky fabric shimmered, illuminated by the candles’ dancing flames. He must have entered the blue bedroom by mistake, he thought. The candles were lighting up the portrait beside the window. But he hadn’t taken candles into the blue bedroom. And that was library paneling behind the petite blonde girl, not antique wallpaper. She took a step toward him, one white hand outstretched. Bret dropped the flashlight. The girl lunged forward and caught the light before it hit the floor, then replaced it in Bret’s limp hand. His fingers tightened reflexively around the barrel. “Land sakes,” she said, flashing him a brilliant smile. “You’d think I’d be used to that by now. Every few years I keep someone from falling on that darn step and what does it get me? I have to throw myself down the stairs again.” Bret stared, feeling vaguely lightheaded. This was no joke, he told himself. This was a ghost. A real ghost. His gaze dropped from her startling blue eyes and delicate features to the deep curve of pale breasts above her gown, then returned hurriedly to her face. Extremely real and very desirable, he thought. A smile still curved her full lips, as though she was pleased to have caught him staring. She stepped toward him and he stood as if rooted to the floor, unsure what to do. Strangely, running away no longer occurred to him. She certainly wasn’t frightening. Far from it. The girl—no, the ghost—reached to take his arm. He flinched at the drop in temperature as she drew near, but when her fingers curved around his upper arm, her touch was warm through the fabric of his shirt, as was the swell of breast that pressed against his elbow. She guided him to the desk chair and he sat unresistingly. “We haven’t been properly introduced,” she said. “I’m Jessamyn Radcliffe. This is my house.” Bret realized he must have looked concerned at this announcement because she went on hurriedly. “That is, it was originally, of course. I’m not trying to scare you out of it or anything. Really, I’m happy you’re here. Very happy.” She licked her lips and leaned close, studying him intensely. Intimately, as her gaze moved slowly from his face down his body and back again, after pausing ever so briefly at the crotch of his jeans. Her inspection sent a warm tremor of arousal through Bret. She was coming on to him, of that he had no doubt. Could a ghost do that? He met her eyes, deep indigo in the flickering candlelight. Her pink lips were parted slightly, the upper deeply bowed, the lower plump and pouting, revealing small, white teeth. He had an immediate image of those lips on his, on his body. He caught his breath and dropped his gaze, only to settle it on the round breasts so deliciously close to his face as she leaned toward him, almost as if she was inviting him to reach out and caress them. His hands remained at his sides, where the skirt of her gown draped from her slender waist, but out of curiosity he moved a finger toward the 28

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delicate lace he recognized from his dream. His hand passed through it as if it were no more than air. He gasped, despite himself. Jessamyn straightened abruptly. “My heavens. You’re white as a…” she paused a second, then finished, “a sheet.” Wonderful, she thought. If she didn’t stop rambling she’d ruin everything. He already looked badly in need of a restorative. Did he keep smelling salts in his bags? she wondered. Wait, she knew just the thing. She glided across the room to the ornately carved secretary and lowered the lid. A small door slid open at her touch to reveal a cut crystal decanter and glasses. Thomas Radcliffe had kept at least one of the family traditions alive. And freshly filled the decanter not long before he died, she thought, noting the level of the golden brown liquid. She poured a glass of brandy and carried it to Bret, self-conscious about her invisible fingertips gripping the glass. She’d practiced years to perfect the technique. With luck, he wouldn’t notice the hand holding the glass was now invisible, as it had been when she’d given him back the flashlight and taken his arm. She’d learned long ago that it took too much energy to be both visible and tangible. Bret accepted the snifter, his gaze riveted to her face. He tipped the liquid down his throat without hesitation and immediately collapsed into a paroxysm of coughing. The spell eased and Jessamyn shook her head. “In my day, men knew how to handle spirits.” Bret choked and fell into another coughing fit. Jessamyn waited patiently while he recovered. He cleared his throat, took a cautious sip, then set the glass down hard on the mahogany desk. “You’re not real.” His voice was raspy with shock and liquor, his Yankeeinfluenced accent foreign-sounding. Jessamyn laughed. “Of course I’m real. Real as I can be under the circumstances, anyway. Or did you think that brandy poured itself?” This wasn’t going as well as she’d imagined. When she’d escorted him to the chair and stood watching him, she’d have sworn he was attracted to her, the way he’d looked into her eyes, at her mouth. At her breasts. She had wanted to move closer, to touch him like she had last night, to kiss him, to fulfill the dream she’d suggested to him as he slept. And she had sensed that he wanted it, too. But something had happened to upset him. What could it have been? Bret clenched his eyelids shut and muttered something. Jessamyn leaned close to hear. “…must’ve hit my head when I fell.” His face relaxed and he sighed. “That’s it. I’m hallucinating.” He opened his eyes again and focused on Jessamyn. “You’re still here.” “I resent being called a hallucination,” she said. “I saved your life on those stairs and you don’t even have the decency to introduce yourself properly. And you call me

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names.” She made her voice break on the last word and quivered her lower lip ever so slightly. Through lowered lashes, she watched his expression vary from exasperation to confusion to guilt. Bret rose and held out his hand in a placating gesture. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. It’s just, well, this is a little new for me.” He ran his other hand through his dark hair, as if probing for bumps or lacerations. “You’re sure I didn’t fall?” Jessamyn impatiently tapped one slipper-clad foot. “You didn’t fall. I caught you. If you had fallen, we wouldn’t be here talking now. Believe me, I’ve had some experience with this.” Understanding dawned in Bret’s eyes. He groped for the brandy glass on the table, found it, and took a deep swallow. “You fell down the stairs and…?” “Died,” Jessamyn finished for him. “It happened at my birthday ball. It was a relief, really. If I’d lived, I’d never have gotten over the embarrassment of tripping on the hem of this silly dress.” She kicked up a wide, white flounce for emphasis. “Wouldn’t you know I’d have to spend eternity in it?” “And now you haunt the house?” Bret asked slowly. Jessamyn wrinkled her nose. “I don’t like that word. It sounds like I’m wandering round in a sheet.” He’d emptied his glass and, mindful of her duties as a good hostess, she unobtrusively refilled it. “I just live here. Or maybe ‘exist’ is a better word.” Bret nodded. “But why? I mean, I’ve heard there are lots of reasons people become, uh…” “Ghosts,” Jessamyn supplied. “Don’t worry, the word doesn’t offend me. I know what I am. I just don’t know what to do about it.” “Did you leave some unfinished business behind?” He dropped to the chair and perched on the edge of the cushion, his coppery gaze reflecting the flickering candlelight. The opportunity for scientific knowledge had apparently overcome his anxiety. He gulped his brandy absently. Jessamyn tore her gaze away from his with an effort and shrugged. Her laugh sounded more carefree than she felt. “I didn’t have any business. I was an eighteenyear-old Charleston belle. All I cared about were parties and dresses and suitors. After it happened, I tried to find out why I’d come back. I read all these books, hoping for some clue. But there wasn’t much here to help. The only thing I can think of is, well, something that happened before I fell.” Should she tell him about the prophecy now? she wondered. He seemed calmer now, but asking for his help might prove too much for him. No, she thought, best to wait until they knew each other a little better. What was another day, after all? She had more time than she knew what to do with. “You read all these books after you died?” Bret asked.

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Jessamyn nodded, grateful that he at least seemed interested in learning about her. “Yes,” she said. “Not right away, of course. At first I wasn’t all here.” She frowned, searching for a way to describe her initial disorientation. “Time didn’t pass normally, like it does for live folks. I didn’t settle down into the same time as the people living in the house for years. When I did, it was a relief for a while. Then I got bored. So I started to read. These books and the ones the people in the house read. I had to practice awhile before I could even pick one up. It fairly wore me out at first.” “You kept me from falling. How did you do that?” “Once I could read easily, I wanted to do other things,” Jessamyn explained, pleased at his willingness to talk. It wasn’t how she would have preferred to spend her first evening with him, but it was pleasant to have a conversation after all these years. “I practiced moving objects. One day, after I’d gotten good at it, I found myself drawn to the stairs. One of my grandnephew’s children started down the steps. He tripped on that riser and began to fall. Before I could even think, I found myself leaping forward to catch him. I had just set him on the stairs, when suddenly I had no control over my body. I was pulled to the top of the steps and hurled down, as if someone threw me. It was worse than the first time. The boy’s mother had come in by then and I landed right at her feet. She didn’t see me, but the child did. He tried to tell her and she paddled him for lying.” “You fell down the stairs a second time?” Bret asked. “Yes. The nearest I can figure, if anyone trips on that fourth step, someone has to fall. If it’s not the person who tripped, it has to be me. At first I fought the compulsion, but now it’s almost automatic. It doesn’t even hurt anymore. And it’s certainly easier on me than on a live person.” Bret shook his head in wonder. “It’s like some sort of conservation of momentum.” “Yes. I’d never thought of mechanical laws as something that applied to ghosts, but apparently they do.” “You’ve studied physics?” “From the children’s schoolbooks. I’ve had a lot of time to study.” Bret swallowed the last of his brandy and Jessamyn again refilled the glass. “How long?” “I turned eighteen in October of 1864.” He looked thoughtful a moment. “Over one hundred forty years?” “It’s not polite to discuss a lady’s age, Professor Tyler.” Bret blinked and sat back in the chair. “You know my name?” Jessamyn thought his voice sounded slurred, but she attributed it to his accent. “As I said, we haven’t been formally introduced, but you have been around the house for quite a while now. I approve of what you’ve done with Bonnie Doon, by the way. That’s why I haven’t made too much of a pest of myself.” “Except last night.”

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Jessamyn bit her lip and looked away. She’d been bold last night, not at all herself, yet it had been all she could do to stop where she did. Bret’s body was gorgeous and she’d wanted to touch it, taste it, and have him do the same for her. What did he think about what she’d done? He’d been aroused, that much was obvious, but now, knowing it was she, how would he react? “I knew it.” Bret leaped up too fast and swayed forward, then staggered and caught the edge of the desk as Jessamyn danced out of his way. “Whoa.” He shook his head. “Where was I?” “Talking about last night,” Jessamyn murmured. “Yeah. Right. That was you, wasn’t it? Touching me?” She met his gaze. His look was intense, but his eyes were slightly unfocused and she knew he was feeling the brandy. “I hope I didn’t frighten you, or keep you up.” “You didn’t frighten me. But yeah, you could say you kept me up.” He dropped into the leather armchair and leaned forward onto the desk. “Are you this friendly… I mean, do you make your presence known to everyone who’s lived here since you died?” Jessamyn shook her head. “No. Most people can’t see me even if I want them to, and most of them never really interested me.” She looked at him through her lashes. “That’s why I got a little carried away last night. I knew you could sense me.” And help me, she thought, but she’d save that for another time. She perched on the edge of the desk, watching him. Bret put his head down and his folded arms muffled his voice, “Gotta be sensitive to paranormal phenomena, I suppose. Psychic.” He sounded skeptical. And drowsy. “Sensitive? Yes, that must be it.” “So why do I see you?” He didn’t raise his head. “I’m not sensitive. Anyway, Carla says there’s no such thing as psychics.” Carla? Then Jessamyn remembered. The fiancée. The enemy. She bit back an unladylike word. Bad language was getting to be a habit lately. She hopped off the desk and turned to address Bret’s slouched form. “You are sensitive. I know you are. I knew the first time I saw you, when you came to look at the house. That’s why you can see me and talk to me. I knew you’d come for me. You don’t know how long I’ve waited. If she can’t see it, she doesn’t understand you. She doesn’t deserve you.” She crouched at the front of the desk, her face even with Bret’s, invisible fingers clutching the timeworn wood. He didn’t respond. “Professor?” No answer. “Bret, darling?” Nothing. She poked his arm gently and his head lolled to one side, eyes closed. His lips parted to emit a soft snore. “Damnation.” She stamped her foot again, but this time made no sound. She had already faded to misty nothingness and left Bret asleep at the library desk.

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Chapter Five Bret’s head was a balloon attached to the spigot of an old-fashioned water pump. A raucous version of the “Anvil Chorus” accompanied every crank of the handle. Pain throbbed with each gush of water. He was sure that with the next one his head would burst, but it never did and the pressure grew. Ever so carefully, he opened his eyes. Daylight, white and blinding, streamed in through the unshuttered window. He slammed his eyelids closed, then opened them again to half-mast. The light set off a beat in his forehead to counterpoint the pounding at the back of his skull. He groaned and looked at his watch. The effort hurt. Even his hair hurt. Seven-thirty. He bolted upright and instantly regretted it. All right, no sudden moves or I’ll let you have it. Seven-thirty and today was…Saturday. Thank God. No eight a.m. lecture. He sighed and let his head drop back onto the desk. “What a dream,” he said aloud, then grimaced. His mouth tasted like something small and furry had hibernated there and only recently vacated. He leaned back and looked around the library. Last night’s shadows were gone. Sunlight gleamed dully on old wood and picked out the faded colors of ancient bindings. The surface of the desk itself was clear except for the moist spot where his cheek had rested beside an overturned snifter. He picked up the glass. Tawny droplets remained in the bowl. He tried to think, but beyond a vague memory of falling on the stairs, only the dream was fresh in his mind. If it was a dream. He forced the internal voice out of his head. Of course it was a dream. He’d found the brandy in the secretary. The drop leaf door still stood open, the decanter inside halffull. Found it, poured a glass and sat down to read. Then maybe refilled it a couple times too many. He’d never been much of a drinking man. No head for spirits. The phrase popped into his mind along with the image of a petite but buxom blonde licking moist pink lips and watching him appraisingly. He took a deep breath and stood up, focusing his thoughts on a single goal, the bathroom medicine cabinet. Aspirin. And a hot shower. He moved gingerly down the hall to the master bedroom and pointedly ignored the staircase as he passed. The master bathroom was unusually spacious for a house of Bonnie Doon’s age. Bret suspected a dressing room had been converted to achieve the finished space. His renovation had kept the old-fashioned and oversized clawfoot tub occupying one end of the room, but added a double-headed shower encased in clear glass and polished brass. Slate counters and floor tiles and raised sinks of deep sage green ceramic made

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the room an elegant and peaceful retreat, classic, but a departure from the Victorian fussiness of the rest of the house. Bret stripped off yesterday’s shirt and chinos, tossing them into a rattan hamper, and reached into the shower to turn both sets of spigots on full. Hot water gushed from the twin showerheads and steam filled the room, turning the mirrors and shower enclosure translucent. He grabbed a heavy cotton towel from the linen closet and flung it over the top of the shower door, then pulled off his black low-rise briefs and stepped into the steaming spray. Pouring shampoo into his palm, he rubbed his hands together before applying it to his wet hair. Funny, he thought, but he’d never noticed before that his shampoo smelled of honeysuckle. For a moment, he wondered if he’d grabbed the wrong brand during his last trip to the store. He started to look at the label, then stopped, his breath catching. Honeysuckle. A memory of the fragrance he’d noticed on the stairs came back to him. She’d thrown herself past him after saving him from falling. He’d smelled her perfume. Shivering despite the hot water, he turned under the shower’s blast and tried to peer through the glass walls that surrounded him, but he could see nothing through the heavy mist. The honeysuckle scent grew stronger. Something touched his back and he froze, letting the water pour over his body. The touch, like a soft fingertip, traced down the length of his spine. It paused briefly, just above his tailbone, then moved lower to become multiple trails, fingers, stroking, cupping the curve of his ass. He gasped, feeling himself grow immediately hard. “Jessamyn?” he whispered, the name catching in his throat. Then he felt her behind him, bare skin, hot and slick with water, pressing against him. She moved, letting her breasts rub across his back, her nipples taut and erect. His cock jumped in response, growing harder still as she wrapped her arms around him, crushing those magnificent breasts to his back, and ran her hands in circles over his chest, moving lower with tantalizing slowness. He reached behind him and felt a silken hip, naked beneath his hand. Hell, he thought, what am I doing? He had to be insane. It was bad enough that he barely knew the girl, but there was also the minor fact that she wasn’t a girl at all, but a ghost. At the moment, however, conscious thought meant little to him. He stretched both arms behind him, clasped her tight, round ass, and molded her hard against him. He felt her mouth on his back, lips first, then her tongue, kissing and licking him eagerly as her fingers played lower on his belly. Then, as if unable to wait any longer, she grabbed his cock, wrapping one hand around its hard, thick length. Bret gasped, arching against her as she explored him with her fingers, kneading, caressing, massaging, cupping his balls in her small hand. With her other hand, she began to slowly stroke the length of his shaft, tightening her fingers around him as she

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moved. Without conscious thought he began to counter her thrusts with his own, and her strokes grew harder and faster as she sensed his building excitement. He closed his eyes and groaned, seeing her again as she’d been last night, full breasts inviting his touch, soft mouth promising even more pleasure as she eyed him boldly, wanting to see her now, naked and slippery and hot for him. He tried to turn, but her grip on him was unrelenting and the pleasure she was giving too much to fight. At last he could hold himself no longer. He came hard, arching against Jessamyn’s wet nakedness as wave after wave of pleasure engulfed him. She held him fast, milking him of every drop until at last his knees buckled and he sank to the floor of the shower, panting. When he regained his senses, he knew he had to look at her, to touch that incredible body, to give her back some of the pleasure she’d given him, but when he’d wiped the water from his eyes and turned to face her, he found himself alone. An hour later, Bret sat at the kitchen table gulping strong instant coffee and wondering what the hell had just happened to him. Nothing much, he told himself. Just the most incredible hand job of his life. From a ghost. It wasn’t a dream. None of it had been. Unless he had gone completely insane, what he just experienced was real. A part of his mind still refused to believe it. Outside, sunshine sparkled on the last beads of morning dew. A light breeze blew in through the open window. Everything seemed completely normal and rational. A knock rattled the screen door. Bret jumped, then rose to answer it. A tall, AfricanAmerican woman stood on the porch. She was slender with high cheekbones and finely drawn features that gave her an ageless quality. Random silver threads tinged her mahogany hair. She was probably in her mid-forties, but wouldn’t look much different at seventy. “Professor Tyler?” Her voice, a rich contralto, held the lilt of islands far from the coast of the Carolinas. Not waiting for Bret’s assent, she continued, “I’m Yolanda Patterson. I was old Mr. Radcliffe’s housekeeper and cook a few years back. The real estate agent called to tell me the house had been sold. I’ve come to find out if you might be in need of my services.” The question caught Bret off-guard. “I don’t know. I hadn’t really thought about it. I suppose we might.” For the first time, Carla came to mind and Bret suppressed a groan. He was engaged. He had no business having shower sex with a ghost. Mrs. Patterson pressed a bulky manila envelope into his hands. “I have letters of reference from Mr. Radcliffe’s lawyers and some of my previous employers. I worked for him for several years and I know the house like the back of my hand. I cooked for all his business dinners and parties. I have also cared for children, in case you have any.” She paused to give Bret an opportunity to reply. 35

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He was totally at a loss. “Um, no, not yet. That is, we’re just engaged. My fiancée will be coming down near the end of the summer.” “Congratulations. Are you going to have the wedding here?” “Um, I don’t know.” Bret shook his head to clear his racing thoughts. “I mean, we haven’t really decided. I guess I’ll have to talk to Carla about it.” Mrs. Patterson nodded sagely. “Men. Marriage and households are the last things you ever think about. So, shall we start on a trial basis? You may not like me, but then again, I may not like you.” “A trial?” Bret repeated, numbly. The poor woman probably thought he was some kind of mental case, but then again, maybe she’d be right. He wasn’t really at his best at the moment. Maybe he could convince her to come back another time. On the other hand, he wasn’t at all sure he wanted to be alone in the house. And they would need a housekeeper. Bonnie Doon was too much house to manage while working full-time. He looked at the woman. She looked back, infinitely patient. “Do you live in?” he asked, keeping his voice carefully neutral. “Mercy no. I have a son to care for. But I can do evenings for special occasions and the like. Do we have a deal?” She smiled warmly and offered a long, slender hand. Bret took it hesitantly. If first impressions were any indication, she seemed competent enough, but he supposed he ought to ask a few questions. He racked his brain. “How long a trial? And how much do I pay you? Why did you leave before?” “My mother became ill and I left to care for her. She passed on last year. I needed to find work again and I hoped that since you were new to the area, you might not have hired anyone yet. As for the money, does eight dollars an hour sound fair?” She glanced around him at the kitchen, and pursed her lips disapprovingly. “The place needs work now.” “Remodeling,” Bret explained apologetically. That was the least of it, of course, but there was no way he could tell this woman what was going on in the house. “Eight dollars an hour sounds low, though.” Especially with a child to support, he thought. “How about ten?” She grinned. “Ten would be fine,” she said. Then she peered closely at him and frowned. “You don’t look so good, pardon my saying so. Young man on his own without his woman around.” She made a tsking sound. “But you don’t look like the carousing type.” Bret felt himself flush. Was it that obvious? Then it occurred to him, he was talking to someone who had lived in the house. Had she ever seen or heard anything strange? Would she come back here to work if she had? He realized she was still staring at him as if waiting for a reply. “Sorry. I’ve had a couple bad nights. Insomnia.” “I have just the thing for you then. Warm milk with my special ingredient. I’ll fix it tonight before I leave.”

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She slipped past him into the kitchen, a large handbag on one arm and a container stuffed with brushes, bottles and sponges in the other. Bret sensed she’d had no intention of taking “no” for an answer. He wondered again what she knew of the house. He wanted to ask, but she’d probably think he was crazy. Well, crazier, since she had to doubt his sanity already. Behind him, Mrs. Patterson had laid down her things and started on the dirty dishes. “No electricity,” she said, flipping the garbage disposal switch. “Harry’s working on the wiring. Should be back on this afternoon.” He trembled at the thought of another night in the darkness, a shiver that had little to do with fear. He had to ask. He had to know. “Harry?” Mrs. Patterson turned to regard him with alarm, a frown crinkling her smooth forehead. “Not Harry Osborne? He’s still here?” Bret nodded. “Always has been, I gather. You know him, then?” “We’ve met.” She chewed her lip thoughtfully. “Perhaps I should give this more consideration…” Before she could continue, the front door opened and then slammed shut. “Professor,” Harry’s voice preceded his footsteps through the house. “In the kitchen,” Bret called. Harry walked in and nodded a greeting. Mrs. Patterson’s presence he acknowledged with a muttered “Ma’am”. He glanced at Bret then whirled back to the woman. His mouth opened and closed several times before he managed to sputter out, “Yolanda?” Bret followed Harry’s gaze to Mrs. Patterson’s stricken face. “I never thought you’d still be here, Harry.” Her voice was soft. “I wouldn’t have come back if I’d realized…” “Where else would I be, Yo?” Harry rasped, seemingly forgetting Bret’s presence. “How could I have gone anywhere else after you left?” Yolanda Patterson looked at Bret, her expression apologetic. “I’m sorry, Professor. I really should leave.” She gathered her tools. “No.” Harry lifted the container out of her hand and set it down hard on the counter. “No. Not this time. If anyone’s leaving, this time it’s going to be me.” He stalked out the back door, letting the screen slam hard behind him. “Harry!” Damn, Bret thought, the man couldn’t just walk out like this, whatever was going on between him and Mrs. Patterson. He followed Harry out the door, catching him midway across the lawn. “Harry, what is this all about? You can’t go off and leave like this. There’s still too much to be done.” Harry turned to gaze beyond Bret at the house. “No, Professor. I ain’t leaving. I just can’t be in the same house with that woman right now.”

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“I haven’t even hired her yet, Harry. I mean, she just sort of walked in. If you want her to leave…” “No!” Harry’s reply was emphatic. “No, she’s the best housekeeper you could find. Don’t let her get away. It’s just, well, I can’t be around her yet.” He looked at Bret for the first time. “And no, I don’t want to discuss it. Not now.” Bret took a step back, hands raised. “Fine. No problem. I won’t ask any questions, I’ll just go back inside and finish my breakfast. There’s probably plenty to do out here anyway.” He watched Harry stalk away toward the outbuildings beyond the yard, then went inside. Yolanda stood wringing a dishtowel where he had left her. “I’m very sorry, Professor. I didn’t mean…” “It’s okay, Mrs. Patterson. And I don’t want you to leave. Unless you’re uncomfortable here.” “No. I’d like to stay. Thank you, Professor.” Bret waited, but the housekeeper didn’t seem inclined to explain further. Fine, he thought, a scene worthy of any daytime soap and no one was going to tell him anything. Yolanda turned back to the dishes, leaving Bret in awkward silence. He searched for something to say and remembered that she knew the house. “Mrs. Patterson?” “Um-hum.” She sounded distracted. “I was wondering. That is, I was curious…” No help for it now, he had to continue. “You worked here quite a few years, right?” “Ye-es?” She drew the word out to two syllables, ending on an upward note. Bret plunged on. “Did you ever see or hear anything strange? That is, anything out of the ordinary?” She glanced at him over her shoulder and her puzzled expression relaxed into a reassuring smile. “Oh, you must have heard the young lady, Miss Radcliffe. Don’t you be concerned about her. She never bothers anyone.” He was inclined to disagree about her bothering anyone, but he wasn’t about to mention his experience in the shower this morning. “Miss Radcliffe?” he asked, hated to do so, but bowing to the inevitable. It came, finally, in the housekeeper’s matter-of-fact reply. “Yes,” she said. “The ghost.” The breezy room felt suddenly stuffy and overheated. “The ghost.” Yolanda took the statement as a question. Her voice rose over the running water. “Miss Radcliffe.” She scraped at a dirty saucepan. “She fell down the stairs, they say.” Scrape, scrape. “On her birthday. Long time ago. During the war.” She set the pan

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down and looked at Bret. “Some people have seen her in the house. I haven’t. Not for certain, anyway.” Bret nodded absently, trying to rationalize his feelings. He’d had little doubt after this morning, but having another person confirm that the house was haunted was almost too much for him. Before, he could have taken refuge in the comforting possibility that he’d gone quietly nuts. Now, it appeared that was no longer an option. He had to get out of here. Had to think. Somewhere else. He looked at his watch. “Um, I just remembered some things I need to pick up at the college. If you don’t need me around for a while?” He paused and Yolanda shook her head. “Okay, I’ll be back in a couple hours.” Clearly preoccupied with her own thoughts, Yolanda Patterson nodded without looking up. From an upstairs window, Jessamyn watched Bret’s hasty departure. For a scholar, she thought, he certainly had trouble accepting the obvious. A bubble of fear rose inside her. Maybe she’d been too forward this morning. Maybe she’d frightened him and he wouldn’t come back. She wrapped her arms around herself and fought down a shudder. Bret just couldn’t leave her alone again. He hadn’t seemed frightened at the time, she thought, remembering the way he’d looked in the shower, water streaming over his broad shoulders and muscular back, sparkling droplets falling from his hair, beading in the dark curls low on his belly. She felt her cheeks grow warm at the memory of what she’d done, but she didn’t regret it. He’d looked magnificent, tall and lean and powerful, and she’d simply had to touch him again. She trembled, remembering the hard length of his phallus against her hand, leaping at her touch, and the way he’d pulled her against him. The mere thought of his hands on her bare bottom brought a heated rush of dampness to the sensitive area between her thighs. She needed him, wanted him. He had to come back to her. She drifted downstairs, anxious not to be by herself. Yolanda had migrated from the kitchen to the parlor and now busied herself rubbing polish onto a delicate tea table that had been old when Jessamyn was alive. Jessamyn watched her vigorous strokes, reminded again of her own hands on Bret, and wondered if the housekeeper intended to rub the grain right out of the wood. “Men!” Jessamyn jumped as Yolanda threw her cloth onto the tabletop and turned around. “You wouldn’t know, would you, Miss Jessamyn? Innocent young thing that you were when you died.” The housekeeper shook her head. “Poor child. But some might say you were lucky to pass on before you could get involved with them.” A lot you know, Jessamyn thought, but she smiled to herself. She had missed Yolanda and the “conversations” they’d shared. The housekeeper had never seen nor heard her, and clearly knew little about her, but that didn’t stop her from talking to Jessamyn when she was alone. And Jessamyn was usually there to listen, though she gave Yolanda no sign. 39

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“How was I to know he’d still be here,” Yolanda continued, addressing her remarks toward a spot several feet to Jessamyn’s left. “God knows I wouldn’t have come back if I’d thought he was, no matter how bad I needed the money. But what could I do? Ask that nosy real estate woman? There was enough talk when I left the last time.” Jessamyn remembered Yolanda’s departure over ten years earlier. The housekeeper had lived at Bonnie Doon then. Jessamyn recalled hearing Yolanda explain about her mother’s illness to her employer who accepted her notice without argument. Then Yolanda slipped away late in the evening without a word to anyone else. Jessamyn wondered if she was the only one who knew that Yolanda’s mother had been dead five years when the housekeeper left that night. “Well, I’m stuck here now,” Yolanda said. She sighed. “That young man needs looking after, so Harry or no Harry, I’ll stay. At least ‘til his fiancée arrives.” At the reminder of Bret’s obligation, Jessamyn clenched her fists. This would be a good time to take some air in the garden, she thought. On her way, she made a point of passing close enough to Yolanda to give the housekeeper goose bumps.

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Chapter Six Bret turned the car out of the drive to the main road and realized he had just left a total stranger in charge of his house. He hadn’t even looked at her references. Well, he thought, Harry was still around and he had vouched for her, despite their apparently strained relationship. He thought about Mrs. Patterson’s comments. Miss Radcliffe, she’d called the ghost. Jessamyn Radcliffe. There was now no doubt in his mind. His house was haunted. He winced at the word. Jessamyn didn’t like it, either, he recalled. In fact, last night’s conversation, temporarily eclipsed by his experience in the shower, was coming back to him in big chunks. He tried to face the truth matter-of-factly, as if he’d just discovered the place had termites or water in the basement. The idea made him smile, despite his misgivings. Jessamyn would be mightily offended at being compared with termites. He’d learned that much about her already. Bret had to admit, having a ghost did have advantages over termites. She was beautiful, lively, extremely, um, friendly, and he wouldn’t have to worry about putting his foot through a chewed-out floorboard. On the other hand, with termites he wouldn’t have had to worry about being jerked off in the shower. The image of her standing behind him, naked and slick, her fingers playing his cock like a fine-tuned instrument came forcibly to mind. He groaned. Damn, but he’d wanted her. If she’d given him the opportunity to turn, to see her, he knew he wouldn’t have been able to stop himself from pressing her to the wall of the shower, lifting her legs around his waist, and driving his hard length deep into her until she moaned with passion. The thought left him hard and throbbing, despite the fact that he wasn’t at all sure it was even possible with a ghost. It was certainly worth a try, though. Hell, he was randy as a teenager lately. He hadn’t felt like this since… Carla’s face came to mind unbidden. What the hell was he going to do, he wondered. He loved Carla. How could he even consider sex with another woman? Jessamyn isn’t a woman, a traitorous voice inside his head argued. She might even be a figment of your imagination, so what’s the harm? The spark had gone out of his relationship with Carla, so why not have a little fantasy sex on the side? Fantasies weren’t harmful. They certainly weren’t cheating. The harm is in getting emotionally involved with a ghost, if that’s even possible, he argued with himself.

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He knew Jessamyn was no figment or fantasy. She was real, and if not precisely flesh and blood, she definitely existed and had a personality. Any involvement with her would be as physical, and as wrong, as a motel room affair. So what was he to do? He could tell her to leave him alone, but somehow he doubted that would have much of an effect. He didn’t know her well yet, but he sensed Jessamyn was headstrong and used to getting her own way. She wasn’t one to be told what to do or to do something that was not to her liking. Exorcism? The idea disturbed him, he didn’t know why. Perhaps it just seemed like overkill when she’d given no evidence of a malicious nature. Quite the opposite, in fact. Jessamyn Radcliffe was a far cry from the stereotypical specter, roaming with its head under its arm. She was beautiful and passionate and sensual, and when they’d talked last night in the library, it had been hard to believe she wasn’t a living person. Except for a few minor details. Like the cold he’d felt near her, before she actually touched him, as if a soul-chilling aura surrounded her. But when she took his arm last night and caressed him this morning in the shower, her touch was warm and human, as though she’d broken through some kind of barrier between them. She’d felt real as well, he thought, recalling the smooth curve of her bottom and the pressure of her breasts on his back. Yet his hand had passed through the lace of her gown the night before. How had that happened? Suddenly brake lights flashed ahead of him. The car in front of him stopped quickly. He stomped his brakes to avoid rear-ending the black sports car. In his mirror, he saw a blue sedan behind him jolt to a stop. Damn, this was too distracting. He had to go someplace and think things through. Without conscious effort, he found his way to the freeway and headed north out of the city. Cypress Gardens lay just beyond Charleston’s northern fringe of suburbs. As a boy, Bret had often accompanied his parents there on family sightseeing tours with visiting relatives. The gardens always intrigued him, even when he’d been encumbered with fussy aunts and doddering uncles. He hadn’t been back in years. He parked the car and paid his admission at the gate. Memories flooded his mind as he walked along paths surrounded by masses of blossoms—azaleas of every color, golden whips of forsythia, creamy gardenias and magnolias mingling their perfumes with the fragrance of grapelike clusters of purple wisteria. But he hadn’t come to look at flowers. A damp, woody muskiness underlay the floral top notes. Bret bypassed the entrance to the walking tour and headed for the source of the aroma. The boat rental kiosk had been repainted since his last visit. It squatted alone, a pale blue cubicle set apart from the floral garden, as if to mark the division between two worlds. Beyond it stretched the black waters of the cypress swamp.

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He’d noticed the contrast long ago. As a typically morbid teenager, he’d envisioned the swamp as the River Styx, with the Underworld shrouded in mist somewhere on the other side. Benefits of a classical education, he smiled to himself. The plump and pleasant young lady staffing the rental booth was no Charon, the ferryman, though, that was for sure. He climbed into the small rowboat and checked his watch. Eleven o’clock. He’d paid for half an hour. He pushed off into the dark water. Bret found he could forgive his teenage imagination. The swamp really did look like a passage to the Underworld. He guided the boat silently over the still, shiny blackness, weaving among the flaring green-brown cypress trunks and the low, knobby projections known as “knees”. Above him, ancient trees soared to form a sun-dappled canopy hung with long, gray beards of Spanish moss. Bret drifted and let his mind clear. A fine setting for ghosts, he thought. Fierce, rugged pirate ghosts, of course, not genteel, if surprisingly lusty, ladies. Jessamyn, he suspected, harbored no fondness for swamps. That was part of the problem, he realized. A pirate ghost would probably be easier to dispose of and less likely to take offense. Jessamyn had been a well-brought-up young lady. Ghost or no, Bret knew he couldn’t just toss her out against her will, even if such a thing were possible. His southern upbringing was still too strong for him to treat a lady so callously. Even if the lady in question had been dead for nearly a century and a half. So, what should he do about her? While Jessamyn might present no danger, other than to his self-control, she could very well scare Carla or others. Maybe he could convince her to go away. But would that work if she had no choice in the matter of her haunting? It was possible that she didn’t want to haunt the house at all, but was stuck there, for some reason, unable to “rest”. Somehow Jessamyn didn’t strike him as a tormented spirit. She’d told him she didn’t know why she haunted Bonnie Doon, other than because she’d died there. In any case, he didn’t know the first thing about getting rid of a ghost, other than what he’d seen in movies. He’d heard it called “laying” the spirit, but somehow the concept of laying Jessamyn brought a rather different image to mind. He shook off the thought and forced himself to concentrate. Perhaps she was searching for something. He’d heard of ghosts that needed to find some object or other before they could rest. If Jessamyn were looking for something, though, she’d probably have mentioned it last night. He reviewed what he could remember of their conversation. No clues presented themselves. He would just have to ask her. If she came back. He was surprised to realize that he hoped she would.

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His face was warm when he started his car a half-hour later. He’d forgotten how quickly the spring sunshine could burn. He wove through the lot and turned onto the road to head back south, barely noting the blue sedan that followed two cars behind. A battered pickup truck sat in the driveway at Bonnie Doon when Bret pulled up to the house. Bret parked and walked through the gate to the back garden. The landscape crew was already busy grooming the overgrowth, clipping, mowing and raking. The head gardener, crouched over a shaggy rosebush, waved a greeting, then walked over to meet Bret on the flagstone path. “Looks pretty bad, don’t it, Professuh?” he drawled. “Pretty neglected,” Bret agreed. “Is it salvageable?” “Oh yeah.” The little man nodded, his sun-etched wrinkles pulling into a smile. “Nothing a little hard work can’t fix.” He squinted out across the grounds. “Well, maybe a lot of hard work.” He turned back to Bret. “Decided what you want done with the formal garden?” Bret looked at the square plot enclosed within a low, stone wall. Once an intricate pattern had existed there, decorative arrangements of flowering shrubs, greenery and herbs, small patches separated by walkways. He could make out the shape of a crumbling marble bench hidden in the weeds. The paving stones were invisible from his vantagepoint, but he’d tripped over several when he’d attempted to walk through the mess a few days earlier. He shook his head. “Just clean it up as much as you can for now. I’d like to get it close to original condition, eventually, but I’ll have to do some research.” “Sure. Well, we’ll get back to work, then. Lemme know when you decide.” The gardener gave Bret a quick nod and headed back to the roses. Bret followed the path that skirted the garden and the edge of the lawn. Far to the left, it curved into a grove of trees whose shade looked welcoming. He strolled lazily, inhaling the soft, fragrant air. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of movement. He glanced to his left and jumped. Jessamyn stood at his side. “Don’t do that,” he half-shouted, but he was stunned at the rush of pleasure that filled him at seeing her. He muffled his voice and glanced around to see if he’d been overheard, then satisfied that he hadn’t, studied her intently. She looked as she had last night, blonde hair in waves about her shoulders, breasts full to overflowing the confines of her white bodice, radiating sensuality. At his continued gaze her eyes met his boldly, but her cheeks flushed a delicate rose. It had never occurred to him that ghosts could blush. “I was afraid you wouldn’t come back,” she said softly. She hesitated, then added, “After this morning.” She licked her lips, her tongue pink against the deeper shade of her pouting lips. Bret caught his breath as his nether regions stirred once more to eager life.

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He breathed deep, trying to regain some semblance of composure. He’d made his decision. There was no going back, no matter how tempted he was. “I’ll admit it was a bit of a surprise,” he said. “But you enjoyed it.” Jessamyn looked up at him, one delicate brow arched, then let her gaze drop to the front of his jeans where the fabric was becoming undeniably distended. “I wanted you to enjoy it.” He stared at her, anxious to change the subject before things got completely out of hand. “Why? What do you want with me, Jessamyn? Why are you here?” “I told you last night, I don’t know.” She linked her arm through his as they walked along the path. “I’m not surprised you can’t remember our conversation, though. In my day, gentlemen didn’t allow themselves to become inebriated. Especially in the presence of a lady.” “I was in shock. Besides, you kept refilling my glass.” And you’re not exactly a lady, he added mentally, no matter how real you look. “Pooh.” She pouted her soft lower lip and gave him a sidelong glance. “Anyway, I’m not here to talk about your gentlemanly failings. Or about this morning. I’m here to help you with the garden.” Bret fought the sudden urge to laugh, despite his annoyance. How often had she practiced to make such a perfect rosebud of a pout? She must have really wound the men around her little fingers in her day. “Oh, fine,” he teased, unable to resist. “That’s all I need, a see-through landscape architect.” Jessamyn frowned and looked down at herself. “Can you see through me? Usually I’m pretty good at staying solid.” “No, no. You’re fine. You look incredible… I mean, normal,” he amended quickly. But he knew he was right the first time. She was gorgeous, as sparkling and full of life as she must have been so long ago. She smiled, clearly mollified by his reassurance. “Well, I’ll help you anyway. I can tell you how the gardens looked when I lived here.” She paused, then added, “They’ve changed a lot.” Bret caught the sadness in her voice, but resisted the urge to pat her arm comfortingly, not trusting himself to touch her. “I spent a lot of time in the gardens,” she continued. “I think that’s why I can walk here now as long as I stay on the paths. Thomas Radcliffe, my however-many-greats nephew, didn’t care anything for the house or the gardens.” She stopped and turned toward him. Her blue eyes were wide and earnest. “That’s one reason I’m so happy you’re here. I just know you’ll fix everything.” She looked so hopeful and so incredibly seductive. Before he could think, Bret felt his head move in agreement. He caught himself in mid-nod. “Wait a second. Once I fix up the place, what do you plan to do?” She looked puzzled. “Why, go on as usual, I suppose. What else can I do?”

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“I don’t know, but you can’t go on like this.” Bret hated to say it, but now was as good a time as any. “How would I explain you to my colleagues, my assistant? And what about Carla? She’ll be here in a few weeks. I can’t have you scaring people, especially my fiancée. And as amazing as this morning was, it has to stop. Do you understand? You have to go away.” Hurt surprise colored Jessamyn’s face, but only for a moment. Her eyes flashed like sapphires as she tilted her chin up at him, her sensual mouth set in a firm line. “Where would you propose I go, sir?” The sharp edge to her voice rivaled any Confederate sword. “I am bound to this house. My house, if I may remind you. I have little choice in the matter and I was here first. And as for ‘scaring people’, you forget that I am a lady and a lady does not behave in such an ill-bred manner.” She folded her arms and turned her back to him. Bret stared at her. She was right. He had to admit it. She was trapped here and unless he wanted to abandon the house, he’d better make the best of it until he could find out the reason for her haunting and end it. Maybe they could come to some kind of agreement. He noted the taut set of her shoulders and the tilt of her head. Her haughty little chin was probably still in the air. Not a good sign. “Jessamyn?” She ignored him. He leaned around the side of her and caught a glimpse of a smooth cheek still flushed with anger. He made a mental note to ask her later just how ghosts managed to blush. “Jessamyn, I apologize for being so thoughtless. Really, I’m sorry.” She condescended to look at him. Her mouth had resumed its delicate bow-shape and Bret was startled by sudden urge to test its softness with his own. It was a mouth made for kissing. Among other things. He forgot what he’d been about to say. Jessamyn filled the void. “I’ll make you a deal. In exchange for your continuing to restore Bonnie Doon, I promise not to let your fiancée see me, nor will I frighten her. Is that fair?” “Yes.” It was exactly the agreement he’d hoped for. “Not that she’d probably be able to see me anyway,” Jessamyn added softly, smiling up through long lashes. Bret rolled his eyes. “But let’s not take the chance.” She inclined her head gracefully. “And about this morning,” he went on. As hot for her as he was, he knew he had no choice. He had to make it clear he was unavailable. “It can’t happen again.” She looked up at him, soft mouth parted invitingly. “Tell me you didn’t like it, Bret,” she whispered. “Tell me you don’t want me.”

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He sighed. He did want her. He wanted to feel her naked and spread beneath him, wet and eager. He wanted to kiss and taste every inch of her, to use his hands, his mouth, his cock to drive her over the brink with ecstasy. But he couldn’t tell her that. It wouldn’t be fair to her and it definitely wouldn’t be fair to Carla. He shook his head. “Sometimes we can’t allow ourselves everything we want, Jessamyn. I’m sorry you never learned that, but it’s a fact of life.” “Facts of life don’t concern me.” She drew herself up to her full height, the top of her head barely reaching his shoulder. “I’m beyond life. All I want is you.” Pride and anger flushed her face. Bret knew he’d hurt her, knew too it was for the best, but it took all his self-control not to reach for her, to pull her into his arms and kiss away the pain he’d caused. “Fine,” she said at last. “I’ll respect your wishes. It won’t happen again, Bret. Not unless you want it.” With that, she disappeared.

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Chapter Seven Bret took a long, deep breath and let it out slowly, glancing around. Across the yard, the gardeners continued their work. He and Jessamyn hadn’t been overheard. He wondered for a moment whether an eavesdropper would have heard both sides of the conversation or simply observed Bret having an animated discussion with himself. This was going to be complicated. He headed across the lawn toward the house. His pulse was still pounding when he yanked the screen door open. A yelp of surprise greeted him. Mrs. Patterson whirled from the counter to stare at him wideeyed, a paring knife in her hand. “Oh, it’s you, Professor. You nearly scared me out of my skin sneaking up like that. You’ll give someone a heart attack.” “I’m sorry, Mrs. Patterson. I didn’t mean to startle you.” Her expression softened. She glanced with surprise at the knife in her hand, as though she’d forgotten she held it, and laid it next to the vegetables she’d been chopping. “I’m all right. Must have been that talk of ghosts earlier made me a little jumpy. By the way, call me Yolanda, please.” “Thank you. And you call me Bret. ‘Professor’ makes me feel like I’m still at work.” He paused and glanced nervously around the kitchen. “Did something happen while I was gone?” “No,” Yolanda’s reply came a little too quickly. “Nothing. Nothing at all. Power’s back on, though, and I picked up some things for supper. Oh, and I almost forgot, there’s a young man in the library waiting for you.” She seemed grateful for the change of subject. “He says he’s your assistant.” “Right.” Bret nodded. “He’ll be helping me go through the old journals and documents left in the house, especially the library. He’ll probably be around quite a bit while I’m at work.” Yolanda raised an eyebrow. “Are you going to tell him everything about the house?” “What do you think he needs to know?” Bret mimicked her expression. She shook her head. “Oh, no. Figuring that out is your problem, I’m happy to say. You own the closets. You can pass the word about the skeletons as you see fit. Miss Radcliffe never hurt me and I won’t hurt her, but I’m glad I can go to my own home at night.” She turned back to her vegetables. Bret, feeling he’d been dismissed, looked around the kitchen again and wrinkled his nose. For just a second, the scent of chopped onions had been masked by the fragrance of honeysuckle. Bret walked through the spartan parlor and into the foyer, his mind racing. Maybe Oliver wouldn’t notice anything unusual. Jessamyn had said most people didn’t. If that

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were the case, telling Oliver the house was haunted might only make him uncomfortable. “Good afternoon, Professor Tyler.” Oliver appeared at the head of the stairs. “I thought I heard your voice.” He started down. “Oliver. No!” Bret’s shout halted the younger man in his tracks. He looked down at Bret from the second step, his expression puzzled. “I mean…I’m coming up. Stay there.” Bret forced a light tone into his voice, his knuckles white on the railing as he climbed the stairs. Another ghostly rescue was the last thing he needed. “Have you been here long? I’m afraid I had some unexpected errands to run.” “No, not long. Your housekeeper showed me up when I arrived, so I had a chance to investigate the library a bit.” He brushed a lock of sandy hair out of his eyes. “It looks fascinating. Thank you for giving me the opportunity to work with you. I just hope I can be of help.” Bret pulled himself to the landing and covertly studied his new employee. Oliver wore crisp jeans and a white shirt open over a faded Ashley College t-shirt. His pale eyes burned with excitement. Bret offered his hand and Oliver gripped it eagerly. “Well, it’ll be a tremendous help having someone organize this material. I’ll show you around the house, then we can get started in the library, since you’ve already had a chance to check it out.” He guided Oliver through the sparsely furnished upper floors of the house and pointed out the narrow staircase that led to the attic. “I haven’t had much chance to explore yet, but I saw several trunks and boxes up there that might prove interesting. We can tackle those after the library is finished.” “What’s in that room?” Oliver asked when they had returned to the second floor. He pointed to the blue bedroom Bret had intentionally skipped. The room where he’d found Jessamyn’s portrait. Somehow he thought of it as her room. “Just a bedroom,” Bret replied, forcing himself to sound casual. “I haven’t furnished it yet, except for a bed.” He couldn’t bring himself to show Oliver into the room. It felt like tempting fate. Fortunately, his explanation appeared to satisfy his assistant’s curiosity. They returned down the hall to the library. Bret hesitated at the door, thoughts of the previous night rushing back. Then he took a deep breath and edged into the room, ready to slam the door closed if he saw anything strange. Oliver followed close behind. If he noticed anything odd in Bret’s behavior, he didn’t remark on it. Inside the library everything lay as Bret had left it that morning. Only a hint of soft floral fragrance lingered. He sighed inaudibly and moved out of the doorway to allow Oliver inside. “This is the worst of it,” he said, gesturing around to the bookcases that lined the room on three sides, every one stacked with dust-enshrouded books, binders and piles

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of papers. “I haven’t even started sorting through this mess, just grabbed a volume here and there to look through before I moved in.” “This is amazing.” Oliver picked up a book and blew the dust off the cloth cover. “Looks like they kept every scrap of paper about the family and the estate since the house was built. That’s over two hundred fifty years’ worth of material.” “A lot of it probably won’t even be readable, much less restorable. No attempt was made at preservation.” Bret shook his head, still finding the fact hard to believe. “How could Radcliffe not know what he had here?” “The family always was a little odd, Professor.” The younger man thumbed the yellowed pages of the ledger he’d uncovered. “Legend has it some of the family were even engaged in guerrilla activities during the, ah, Late Unpleasantness.” The corner of a brittle page snapped in his fingers and fluttered to the floor. He frowned down at it, then gave Bret an apologetic look. Bret gave a shrug. They’d be lucky if half the collection didn’t crumble to dust when they handled it. “The Radcliffes were Confederate raiders?” he asked. “How do you know that?” “I was raised around here, Professor.” Oliver placed the ledger back on the shelf and met Bret’s gaze. “I grew up listening to my Grandmama’s tales of the Old South. The gallantry, the chivalry.” He closed his eyes, as if to let the memories come. “Planters and their ladies, the first families of Charleston, they were like royalty, Professor.” His eyes snapped open. He pinned Bret with his gaze. Bret wasn’t sure how to reply. In the silence, Oliver blinked several times in quick succession and shook his head as if to clear it. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Sometimes I get caught up in my subject.” “I understand,” Bret reassured him, not at all sure he did. “It happens to all of us. Occasionally.” He eased the conversation toward a safer topic. “So, you’re pretty familiar with the Radcliffe family?” “Yes.” Oliver appeared to have recovered from his bout of nostalgia. “I know something of their history, although I don’t know any of the family personally. I can’t recall meeting any Radcliffes near my age.” “Apparently the last owner had no children,” Bret volunteered. “I don’t know about other relatives, but no one came forward at his death. Mr. Radcliffe died considerably in debt and the house was sold to pay off his creditors. That’s how I got it.” “I see. So you weren’t familiar with any of the family stories before you decided to buy Bonnie Doon?” “No,” Bret replied. An image of Jessamyn flashed into his mind. Did Oliver already know the house was haunted? “What stories?” “Oh, buried treasure, that sort of thing,” Oliver’s answer sounded casual, but he raised one eyebrow in emphasis.

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“Treasure?” Bret laughed. “No, I have to admit I hadn’t heard that one. Why would there be treasure here?” Oliver shrugged. “Well, it wouldn’t be here necessarily, but somewhere in the area. From the raiding parties, so legend has it. Actually, the founding Radcliffe, Charles, was a pirate. Maybe it runs in the family.” Bret tensed and unobtrusively scanned the room. Please don’t let Jessamyn hear any of this, he prayed. He couldn’t sense her presence. Somehow he felt that if she were near, he’d know it. “Well, I have a bit of work to catch up on myself.” Maybe he could head Jessamyn off before she ran afoul of Oliver. In the future, he’d be careful about discussing the Radcliffes with his assistant. “Go ahead and look around awhile if you’d like and see what’s here. If some system for organizing this stuff comes to mind, have at it and fill me in later.” Oliver nodded, his eyes gleaming fiercely once again. Bret started into the hall, then turned back. “Oh, by the way, I don’t expect this to be a quick job. Take your time and if something catches your eye, feel free to read it and take notes for me.” Oliver grinned broadly. “Thanks, Professor. I hoped you’d say that.” Jessamyn sank to her knees on the cool, shady grass and pressed her palms hard against her dry eyes, wishing, for the thousandth time, that she could cry. “He doesn’t want me.” The words came out on a sobbing breath, despair tinged with disbelief. How could he have told her to go away? After all the years she’d waited for him? Was it something wrong with her? she wondered. Was she not attractive to him? Even as she asked the questions, she knew they couldn’t be true. Bret did want her. She read the desire in his eyes, felt it in his touch. He was simply denying it to himself. Bret was her true love, the man foretold by the prophecy. He held the key to her future, to her freedom. How could she make him see that? She recited the fortuneteller’s words again, searching each line for any new hint, any clue to what she should do next. “Gone away young but never gone. Love never known but passion strong. Two spirits freed and two spirits won. Then is the wanderer’s journey done.” She sighed and slumped against the tree trunk. It was useless. Bret or no Bret, the words were as much of a puzzle as ever. She pounded a fist ineffectually against the

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ground, frustration overwhelming her sorrow. Surely the answer should come easier than this. She’d been so certain that once saw her true love again, everything would fall into place. Oh, why couldn’t fortunetellers just spell things out like normal people? She sighed again, this time in resignation. I’ll just have to tell him about the prophecy. She could find no alternative. Maybe something would occur to him when he heard the rhyme, something she’d missed. She’d tell him the true love part, too, she decided. Oh, not that he was the one— she’d promised to leave him be, so it wouldn’t do to have him think she was throwing herself at him. No, Bret would have to decide for himself that he was her true love. It wouldn’t hurt to drop a hint, though. Two hours after he’d left the library, the stack of essays on the kitchen table in front of Bret was half as high as when he’d started grading. He’d seen no sign of Jessamyn since their talk in the garden. Apparently, she’d missed Oliver’s comments. Thank God. Bret leaned back and stretched. A noise from the porch caught his attention and he glanced up. Harry stood off to one side of the screen, peeking in. “Harry? What are you doing?” Harry put a finger to his lips. “Shush. Is she around?” he whispered. Bret walked to the door. “Is who around?” “Yolanda. Who else?” “No, I haven’t seen her since I came downstairs.” Bret fought back a grin. What was going on with the two of them? “Good.” Harry opened the door and slipped inside. He went to the refrigerator, opened it and stuck his head in. “I’m starving,” he said, his voice muffled. “Didn’t have lunch.” “Didn’t have—Harry, it’s four o’clock. Why didn’t you come in for lunch?” Harry poked his head above the door. A pickle protruded from his mouth. “Didn’t want to run into her,” he said around the gherkin. He backed up and kicked the door closed, his arms stacked with a sliced ham, cheese and a bowl of potato salad. “I think that’s supper, Harry.” “Well, I’m not going to eat it all.” He set his plunder on the counter and, pulling a loaf of bread from the bread box, proceeded to build a massive sandwich. “How long are you going to avoid her?” Bret asked. Harry glanced up. “Long as it takes.” He stuck the remains of the ham and salad back into the refrigerator and pulled out the iced tea pitcher on his return trip. The sound of approaching footsteps stopped him in mid-pour. He grabbed the half-full glass and his sandwich and dashed out the door. When Oliver entered the kitchen, Bret fought to keep a straight face.

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“I’ll be leaving now, Professor, if there’s nothing else you need to cover.” He noticed Bret’s grimace. “Is anything wrong?” “No. Just domestic problems.” Oliver nodded sagely and Bret bit his lip all the way to the front door to see Oliver out. He watched Oliver’s nondescript gray Ford head down the drive in a cloud of dust. Was it his imagination, or had his new assistant’s answers about the treasure been somewhat evasive? Not that Bret was especially interested in some ridiculous local legend, but he was almost certain that Oliver had more information than he’d been willing to part with. Perhaps Harry could shed some light on the subject, he thought. After years at Bonnie Doon, the caretaker was bound to be familiar with the plantation’s history and legends. Bret stepped out onto the back porch. The air was still warm, despite the deepening shade that bathed the backyard and gardens. Bret spotted Harry amidst the newly shorn vegetation of the formal garden, perched on a shady bench with his belated lunch. Harry looked up as Bret approached. “She gone for the day, then?” “Nope, sorry.” Bret didn’t try to hide his grin. “That was just Oliver, my assistant. I expect Yolanda will be leaving soon, though.” “Humph.” Harry concentrated on the last of his sandwich. “Harry, Oliver mentioned some interesting things about the plantation. And about the Radcliffe family in particular.” Harry’s scowl faded and the beginning of a smile stretched his face. “Oh? What sort of things?” “Legends about a treasure of some kind, supposedly buried around here. Something stolen by Confederate raiders. He said the Radcliffes were involved.” “He tell you anything more specific?” “No, although now that you mention it, I had the feeling he knew more than he was letting on.” “Ha!” Harry snorted. “I bet he did.” He squinted up at Bret. “And I’d be willing to bet the treasure he’s so interested in is the Barton Hoard. It’s not too well known, ‘cept around here. It’s never been found, but ever’ so often someone gets wind of it from some obscure war chronicle, then heads out to look for it. Never fails that every couple years we don’t have to chase off some treasure hunter who’s running around digging holes on the property.” “I’ve never heard of the Barton Hoard,” Bret said. “What is it?” “Not much,” Harry sniffed. “Just a fortune in gold stolen from a Charleston merchant suspected of profiteering. It was just before the city surrendered to the Yankees. As the story went, this fella had the gold all loaded up. He planned to ship it out of the Charleston before the city fell and head out west with it. Well sir, someone 53

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found out about it. There’s some say it was Yankee soldiers took it and divided it among themselves. If that happened, of course, there wouldn’t have been anything left to make a legend out of. What most people think is that it was some of our own boys that took it, group called itself Barton’s Raiders.” “So who’s Barton?” Bret asked. “The Bartons owned a big place just north of here.” Harry gestured vaguely to his left. “Oldest son of the family, back then ‘a course, he led the Raiders. Seems to me something happened over that way just last year.” He grimaced in concentration. “Yeah, the house burned down. Nothing left. Big old frame house a lot like Bonnie Doon, just went up like kindling. A couple people hurt, too, as I recall.” Bret shook his head. “I don’t get it. What’s the connection between the Bartons and the Radcliffes? Why do the treasure hunters come here?” Harry stared up at him. “Oh, did I forget to mention? James Radcliffe, the family’s oldest boy, he was Andrew Barton’s second-in-command. Barton died the night of the raid and the treasure was never seen again.”

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Chapter Eight Bret sat beside Harry on the stone bench. Around them, the shadows were deepening as afternoon edged toward dusk. He considered Harry’s words. Perhaps Oliver hadn’t been far wrong to call the Radcliffes pirates. But that certainly contradicted Bret’s impression of the family. “Harry, do people around here believe James Radcliffe murdered his commander and stole the treasure for himself?” Harry twisted to face him, blue eyes wide with shock. “No! How’d you get that crazy notion? Barton was shot during the raid and died on the trip back here. That much is fact.” He searched Bret’s face and a look of comprehension dawned. “Is that what that young fella, Oliver, told you, that Jimmy Radcliffe betrayed his own men?” He shook his head in disbelief. “Well, not in so many words. He implied the family was dishonest and from what you said, it sounded like…” Bret trailed off helplessly at Harry’s appalled expression. Great. Now he’d dared sully the Radcliffe name. He’d be lucky if the old family retainer didn’t walk out on him. “Your assistant don’t know what he’s talking ‘bout,” Harry bristled. “The Radcliffes were an honorable and upstanding family. Mind you, they had their black sheep, same as any family. But no one who’d pull the kind of trick you’re suggesting.” “I wasn’t suggesting it,” Bret protested. “Tell me what happened. What became of the gold after Barton died?” The older man relaxed. “No one knows for sure. The Raiders rode back here with their wounded and the gold loaded in a pair of wagons. No one followed ‘cause there was just a couple guards on the warehouse where the gold was stored. They put up a fight, ‘a course, but they was outnumbered. It was one of them shot Barton.” He paused. “That smart assistant of yours tell you anything about what Bonnie Doon was like during the war?” “No.” “Well,” Harry went on. “They’d set up a field hospital here, using the slave quarters.” He gestured to the low stone buildings just visible beyond the hedges at the garden’s edge. “They were mostly empty by then. See, Radcliffe had already freed his slaves. Lots of ‘em stayed on for a while, they didn’t have nowhere else to go. But by October of ‘64, only a few house servants and some of the old folks were left. I b’lieve it was James that volunteered the property for the hospital. The real sick boys stayed in the city to be looked after. When they got well enough they didn’t need constant care, some came out here to free up beds for more serious cases.”

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“The hospital was here while the family occupied the house?” Bret asked. “Sure. The Radcliffes were glad to help the cause. They didn’t have anywhere to go, anyway.” Bret nodded his understanding. Charleston had still been under siege and bombardment, and by fall of 1864, Sherman had already started sweeping northward through Georgia. Even the tiny islands off the coast were prey to foraging parties from the blockading Union fleet. No wonder the Radcliffes decided to remain where they were. “The ladies of the house helped with the nursing,” Harry continued. “Still, quite a few boys died. Infections, pneumonia, and so forth. The family separated off a section of land next to the slave cemetery to bury the dead, with a wall to divide the two. Eventually that little cemetery had more bodies in it than the slaves’ half, those as couldn’t be shipped home to their families. And, legend has it, that’s where James Radcliffe buried the gold.” “With the bodies of the dead soldiers?” Bret was skeptical. Surely someone would have considered that and uncovered the treasure by now, if it were there. Another possibility struck him. “Where was Andrew Barton buried?” “On the Barton plantation, of course.” Harry nodded. “Yeah, that seems like the logical place to me, too, but somebody’s already had a look and it’s not there.” “Not in Barton’s grave?” “Nope. Remember I said the house burned down last year?” “Yes.” “Well, the family cemetery was quite a ways from the house. Sometime around the night of the fire, someone dug up Andrew Barton’s grave.” A tiny chill prickled the back of Bret’s neck. He wasn’t especially squeamish, but the cold-blooded ghoulishness of the act bothered him more than he wanted to admit. The fact that he knew Barton’s story made it all the more unpleasant, like digging up a family friend. It was more in Carla’s line, archaeology and art history, but he suspected even his pragmatic fiancée would balk at this. “Do the police think the fire was set by a treasure hunter?” “Police,” Harry snorted in disgust. “The sheriff said the fire was accidental. A smoldering cigarette left between the sofa cushions, he said.” “What about the grave?” Bret persisted. “Doesn’t the sheriff suspect some connection?” “Naw. Said it was probably kids playing a prank. Couldn’t prove it even happened at the same time as the fire. No one discovered it until a few days afterward, what with all the excitement around the house and the owners in the hospital.” “Was the house still owned by the Barton family?” “Nope. They sold it off to some folks from California who turned the place into a bed-and-breakfast. Just lucky there weren’t any guests in the house when it burned

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down.” Harry rose and collected his dishes. “Well, I have some work to do on the furnace before I call it a day.” He glanced anxiously toward the kitchen door and then at the dishes in his hand. “Uh, would you mind taking these in for me, Professor? If you’re going that way?” Bret grinned. “No problem.” He took the glass and plate. “Don’t work too late. I don’t expect you to be on call twenty-four hours a day.” He’d started back toward the house when a thought struck him. He turned back to the older man. “Harry, one question.” “What’s that, Professor?” “How do you know so much? About the family history, I mean. I know you’ve worked here a long time, but the details, dates and such. That’s a lot to pick up offhand.” Harry’s face reddened. Bret wouldn’t have thought it possible if he hadn’t seen it. “Aw, hell, Professor. I was afraid you’d ask sooner or later.” He looked sheepish. “Old Mr. Radcliffe decided to try and pay off some debts by opening the house to tours. He decided I’d be the best one to lead ‘em. He sure as hell wasn’t about to do it.” Harry cringed. “I had to memorize every fact and figure about Bonnie Doon and spit ‘em out to the school kids and tourists three or four times a day, four days a week. Wore a costume and everything. It was hell, Professor, but I guess some of it stuck.” Bret stifled a smile at the idea of Bonnie Doon’s crusty caretaker as a costumed docent, shepherding children around the plantation. “Well, I appreciate the information, Harry,” he said simply, trying not to play on the older man’s obvious discomfort. “It may come in handy when we get going in the library.” “No problem, Professor. Glad to help.” Harry scuffed the ground with his toe. “Almost makes the experience worthwhile.” He gave a quick nod, then cut a wide path around the yard to the cellar entrance, where he disappeared down the concrete stairwell. Grinning, Bret watched him go, then walked back to the house. In the kitchen, Yolanda was setting the table for supper. “Sit down, Professor—I mean, Bret. I have a chicken pie ready to come out of the oven and I’ve made a salad. That should hold you ‘til tomorrow.” She bustled about the kitchen, setting biscuits and jam on the table, along with a fragrantly steaming casserole and a large green salad. Bret sat, suddenly realizing how hungry he was. “Yolanda, tomorrow’s Sunday. You don’t have to come in.” “Nonsense. I’ve just started getting the house in shape after so long. There’s still a lot to do.” She smiled broadly. “Don’t worry, I don’t intend to work every Sunday. Just until we’re all settled. Once I get you started on supper, I’ll go home. Leave your dishes in the sink and I’ll take care of them in the morning.” She placed two large, golden biscuits on his plate. “Now butter those before they get cold.” Bret did as he was told. 57

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“There’s sweet potato pie for dessert. It’s wrapped in tin foil at the back of the stove.” She removed her apron and folded it neatly. “If that’ll be all, I’ll say goodnight. I’ll be in tomorrow. After church, of course.” Bret bowed to the inevitable. “Have a good evening, Yolanda. I’ll see you tomorrow, then. And thank you for supper. It’s delicious.” “You’re welcome. It’s nice to be back here again and have someone to look after.” She smiled warmly and gathered her belongings. “Oh, I almost forgot my special remedy for insomnia. There’s a Mason jar in the refrigerator. An hour before you’re ready to go to bed, measure out one cup and heat it on the stove just ‘til it bubbles. Let it cool a little, then drink it up. You’ll be asleep before your head hits the pillow.” “I think I would be anyway,” Bret replied. “But I’ll give it a try.” He wondered if her concoction had any power to keep amorous ghosts at bay. A shadow flitted across Yolanda’s face. “Don’t worry about her,” she seemed to read his thoughts. “She means well.” Yolanda turned abruptly and with a hastily murmured “goodbye”, slipped out the door, leaving Bret to stare after her. “I like her. I’m glad she’s back.” Bret jumped, dropping a forkful of salad in his lap. Jessamyn glanced up from the seat next to him, the primness of her folded hands on the table in sharp contrast to the curve of breast bared by her deeply cut gown. If anything, the comparison between her demure posture and her effortless sensuality made her even more desirable. “Umm. Chicken pie. That looks so good.” She licked her lips daintily, then reached into his lap to retrieve the wayward piece of lettuce. Bret gasped as her fingers just brushed the front of his jeans and he felt himself immediately stiffen in response. “Yolanda always seemed to be such a good cook,” she said. “I watched her grandma teach her.” She set the lettuce on his plate and her eyes met his. “Eating is one of the things I miss the most.” Bret tore his gaze from her moist, inviting mouth and concentrated on dabbing at the salad dressing stain on his shirt front. “She is a good cook.” He laid the fork beside his plate, anxious to change the subject. “But I’d have thought, since you don’t have to eat, food wouldn’t have any appeal for you.” “Oh, but it does,” she replied. This wasn’t the direction she’d hoped to take their conversation, but at least he hadn’t told her to leave. Or scolded her for touching him. She’d felt him harden when her fingers “accidentally” brushed his crotch and knew she was right. He still wanted her, no matter what he’d said in the garden. The realization sent a thrill of heat racing through her. She felt her nipples harden against the fine muslin of her chemise. How she longed to feel Bret’s hands on her breasts, his tongue teasing, mouth suckling the erect buds. She looked up, her face hot. Bret was watching her, waiting for her to continue. With an effort, she forced herself back to the subject at hand. She’d given her word,

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after all. “I can smell and taste,” she said. “Everything is just as appetizing as when I was alive. I just don’t get hungry.” At least not for food, she thought, chagrined. “I don’t understand,” Bret said. “If you can smell and taste, why can’t you eat?” Jessamyn wrinkled her nose in genteel distaste. This conversation really was going downhill. “It’s not a very delicate topic for discussion.” She picked her words carefully. “But the fact is, I don’t have any place for the food to go.” Bret looked puzzled. “I don’t get it,” he admitted. “What happens if you eat something?” Jessamyn gave an exasperated sigh. “If you must have the graphic details, I can put food in my mouth and chew it up, but I can’t digest it, so it just goes…nowhere.” She glanced down at herself, embarrassed. She waited a long moment, while Bret sat quiet. He’s disgusted, Jessamyn thought. I knew I shouldn’t have mentioned such things. She fought the urge to make herself invisible and slip silently away, but something in Bret’s eyes held her. He stared at her over his cooling supper. He finally broke the silence. “May I ask you something? Something personal?” Jessamyn nodded nervously. Whatever he wanted to know, she’d tell him. Anything to win him over. He leaned toward her, capturing her in the amber depths of his gaze. “You’re so alive. I can see and hear you, talk to you. You can touch. How is that?” His dark eyes met hers, questioning yet untinged by horror or disgust. “Why are you like this?” If ever Jessamyn had doubted that Bret was the man of her prophecy, she doubted no longer. She had looked into those eyes before, in another century, another lifetime. Did he feel it, too? she wondered. With an effort, she looked away and stared down at her hands, now folded in her lap. They were smooth and pale as the bisque porcelain dresser set her mother had once owned. And, in their own way, as cold and artificial. As dead. What would he do when he knew their shared past? Run from her in revulsion? “I don’t know why I’m like this, Bret,” she said softly. She met his gaze once more. “I suppose I should start at the beginning. I can tell you how I got this way and what the rules seem to be, but I can’t tell you why because I just don’t know.” “I want to know more about you.” Bret reached toward her, as if to offer a gentle touch of encouragement, but hesitated at the last second and let his hand drop to the table. The gesture almost seemed natural. Jessamyn pretended not to notice and hid her disappointment. He was still fighting her. Perhaps by telling him the whole story, she could win him over, make him understand what he meant to her. “It was my birthday,” she began slowly. “Everyone was there, even the ones who said it wasn’t right to have a party, what with the city under attack and so many of our boys dying, including my own fiancé a few weeks earlier. But I was so tired of hearing

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about war, war, war, all the time. We weren’t in the city, we were safe here. So I insisted on a ball, and since it was my eighteenth birthday, Mama and Papa couldn’t refuse.” I was so young and foolish, she thought. She stole a glance at Bret’s face. Would he think her horribly selfish? But his expression mirrored only concern and understanding. He didn’t hate her. Encouraged, she let her thoughts drift, back so long ago to the day of her eighteenth birthday.

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Chapter Nine Temmy, Jessamyn’s ex-slave, maid and best friend, met her in the garden just after breakfast. They’d been together ten years now, Temmy, whose full name was Clytemnestra, having been presented to Jessamyn as a gift on her eighth birthday. “Every lady of good breeding needs her own maid,” Mother had said, nudging the shy black girl forward. “She’ll learn to dress you and do your hair and when you marry, she’ll go with you to your husband’s home.” To eight-year-old Jessamyn, the idea of leaving home for any boy was too remote to consider, but having someone her own age to talk to had a definite appeal. She’d stumbled over her new maid’s name and the girl, wary enough to stifle a giggle, had suggested Jessamyn call her Temmy. Thus she’d been ever since. “You still want to go see her?” Temmy had whispered nervously that morning in the garden. Age hadn’t tempered her caution. “Of course, silly,” Jessamyn laughed. “I’m not scared of a little old lady, even if she can read fortunes. Anyways, all the girls say they’ve done it. Marybelle Clemmens says she told her who she’d marry.” Temmy’s brows drew downward in a vee that crinkled her coffee-colored forehead. “My mama says Granny Antigone has the Sight powerful strong. She says not to take her lightly or you’ll be sorry.” Jessamyn pursed her lips. “Your mama’s a worrywart. What’s Granny Antigone going to do? Curse me? I just want my fortune told, that’s all. And I’m not afraid,” she added, lifting her chin defiantly. Temmy’s frown faded into a look of resignation. She knew her mistress too well to expect to change her mind. “Well, she probably knows we’re coming, so we might as well get started.” Jessamyn hesitated a moment, a little surprised at having won so easily. Temmy had been against the idea from the first and Jessamyn had half-hoped to be talked out of it. Now there was no way to back out gracefully. She was trapped. Taking Temmy’s hand, she drew up her courage and the two of the started off across the grounds toward the slave quarters. In deference to her age, as well as her alleged powers, Granny Antigone had a small cabin to herself at the far end of the dirt road. Jessamyn found herself walking more slowly the closer they got, tension knotting at the back of her throat. Temmy, just as reluctant, made no effort to hurry her along. Soon they had come to a halt a few yards from the small, wooden cabin with its bluepainted shutters. They looked at each other. Temmy gulped hard and Jessamyn knew her maid’s mouth was a dry as her own. This was ridiculous, she thought. She was the mistress here. She had nothing to be afraid of. Gathering her resolve, and tightening her grip on Temmy’s hand, she stepped boldly forward.

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The door opened as they reached the front stoop. The girls pulled up short and stared. Jessamyn willed herself not to run. “Missy Jessamyn, Clytemnestra, come in,” the ancient voice, like dead, rustling leaves, sounded from the darkness beyond the doorway. Jessamyn’s frightened gaze met Temmy’s wide dark eyes briefly, then, as one, they stepped onto the porch and Jessamyn took the lead through the door. The tiny cabin’s single room was as hot as it was dark, but its odor, contrary to Jessamyn’s expectations, was strangely fragrant. Drying herbs and wildflowers hung, blossoms down, from the rafters. Shelves full of boxes and jars lined the walls. Jessamyn squinted through the dim light to try and make out the contents of the glass jars, but a few glimpses convinced her she’d be happier not knowing what they contained. A small table, two chairs and a narrow cot completed the room’s furnishings. The cot was occupied. The wizened black woman lying in it laughed, a sound like a rusty gate creaking, and waved Jessamyn closer. She patted the nearer of the two chairs. “Here, Missy. Sit by old Granny. Tell her what you want to know.” Jessamyn shot a quick glance over her shoulder to Temmy, who nodded encouragement. She stepped forward slowly, not releasing her maid’s hand and so drawing Temmy toward the old woman as well. She lowered herself gingerly onto the chair nearest the bed and, by force of habit, arranged her skirts about her. The ordinary gesture brought a sense of normalcy to the situation and she felt calmer. She raised her head and met the old woman’s gaze boldly. The wrinkled, gray-brown face split in a toothless grin. “There,” she rasped, “not so afraid now, are we, Missy? Good. So what brings you to Granny Antigone?” “I want to know…” Jessamyn started, but her cottony mouth couldn’t form the words. She swallowed hard and tried again. “I want to know who I’ll marry,” she squeaked out in a rush. Granny Antigone stared at Jessamyn’s face and her black eyes, piercing and birdlike a second earlier, seemed to cloud over. “Your birthday ball is tonight,” she said. “You’ll see your true love there.” She blinked rapidly and looked at Jessamyn, her eyes bright once more. Jessamyn watched the old woman closely, waiting. Was that it? Surely she hadn’t put herself through this fright, to say nothing of what Father would do if he found out, just to hear that she’d see her true love. Everyone she knew would be there, so it made sense that the man she’d marry would be among the guests. “Well, who is he?” she asked. The old woman just shook her head. Jessamyn scowled and glanced over her shoulder at Temmy, “That’s it?” she asked the girl, “that’s all? Why, I practically knew that much when I came here. And your folks actually believe this old woman has the Sight?” Temmy tugged at her arm. “I think we should go now, Missy Jessamyn. She’s told you all she can.” “I don’t think so, Temmy.” Jessamyn turned back to the ancient woman. “Shame on you,” she said haughtily, “taking advantage of these people. Why, I’ll bet you no more have the Sight

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than I do.” She rose quickly, upsetting the chair as she did so. “Come on, Temmy. We’re going home.” She swung toward the door. A low moan from the cot stopped her in her tracks and she turned slowly, gripping Temmy’s arm. The old woman moaned again. Concerned, Jessamyn moved toward her. She’d upset the old lady, she thought with genuine regret. Now the old charlatan was having some kind of a fit. “Go for help, Temmy,” she told her friend. “Get her daughter, if you can.” Temmy nodded and dashed out the door. Jessamyn looked around the room. The table held a pitcher of rusty-looking water and a tin cup. Jessamyn filled the cup and knelt by the cot. She gripped the woman’s bony shoulder and held the cup to her lips. “Here, drink this. It’ll help.” Granny Antigone reached up and clutched her wrist with a steely grip that made Jessamyn gasp with surprise and discomfort. She looked down into the now-cloudy eyes. The old woman whispered hoarsely. Jessamyn leaned forward to hear. “Gone away young, but never gone,” Granny Antigone gasped. “Love never known but passion strong. Two spirits freed and two spirits won. Then is the wanderer’s journey done.” She collapsed back against the thin mattress, limp and frail once again. Temmy and another woman, Antigone’s daughter, entered the cabin. The woman rushed to her mother’s bedside, studied her briefly, then sighed with relief. She turned to Jessamyn who had moved aside to make room. “Thank you for sending for me, Missy Jessamyn,” she said, her black eyes calm as they met Jessamyn’s worried gaze. “She’s just had a spell, but she’ll be fine enough real soon.” “Does this happen often?” Jessamyn asked. “Shall I send for a doctor?” Granny Antigone’s daughter shook her head and smiled. “Oh no, Missy. This always happens when she has a prophecy. She just needs to rest now.” Jessamyn backed toward the door. A prophecy? Was that what the verse was? But what did it mean? The room felt suddenly stifling. “We have to go, Temmy. Please let me know if there’s anything she needs,” she instructed Antigone’s daughter. She tried not to rush out the door. The rest of the day, spent in preparation for her party, helped lift the confusion Jessamyn had felt since that morning’s adventure. She’d told Temmy about the verse, but her maid could shed no light on its meaning. Temmy was sure, however, that the old woman had somehow foretold Jessamyn’s future. At last, the time for the ball arrived. Jessamyn’s portrait had been unveiled and hung over the mantel in the parlor. Her own grand entrance was planned for when the guests had all arrived. She waited, coifed and gowned in her white ballgown made from the last of the blockaderunner’s silk and lace and trimmed with blue ribbon scavenged from an old dress of her Mother’s. After what seemed like hours, Temmy came to tell her the guests were assembled. “Has James returned?” she asked. Only her older brother’s absence cast a shadow on her excitement. His activities with the Raiders were important, but surely he wouldn’t miss her birthday. Temmy shook her head. “I haven’t seen him.” She straightened the folds of Jessamyn’s full skirt. “We can’t wait any longer, though. Everyone’s ready.” She helped Jessamyn out into the hall.

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Jessamyn crossed the balcony slowly, feeling every eye on her, and paused at the head of the stairs to make as dramatic an impression as possible. She smiled down at the assemblage, nodding to close friends among the group. Her father, his expression surprisingly grim, stood at the foot of the staircase. A man stood next to him, someone she didn’t recognize. He wasn’t a guest, she realized. He wasn’t dressed for her party, but wore a dusty traveling coat and mud-stained boots. “Papa…” she began, intending to ask who the stranger was. The stranger looked up at her. He was dark, handsome and…familiar. His gaze met hers across the distance between them and held her suspended in time, bringing a flush to her cheeks and a strange tingle low in her belly. She had never seen his face before. And yet she knew just as surely that she’d always known him. Not his face, perhaps, but the weight of his stare, the warm concern of his expression. A knot of flame seemed to melt within her, sending heat coursing through her veins. He was the one. Granny Antigone had been right. She started down the stairs toward the stranger, toward the man foretold to her. At the fourth step from the top, she stumbled. Something about the step felt wrong. She kicked outward for balance and her foot tangled in the ruffled hem of gown. Momentum carried her forward and down. She had time to voice a single shriek of fear before her head struck the step. The last thing she saw before closing her eyes on a world turned upside down was the anguished face of the man she’d recognized as her true love. Jessamyn met Bret’s stare, grimacing at the fresh memories. His expression was unreadable. She went on. “My head hurt terribly. I seemed to fall for so long. Then I hit the bottom and something snapped. My neck, I think. “Suddenly the pain was gone and I couldn’t see the people gathering around me anymore. I was somewhere else. Fog surrounded me and it was dark, but up ahead, a bright light cut through the mist. I wanted to go there. I had to, the light drew me toward it. I heard my brother James calling me. He was crying and telling me he was sorry, that it was all his fault.” She paused and looked at Bret. “It wasn’t. I’d stumbled, then tripped on this stupid dress. I needed to tell him that. I turned back to look for him. Suddenly, I didn’t want to go to the light. I wanted to go back to my family. It was so hard to pull away, like walking into a hurricane, but I kept going. Then I was back in the ballroom, lying on the floor. But no one else was around. “I was afraid. I got up and walked through the house. My parents were there. They were grieving. I tried to tell them I was back, that I was fine, but I couldn’t make them hear me.” Her voice broke with remembered fear and hurt. “James was gone. I never saw him again.” She brushed her cheek with the back of her hand, her gentle sobs yielding no tears. Bret’s face reflected her pain. “I wandered the house for a little while,” Jessamyn continued. “Then I became very tired and weak. I went to my room and fell asleep in my own bed. I’m sure I napped only a few hours, but when I woke up, everything had changed. My parents were dead. My younger brother and his family lived in the house, and they were all much older.”

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“Older?” Bret asked, his gaze searching hers. “Time had passed while you slept.” Jessamyn nodded. “Years,” she said. “That nap was what you might think of as recharging, although I didn’t realize it myself until it happened a few more times. Being visible,” she raised a pale hand in emphasis, “making noise, moving things, all require me to use energy. So between times, I have to rest. At first the naps were long. Years passed as I slept. I was so weak and I tired easily. But as time went on, I could go longer and longer between rests, and less time passed while I slept. Now a short rest a couple times a week is all I need, and the time passage is nearly normal.” “And that’s where you are when you aren’t around the house.” Bret’s tone made it more a statement than a question. “Yes. Do you mean you can tell when I’m not here?” Jessamyn asked, incredulous. She knew she hadn’t misjudged him. Over the years she’d discovered that only certain types of people could see her. Bret had been right to call it sensitivity, but imagination or creativity described the quality as well. Children, for instance, could almost always see her if she wanted them to, while some adults never could no matter how she wished it. She had become quite adept at spotting the sensitive ones who came to Bonnie Doon. And at staying out of their way. But Bret was special, to be able to sense her absence as well as her presence. The thought elated her. “It’s just a feeling I have, when you’re not around.” Bret frowned, trying to explain. “The house seems—emptier, somehow.” He looked away, out toward the deepening twilight. “I’m not sure why I can smell and taste and touch. Perhaps it’s because such strong memories are associated with those senses.” Bret turned toward her again and nodded. “Possibly. All your senses function, even though your body processes don’t, or can’t.” He looked puzzled. “Or aren’t there, I guess.” He shook his head, apologetic. Jessamyn laughed. “‘Aren’t there’ is pretty much accurate, I suppose. Why, do you think?” Bret shrugged. “Maybe because the senses are all nervous system functions. If your consciousness is alive, maybe it’s natural for your emotions, your senses, all your brain functions, to be alive as well. Maybe your consciousness is the source of your energy.” “Well, that’s as reasonable as anything I’ve come up with,” Jessamyn said. Bret chuckled suddenly. “Remember our talk in the garden? You blushed and I wondered how you did it.” Jessamyn flushed again at the memory and pressed a hand to her cheek selfconsciously. They had argued, but she had never felt so alive. Bret was grinning when she looked up. “Just like that,” he said, pointing to her pink cheeks. “Sympathetic nervous system. I knew it!”

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Jessamyn covered her face with both hands and giggled. “I’ll take your word for it. Now what else do you want to know?” “Can you go anyplace on the plantation?” “No,” Jessamyn said, “Only the house, the formal garden, and the stone path around the lawn. I can’t even go into the yard itself.” “What happens if you try?” “It’s like walking into a wall. I simply can’t go any farther.” Bret nodded. “Okay, how about this? If someone who can’t see you falls on the stairs, can you catch them?” “Oh yes. It’s the same as moving any other object. They won’t see me, but they’ll feel me. They’ll usually feel the cold, too.” “What exactly is that cold business?” Bret asked. “Harry apparently can’t see you.” Jessamyn nodded confirmation. “But he felt the cold spots around the house,” he continued. “That was you, right?” “Yes. I seem to pull energy from the air around me. It leaves a cold pocket surrounding me that most people can feel.” “But when you touched me your hand was warm.” Jessamyn nodded. “I have to concentrate energy to be touchable, so I feel warm.” “It’s incredible,” Bret said. “It’s so logical, but it never would have occurred to me.” He paused, thoughtful. “Jessamyn, why did your brother think he caused your death?” She shrugged. “I don’t know. He and one of the servants did some work on the stairs a few days before the ball. Some of the treads were loose and long overdue for repair.” She gave an ironic laugh. “We couldn’t have guests tripping on them, now could we?” Bret’s smile of reply was gentle and tinged with an expression she couldn’t define. Pity? Please no. Pity was the last thing she wanted from this man. She went on, her memories of the days before her death as fresh in her mind as they’d never been before. “It was a busy time. So many of the hands had gone after Papa freed them, so we all helped out. James had insisted we set up a sort of hospital, since the quarters weren’t being used, and I helped Mama there.” She sighed remembering the young men, so like her brothers, whom they had nursed over the long months until the end of the war. They had always been so brave and cheerful, those boys, despite the pain that must have been horrendous. She and her Mother could do so little for them, except keep them clean and fed and send for the doctor when one took a turn for the worse. Only those with a chance for recovery came to Bonnie Doon. She thought again how dreadful conditions must have been for them in the battlefield hospitals and the makeshift surgeries set up in the cities. Many nights she’d awakened from terrible dreams she couldn’t quite recall except for vague impressions of blood and death and screaming soldiers.

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“Jessamyn?” Bret’s voice brought her back to the present. “Are you all right?” “Yes.” She shook off the memories. “I was thinking about those days. It’s funny, but I haven’t remembered so much in a long time.” “You helped in the hospital?” Bret prompted. She nodded. “Changing bandages, feeding the men, reading to them and writing letters to their families. I was glad to help. They were all so much like the local boys I knew.” “Harry said most of the soldiers who came here were on the mend.” “Most of them,” Jessamyn agreed. “But we did have some serious cases that came here first. Usually the Raiders, after one of their outings.” “Raiders? Barton’s Raiders?” Bret asked. “You’ve heard of them?” “Harry told me. Your brother was one of them, he said.” “Yes, he was second-in-command to Andrew Barton.” She paused for a moment. The thought of Andrew Barton caused a sharp pang of sadness within her. She struggled to force the memories into place. “He was killed. Andrew, I mean. He was shot on a raid just a few weeks before my birthday. He and James had been so close. They grew up together. James was devastated.” She glanced at Bret. “I was, too. You see, Andrew and I had been engaged.” “I’m sorry,” Bret said softly. She looked up. “Oh no, I’m quite over him now. And even at the time, we were friends more than anything else. We were fond of each other, nothing more, but our marriage would have combined our properties, so our parents arranged it. I was far more worried about James. He acted so strangely.” “In what way?” Bret asked. “Did he tell you anything about the raid? About what was taken?” He had shoved his plate back and leaned forward on the table, his expression eager. Was it possible he’d thought of some explanation for her existence? Jessamyn wondered. Something tied to her brother’s activities? Could there be anything she hadn’t thought of herself? “The Raiders were very secretive about their activities,” she explained. “At first they wouldn’t tell us anything, to lessen the chance of discovery by the Federals. Before long, though, we all knew what was happening when every young man in the area disappeared at the same time. We just didn’t know in advance, so no one could let anything slip. They never told anyone what their targets were, though. They had a code of silence and none of the men even talked about it afterward. We’d all just hear the next day that the Yankee rail lines had been attacked, or a supply depot had burned down, or some such thing. I heard that the night Andrew was killed, a warehouse in the city had been attacked.” She shook her head and frowned slightly. “It really doesn’t

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make any sense, though. Why would the Raiders attack within the city? Charleston hadn’t fallen yet, so there were no Union facilities there.” “The warehouse belonged to a profiteer,” Bret replied. “Harry told me about it. Seems there’s quite a local legend about the gold that was stolen in the raid that killed Andrew Barton.” He related Harry’s tale. “I’m surprised you don’t know about it,” he said afterward. “I mean, how could they have kept such a large theft a secret?” Jessamyn shrugged. So there was a treasure, she thought. She’d heard nothing in the days following the raid to suggest that Barton’s Raiders had stolen such a large sum. In fact, James and his friends had been uncharacteristically reticent. She’d attributed their behavior to the loss of their commander and, thinking nothing more about it, had gotten caught up in the plans for her party. Oh, she’d mourned Andrew as well. She had cared for him as a friend, but knew his feelings ran deeper. When he proposed, her parents urged her to accept. With so many young men gone to war, and having no other suitors she liked as well, she accepted. Their time together was brief, but his desire for her and her curiosity about the pleasures of the flesh led them to explore one another physically. When their experimentation finally led to lovemaking during a twilight visit to the springhouse, she had been an apt and passionate student, reveling in the sensations he’d awakened in her and eager to experience more. She didn’t know if she would grow to love him, but consoled herself that least she’d enjoy the pleasures they could give one another. The ache of losing him faded with a speed that left her knowing she hadn’t truly loved him. His was not the first death of a close friend since the war began. She’d been far more worried about her brother. “James was so mysterious after that raid,” she told Bret. “We all thought it was just grief over losing Andrew. I saw them come home that night, watching from my bedroom window. They were all dressed in the dark clothing they wore for their outings. Their faces were covered. Andrew’s body was slung over the back of his horse. He was already dead when they arrived.” “Harry said the gold was in wagons.” “Yes, there were two wagons with the party. I thought it odd at the time. They usually wanted to travel fast, and wagons would slow them down considerably.” “But you didn’t see what was in them?” Bret asked. “No. Papa went out to meet them and saw me at the window. He made me go inside and draw the shade, so I never saw what happened after that.” “And how did your brother act after the raid?” Jessamyn considered the question a moment, before speaking. “He stayed away from the house for long periods of time. When he was home, he threw himself into chores that he normally took little interest in, like repairing the stairs. We all thought he was trying to forget about Andrew’s death, so no one questioned him about it. He stayed out at the hospital a lot. Of course, some of his men were patients, so that didn’t seem unusual. But he decided they needed a new well and he helped with the digging. 68

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That was strange. My brother was a soldier and a scholar, but not a laborer. He was never healthy enough. He’d been gone a couple days when I had my birthday party. “ She remembered watching through a child’s eyes her older brother’s struggle to train himself to ride and shoot and perform the activities of a Southern gentlemen. Sickly in his youth, James never developed the strength or stamina of other young men his age. Nevertheless, the leadership qualities that made him the beloved hero of his younger sister also attracted a loyal following of patriotic young gallants. The pain of his loss struck her anew. She rose and moved to the screen door where she stared silently out at the deepening night, toward the buildings that had housed the hospital. Behind her, she heard Bret push his chair back and felt his approach. From the corner of her eye, she caught the movement of his hand toward her shoulder and tensed instinctively for the shock of his touch. She felt nothing. His flesh-and-blood fingers passed effortlessly through the perfect image of her bare, white shoulder. She sensed his surprise, though he made no sound, and squeezed her eyes shut against the sting of imprisoned tears.

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Chapter Ten Bret stared at the hand that had passed unimpeded through Jessamyn’s shoulder. Somehow, he thought, it should look different. After all, his impulsive attempt at comfort had resulted in a brush with another plane of existence. He concentrated, trying to recapture the sensation. Warmth, definitely. Far warmer than the surrounding air. And something else, a quality he felt hard-pressed to describe. Almost a softness, like the caress of a gentle breeze. Jessamyn didn’t turn toward him. Had she felt his touch? He wanted to say something, but her rigid posture held him silent. He stared past her into the night. Something moved in the darkness, a shifting of shadow against shadow. A light flashed, winked out and flashed again. Bret watched unblinking as it moved, a small, white spot weaving in and out of the trees. He glanced at Jessamyn, noting that her gaze, too, followed the light. His voice came as a whisper, “What is it?” Jessamyn shook her blonde curls. “Harry talked about the Edisto Light?” He made the comment a question. Would she recognize another of her kind? “That’s no ghost, Bret.” Her blunt reply left no room for argument. Bret sprang for the door. “I’m going to find Harry, if he’s still here. We’ll see who’s out there.” Outside, darkness enveloped him like a cloak of blue-black velvet. He ran across the yard, half-crouching against the camouflage of low hedges that lined the back of the house from the kitchen to the cellar stairs. At the concrete steps, he dashed downward into richer blackness and felt for the rusty knob of the cellar door. The door swung inward and Bret blinked against the incandescent brightness of the cellar lights. Harry squatted near the base of an ancient-looking water heater. He glanced up, one graying eyebrow raised at Bret’s entrance. “Out in the woods, near the old slave quarters,” Bret rasped the words out. “A light.” Harry’s raised brow slowly sank to join its mate in a grim, scowling line, but the caretaker didn’t move. “Harry, you said there might be treasure hunters,” Bret fought to keep the impatience out of his voice. “I’m going to see who’s out there.” The older man’s expression changed to one of resignation. He rose and stretched. “We’ll need flashlights.” He dug through a series of workbench drawers, seemingly oblivious to Bret’s anxiety. He found two lights, casually tested them, and tossed one to Bret. “Okay, let’s go.”

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They climbed the stairs blind after the brightness of the cellar. At the top, the lawn spread out before them, almost brilliant in contrast. Bret glanced back toward the house to see Jessamyn still framed in the kitchen doorway. The ceiling light behind her cast its glow onto the lawn in a perfect rectangle, unaltered by her presence. He tore his gaze away and started across the grass after Harry. Ahead, in the distance, the moving spot of white shifted, turned and disappeared. Harry stopped. “It’s gone.” “I want to look anyway.” Bret urged him on. Harry sighed, but continued toward the outbuildings. “I don’t think there’s anything out here, Professor.” “You saw the light, didn’t you?” “Well, sure. I guess I did. But I might’ve imagined it. Strange things happen out here, you know, what with the moonlight and all. There’s swamp gas. Fog. I really don’t think we’ll find anything.” “It’s not too likely we imagined the same thing, Harry. By the way, are treasure hunters usually armed?” The caretaker hauled up short again, poised to consider the topic in depth. “Now that’s a good question, Professor. I can’t say as I rightly know. Maybe we better wait ‘til morning to look around out here.” Bret sighed with exasperation. Was it his imagination, or was Harry trying to keep him from investigating? The caretaker certainly appeared reluctant to see who or what was out here. Perhaps he was simply concerned for their safety. Bret thought it unlikely that they were any danger. He had to have a look. Bonnie Doon and its legacies were his to protect now. In any case, after Jessamyn, nothing would shock him. He thought of her standing perfectly visible in the lighted doorway, yet casting no shadow. Bret and Harry passed through the stand of trees that separated the disparate worlds of Bonnie Doon’s owners and its workers as clearly as if it had been a stone wall. Beyond the trees, the long, low rectangles of the slave quarters squatted, their whitewashed brick walls glowing silver in the starlight. Boarded casement windows set in pairs on either side of a decaying oak door reminded Bret unexpectedly of gaping eyeless sockets. He shook off a shudder while the hairs at the back of his neck prickled. Harry, more familiar with the grounds, took the lead, shining his flashlight across the fronts of the ranked cottages. Bret followed him around the side of the nearest building, past the crumbling masonry of the chimney and around the back where the window and door arrangement was repeated to provide the best possible ventilation during the sweltering summer months. And admit the damp, penetrating cold of the Lowcountry winter. They switched off the lights to allow their eyes to become accustomed to the darkness and walked down the rutted path that formed a parallel line with the column of buildings. Harry stopped and kicked idly at a pebble.

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“I ain’t heard nor seen anything out here, Professor.” He spit casually into the gravel. “You ready to head back up to the house?” Bret peered into the darkness. He’d never had good night vision. If someone was out here, they had almost no chance of finding him now. The buildings, trees and shrubs provided too many possible hiding places. Still, he hesitated. Something about the place gnawed at him. The sense of history, he guessed. Pain, injustice, servitude— slavery. He knew the harsh details of everyday life for the people who had lived and died here. But for the first time, he felt them as human beings rather than dry facts in his books. The sensation of their presence almost overwhelmed him. He jumped at the touch of a hand on his shoulder. “Professor, you ready to go in?” Harry’s voice held a note of concern. “No, I want to look around a bit more. Where was the field hospital, Harry?” The older man didn’t answer immediately. Bret turned to stare at him and Harry nodded toward a central building, structured on the same plan as the slave cottages but on a larger scale. “Kitchen. Used to be anyway,” he explained. “That’s where the surgery was. The patients stayed in the central cottages so they weren’t in direct view of the house.” He glanced back toward the mansion and confided, “Ladies, you know.” Bret smiled at the futility of any doctor’s attempt to isolate his patients from the tender but determined ministrations of Bonnie Doon’s mistresses. No doubt the officers kept a lookout for the ladies’ approach so they’d have time to make the soldiers decent for visits. He started toward the building and after a moment’s hesitation, Harry followed. The old kitchen appeared more substantial than the slave quarters had. At each end of the structure, brick chimneys broke the line of the corrugated tile roof. The windows here were larger, with double shutters that opened outward. Bret climbed the two wooden steps to the door carefully in case dry rot had weakened the bare planks. A shiny, chrome latch secured the door, held in place by the hasp of an open padlock. Bret turned to Harry who stood a few steps back eyeing the building as he would an unfamiliar, and possibly hostile, dog. “Is this place still used?” He fingered the new lock, then pulled it off the latch. “Just for storage, off and on.” Harry stepped forward reluctantly. “’Scuse me Professor, but you probably shouldn’t go in there.” At Bret’s questioning look, he shrugged. “Floor’s nearly rotted away. Ain’t safe. That’s why I’ve kep’ it locked.” Bret pushed the door open. “It’s not locked now, Harry.” He stepped through the low doorway into the darkness. The pale glow from the door faded just a few steps inside the building, as though absorbed by the peripheral blackness. The scents of rotting wood and decaying mortar mingled with undercurrents of other, more ominous aromas. Bret flicked on his flashlight and shined the beam around the single room. “Harry, come in here,” he called over his shoulder. 72

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For a moment, the glow from the door was blotted out. Harry entered the kitchen and walked to where Bret stood near the far corner. His expression was unreadable, his face in total shadow. Bret beamed the light against the wall then downward to illuminate a large, shapeless mass. He moved closer, kneeling to examine the tumbled bedroll, then he lifted his gaze to meet Harry’s. “No telling how long it’s been here.” The caretaker’s scowl had returned. “Probably belongs to some transient. Not unusual in these parts.” Bret stood up. “Well, it hasn’t been too long. The material isn’t mildewed or even dusty like the rest of this place.” He concentrated the light on another mound nearby— a neat bundle of fast food wrappers. “I think we’ve found the source of our light.” Harry snorted. “You don’t mean you think he was just here, do you? I bet nobody’s been out here for months.” “Well, whoever it was, he’s gone now.” Bret led the way outside, then glanced over his shoulder at Harry. “By the way, change that lock tomorrow.” He turned off the light and clenched his eyes to reaccustom them to the starlight, then looked around. A cool breeze had risen. Or maybe it had been there all along, but he only noticed it now in contrast with the stuffiness of the old kitchen. He felt no urgency to return to the house. The night was comfortable. The intruder, if there had been one, was gone at least for now. He started across the grass, not caring whether Harry followed or not. Bret could make out terrain features now, so used to the darkness had his eyes become. Ahead, a low square object jutted up from the ground. He glanced backward. Harry followed a few feet behind. He paused and Harry caught up, then sat down emphatically on the cinderblock cube and heaved a deep sigh. “I didn’t expect we’d go traipsing across the entire county in the dark, Professor. If you don’t mind, I’m just goin’ to catch a breath here.” “This would be the well, I expect.” Bret examined the blocky structure, pointedly ignoring Harry’s grumblings. The older man nodded. “Actually, it’s the housing for the pump and such, but the well’s down there. The Radcliffes called this the new well. They had it dug near the end of the War.” He capitalized the final word with his voice, leaving Bret in no doubt as to which war he meant. “It’s plenty deep,” Harry continued. “We’ve just updated the plumbing periodically over the years.” “You said they called it the new well. Is there an old well?” Bret asked. “Yep. That fussy wishing well near the back of the house used to be the main well for the plantation. Guess it dried up, and they just decided to keep it to look at.” He hopped to his feet. “Well, come on and I’ll show you the cemetery, long as we’re out here.”

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Bret hesitated. He hadn’t bargained on investigating the cemetery at night. Still, what did he have to fear? He’d already met a ghost, after all. He hurried to catch up with Harry. Beyond the living quarters lay the source of Bonnie Doon’s former wealth—the rich, moist fields where rice and cotton had flourished. Bret and Harry climbed a gently sloping knoll. At the top, a rusty iron gate marked the entrance to the slaves’ cemetery. Bret had seen the graveyard, briefly, on his first visit to Bonnie Doon with Mrs. Carruthers. The realtor had described the small, shady plot as picturesque and quaint. But to Bret, its placement on the knoll with its eternal view of the cotton fields seemed a cruel joke on a people who had found their freedom only in death. The gate opened at Harry’s touch with the requisite rusty whine, and they stepped inside the stone fence. A medley of small markers, stones, and crosses lay before them. Bret could make out names and dates, some worn and faded, others partly obscured by moss and the eroding effects of rain and sun. A low wall bisected the yard, erected to separate the soldier’s graves from those of the slaves. Harry had been right. Of marked graves at least, more appeared to belong to Bonnie Doon’s casualties than to slaves. Bret walked to the crest of the hill and stood a moment looking down at fields that had lain fallow for generations. To the east, a late moon was rising. Its light cast an eerie glow over the grassy squares below. Bret clenched his fists against the mingled torrent of anger and sadness that gripped him suddenly. He recognized the symptoms of frustration and anger at the waste and futility of a past he could study, but had no power to remedy. He’d had enough of history for one night. He turned to go. A large monument, on the slaves’ side of the cemetery, caught his eye. It stood alone against the fence, apart from the other slaves’ stones. Curiosity got the better of him and he stepped over to read it aloud. “‘Jeffrey Holt. In fond remembrance of our beloved teacher. November 2, 1864.’” “One of the Raiders.” Harry spoke behind him. “He was the tutor for the Radcliffe’s younger children and some of their neighbors’.” “Why is he buried on the slave side of the cemetery?” Surely, Bret thought, a slave couldn’t have been one of Barton’s Raiders. “He was colored. An octoroon, one-eighth black. His great-grandma was a slave who bought herself free. Jeffrey grew up with James Radcliffe and Andrew Barton. His father had been their tutor. They all went to the university together, then he returned here to teach, kinda following in his father’s footsteps.” “How did he die?” Bret asked. “Story is they found him hanging from a tree at the edge of the property.” “Suicide?” Harry shook his head. “Doesn’t sound like it, seeing as how they found him gagged with his hands tied behind his back.”

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And still they buried him as a slave, Bret thought, grieved at the injustice but not surprised by it. He knew that however fond the Radcliffes were of Jeffrey Holt, to them and, more importantly, to the society of the day, Holt was a black man, as long as he had a single drop of black blood. “Not much of a life expectancy for Barton’s Raiders,” Harry remarked. “Did they all die violently?” Bret asked. “Well, some of them eventually died in the war, but now that you mention it, a good number died around here. Mysteriously, you might say.” Bret glanced again at the monument. November 2nd. Holt had died just a few days after Jessamyn’s death. First Barton, then Jessamyn, then Jeffrey Holt. The family had seen more than its share of tragedy in those few weeks. A thought struck him. “Harry, was James Radcliffe home when Holt was killed?” Harry scratched his head and thought a moment. “Can’t rightly say. I know he left not long after Barton’s death. One of his younger sisters died a couple weeks after Barton and James disappeared shortly afterward. He didn’t keep in touch with the family. He may not have even known Holt was killed.” “Where do you suppose he went?” Bret asked. Harry shook his head. “Prob’ly went off and joined the army. Then got himself killed. That’s always been my guess.” The deaths of the other Raiders nagged at Bret. Maybe the library held some clues. Someone was bound to have mentioned it in some journal or other. He reminded himself to have Oliver watch for any references to them. Harry picked up a stick and ran it back and forth across the iron gate. The noise echoed jarringly through the slumbering graveyard. Bret turned away from the stone marker. “Well, let’s go in. There’s nothing out here.” “That’s what I been telling you,” Harry muttered and fell in behind Bret as they left the cemetery. Back at the house, Harry said goodnight and headed out to the caretaker’s cottage where he’d once more taken up residence now that the plantation was occupied. Although he told Bret to call if anything else odd happened, Bret knew the older man felt the evening’s search had been a wild goose chase. Feeling a little foolish, he walked through the downstairs checking windows and making sure the doors were locked securely. Maybe Harry was right and he had imagined the lights. Maybe Jessamyn and the whole atmosphere of Bonnie Doon were getting to him. But there was no sense taking chances. With Harry gone, the house felt strangely empty. Bret tried to feel Jessamyn’s presence, but she seemed to be nowhere around. She must be resting, “recharging” she had called it. He poured a glass of iced tea and started up the stairs to the library. Might

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as well take advantage of being alone, he thought, and start looking for the information on the Raiders’ deaths. At the fourth step from the top, he paused and bent to examine the stair in the light. He crouched a couple steps below and studied the riser. He had been wrong the night of his fall. The riser of the fourth step was the same height as those of the third and fifth steps. It was the tread that was different. He set his glass on the step above and measured the treads with his fingers. That was it—the tread of the fourth step was nearly a half-inch higher than those of the steps above and below it. He bent close to peer at the edge of the step. The stairs were different. The edge of the fourth was beveled and sanded like those above and below, but he could just make out a line that wasn’t present on the other steps. A seam. As though the tread was made of two boards rather than one. Why? Was this the step James Radcliffe had replaced? Bret glanced at his watch. Twelve-thirty. Too late to tear up the staircase tonight. He still wanted to check out the library before he called it a night. Tomorrow, then. The stair needed to be replaced anyway. Obviously it was still able to cause problems. After all, he’d tripped on it himself. He picked up his glass and continued up to the library where he grabbed a random armload of papers and books and settled into the oversized leather armchair. The papers were mostly a collection of dry household accounting documents, recipes, or “receipts” as they were called, and letters, mildly interesting, but none more than fifty years old. He sorted them and left notes for Oliver. The air in the library was stuffy and warm. Bret rose and walked across the room to open the window. He stood a moment, breathing the cool, fragrant air, and yawned unexpectedly. He rubbed his eyes. The earlier exercise had gotten to him. Returning to his chair, he scanned the next set of documents. His eyelids sagged. He blinked and reread the same line for the third time. It made no more sense than it had the first time. His mind wandered, back to the kitchen hospital and the old cemetery. Suddenly, he sensed Jessamyn’s presence and heard her voice in his ear. The warm tickle of her breath on his cheek surprised him. Everything about Jessamyn surprised him, he thought sleepily. He let his eyes close. When he opened them again and looked around, the room had changed. He knew he was in the library. The armchair felt the same beneath him, but the bookcases were different, somber and ornately carved of heavy rosewood in the Gothic style, rather than the more functional mahogany shelves with which he was familiar. A polished mahogany library table, richly decorated with scalloped brass edging and feet, had replaced the bulky office desk. Dense Oriental carpet covered the hardwood floor. The ledgers, papers and journals were gone. Sunshine gleamed through the library windows.

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He heard a noise in the hall. A petite black woman in a long dark dress trimmed in white bustled into the room. A white kerchief wound like a turban around her hair. She didn’t glance toward Bret as she dusted the shelves and tables. When she left the room, Bret rose and followed. The housemaid led the way down the stairs and continued into the parlor. Bret hardly recognized the room, densely furnished as it was in the elaborate rococo style of wavy-legged, marble-topped tables, richly carved, opulent sofas and heavily fringed and tasseled draperies. Apparently this room owed more to the influence of the ladies of the house than did the library. Here and there were familiar items, those he had recently removed from the attic and placed about the house. The thought struck him that the rococo pieces had been among the first sold by the previous owner of Bonnie Doon. Had Radcliffe intended to save the oldest and rarest for last, or had he equated heavy ornamentation with quality and thus sold what he thought were the more valuable pieces first? Bret took in the ceiling detail and the carved moldings and chair rails. He’d done a good job reproducing the effect in the current house, he thought, but it would have saved some work if he’d had this dream earlier. Of course, he was dreaming. He knew Bonnie Doon wasn’t furnished like this. And that maid was no one he knew. No doubt this was some kind of composite of all the books he’d read about the styles and decor of the period. Nice to see it laid out so clearly. He decided to just relax and let his subconscious take him where it would. He walked back through the entry past the staircase and halted as the front doors opened. A young man, tall, slender and good-looking in a pale, blond way, held the door for a hoop-skirted young woman laden with packages. Jessamyn. Bret started abruptly, his gasp audible to himself but apparently not to Jessamyn or the young man. He recovered and stepped closer. Neither paid the slightest attention to him. They laughed and talked, clearly in high spirits, but Bret heard nothing, only saw their lips moving. He studied the man. An older brother, he thought, judging from the man’s resemblance to Jessamyn. From the slim, slightly fragile look of him, he knew this must be James. Funny, Bret thought, that he should dream what the man looked like, never having seen even a portrait of him before. The scene before him shifted abruptly. He no longer stood in the entry, but in an upstairs bedroom. Jessamyn’s bedroom, painted soft periwinkle blue as he had painted it so recently. A large tester bed dominated the room, canopied and draped in lacy white fabric. A small table next to the bed held a single oil lamp that lit the dim room, assisted by a fire in the fireplace. He could feel the fire’s warmth from his place near the window. Outside, night had fallen. Something stirred in the bed. He turned and watched Jessamyn rise, sleepily, in a nightgown of thin muslin and lace. She moved past the foot of the bed, crossing in front of the fireplace, where she paused as though listening.

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The glow from the flames highlighted her body, bare under the filmy fabric. Bret could make out every detail—the perfect shape of her breasts, their rosy nipples straining against the fine material, her tiny waist flaring to the curve of full hips. Her legs were long for her height and at the vee where her thighs met, he could make out the golden patch of her mound highlighted by the flickering glow of the fire. He caught his breath as he imagined pulling the sheer fabric from her body and laying her back under the canopy. She’d open for him eagerly, he knew, and she’d be hot and wet for him. What would it be like to thrust deep into her, to feel her sweet pussy tightening around him, to hear her cry out in passion beneath him? He felt his cock strain against the front of his jeans in response to the vision his fantasy presented and knew that, right or wrong, he wanted her as much as she wanted him. Could he even touch her now? he wondered. If she put her hand on him, would it pass through him as if he were the ghost? She moved then, pulling a dressing gown from the foot of the bed to drape over her shoulders, and went to the window to look out. The spell broken, Bret stepped up behind her, pulse still pounding as he fought the urge to reach for her. He gazed past her to the scene outside. On the lawn below stood a party of men and horses. The men were darkly dressed with slouchy hats pulled down low over their faces. Bret felt Jessamyn start as she glimpsed her brother among them, gaunt and haggard looking in smoky torchlight. James Radcliffe held the reins of a nervous horse that pawed the ground and snorted at the unfamiliar dead weight of a body draped across its back. Andrew Barton, Bret thought—as Jessamyn had seen him—returned to Bonnie Doon, dead of a gunshot wound. This was more than a dream, he realized. He was reliving the events of Jessamyn’s last few weeks. But why? Suddenly, he was outside. Near the old kitchen, now the field hospital. The Raiders’ wounded were unloaded and carried into the building, along with several heavy wooden crates. Abruptly, he heard the sounds he knew surrounded him—the tense snorts and whinnies of horses and the jingle of their tack, shouts from the men, the cries of the wounded and moans of other patients roused from morphine-induced sleep into pain-filled awareness. The sounds drew him. He hesitated, his pulse racing, then stepped inside. The eerie glow of lamplight threw menacing shadows across the walls and sparse furnishings and turned the faces of the men inside into distorted, grimacing masks. The cries of the injured mingled with the terse orders of the surgeon. A middle-aged black man assisted one of the Raiders in holding down a companion while the doctor probed a gaping shoulder wound. Sweat streamed down their faces, despite the chill October air. The patient screamed and writhed in their grasp, then, mercifully, fainted. Bret turned away, his nostrils filled with the odors of carbolic and

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chloroform, warm blood and festering flesh. He fought to contain his rising nausea and wondered detachedly if the people around him would notice if he vomited. Probably just make a mess of the library. The thought helped him regain control. He stumbled, bumping into one of the low cots that lined the shadowed walls. Jolted awake, its occupant turned toward him groaning, his youthful eyes glazed with pain and opium and fear. He reached up and his bloody hand closed on Bret’s sleeve.

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Chapter Eleven Bret jerked sharply awake, drenched in sweat, his heart pounding. He was back in the library. Still in the library. He knew, as certainly as he knew his own name, that he had never left that room. But his gaze darted to the shirtsleeve that he expected to find stained with a young soldier’s blood. Nothing. And yet the dream—he didn’t know what else to call it—had been more real than any he’d ever experienced. More like a memory. But not his memory. Sunlight streamed in the open window and he rubbed his eyes. He really had to get out of the habit of falling asleep in here, he thought, and rose to stretch his stiffened back. From downstairs, the aromas of breakfast filtered up to him accompanied by the sound of voices. Voices raised in anger, or at least high emotion. He listened just long enough to recognize them as Yolanda and Harry. Well, whatever was going on between them was their business, he thought. He had enough to deal with. He made his way to the shower, hoping they’d settle their differences by the time he got downstairs. Somehow, he doubted it. Whatever the problem, it was long-standing. They were still at it when he started down the steps fifteen minutes later. He whistled loudly on his way to warn them of his approach. “I should never have come back.” Yolanda’s Caribbean lilt was more pronounced with her anger. “I wouldn’t have if I’d known you would still be here. I thought you would have moved on by now. You always said you would.” “Why did you come back?” Harry countered. “Not fond memories, I bet, the way you left so sudden.” He paused and his voice dropped so that Bret strained to hear, despite his intent not to eavesdrop. “I never did find out why you left, Yo.” For several seconds there was silence, then Yolanda spoke. “My mother was ill. I’m sure they told you that. If you bothered to ask.” “If I bothered to ask?” Harry’s voice rose once more. “Did you think I didn’t care? That I wouldn’t notice? Of course I asked. But I didn’t believe the old man. If it was just your mother’s health, you’d have told me yourself. Hell, I searched the whole county for you.” Bret stepped into the kitchen, and they both started abruptly, then turned away from each other. Harry grunted “Morning, Professor,” and slipped out the back door. 80

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Yolanda turned to the stove and began cracking eggs into a hot, oiled skillet. “How are you this morning, Bret?” she asked innocently. Bret caught the undercurrent of tension in her voice. “Fine, thanks. How are you?” As usual she appeared disinclined to offer any explanation. Another couple days and they’d be bickering right in front of him, he thought, just like he was one of the family. He groped for a safe topic of conversation. Family. That had to be uncontroversial. He’d like to know about Yolanda’s family. The usual exchange of morning pleasantries aside, he remarked casually, “You mentioned your family the other day. Do you have just the one son?” The housekeeper swung sharply to face him, her sherry-toned eyes wide. She stared at him for a second, her expression mingling shock and surprise. Then she seemed to relax and looked suddenly embarrassed at her reaction. “Why yes, just the one," she said. "His name is Joseph." She paused as if to catch her breath, then continued, “We share a house with my sister, May, and her family.” She turned away again, effectively closing the subject, and scooped the eggs onto a platter already heaped with fried ham. She set the platter on the table next to a bowl of grits and a pan of hot biscuits, added coffee and orange juice, and gestured for Bret to take a seat. He looked at the laden table, hunger and self-consciousness warring. “Yolanda, you didn’t have to go to all this trouble. Especially on Sunday.” “Nonsense, Sunday’s the day to have a big breakfast. Now dig in before it gets cold.” Bret did so, helping himself to a large scoop of grits that he daubed heavily with butter. He’d missed the Southern cornmeal dish during his sojourn north of the MasonDixon line. Several bites into the meal, he noticed Yolanda had stopped bustling about the kitchen. He felt the weight of her gaze and glanced up. She stared at him, her brows knitted in a worried expression. Bret shifted in his chair and dabbed his face with his napkin, suspecting he had some huge crumb of food stuck somewhere. Yolanda’s interest didn’t wane. “I’m sorry, would you like to join me?” Bret asked, sensing something was expected of him, but not sure just what. “My heavens, no.” She shook her head emphatically. “I’ve had my breakfast. Besides, it wouldn’t be proper.” “Oh. Well, if you’ve already eaten…” he trailed off and returned to his food. He glanced up again and caught her staring once more. She looked away quickly, her coffee-and-cream skin flushed. “Yolanda, what’s wrong?” Concerned, Bret laid down his fork and slid his chair back.

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“Were you up drinking again last night?” the housekeeper asked bluntly. “You don’t look so good this morning.” Bret drew himself upright in the chair and tried to look alert. “Yolanda, I wasn’t up drinking before. At least not intentionally.” He stopped, reluctant to say more. “You just look tired, is all, Professor.” Impulsively, she pulled out the chair across from him and sat down to gaze at him more closely, like a doctor looking for a telltale rash. “Has anything been bothering you?” “No. Nothing. I don’t know what you mean. I’ve just been staying up working too late is all.” The words came out in a rush that sounded unconvincing even to Bret. From Yolanda’s skeptical expression, she didn’t believe them either. She watched him in silence a moment longer, then took a deep breath. “I wondered because you asked me about the ghost, earlier.” “You never saw a ghost, you said.” She nodded. “That is true, I never saw her. But others who lived here when I worked at Bonnie Doon did see her.” She paused, then added, “I believe in her, Professor.” She waited, silent, as if expecting him to argue. When he didn’t, she went on. “The Radcliffes always considered her part of the family. She is a kind of family legacy, I suppose, and they felt they just had to live with her. I think most of them didn’t really believe either, since they never saw her.” “Who did see her?” Bret asked softly. “The children, most often. Sometimes guests. Sometimes they didn’t really see her, but they felt her presence, you understand. More than once during the time I worked here guests left suddenly, very frightened.” Bret nodded. “But you believe, even though you’ve never seen her?” Yolanda smiled. “Of course. I was brought up believing in spirits, so I have always had an open mind. I think it is comforting for people to believe in a life after death. And Miss Radcliffe is a good spirit, after all.” She paused and looked at him through narrowed eyes. “I talk to her sometimes, although she has never answered me. Maybe I’m glad about that, too, but it would be nice to know for sure. Have you seen her, Bret?” Bret looked away. He couldn’t deny Jessamyn’s existence. She became more real to him every day. But how could he admit that he carried on conversations with a ghost? This woman would think he was nuts. He’d probably lose his housekeeper. Harry, too, once he found out. The jangle of the front doorbell saved him. Grateful for the interruption, Bret jumped to his feet and dashed out of the kitchen with a murmured excuse, leaving Yolanda and his half-eaten breakfast at the table. He wondered briefly if he was destined to never finish a meal again.

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In the entry, he slowed down a moment to catch his breath before opening the door. The interruption only postponed the inevitable, of course, but it would give him a chance to think of a reply that wouldn’t leave Yolanda in doubt of his sanity. He swung the door open. Oliver stood on the porch, his boxy briefcase in one hand. “Good morning, Professor,” he said. “I’m sorry to interrupt your Sunday morning, but I’m afraid I didn’t know where else to go.” He lowered his gaze to his feet, clearly embarrassed. His voice came as a mumble. “I’ve lost my apartment. I’ve been evicted.” Bret stepped back and waved Oliver inside. “What happened?” “It’s my fault, really,” the younger man admitted. “I was behind a bit in my rent before you hired me. I’m afraid I wasn’t exactly accurate when I said I had been working in a clothing store. In fact, I was laid off a few weeks ago. I hoped my landlady would be understanding when I told her I’d found another job, but unfortunately she wasn’t.” Bret frowned. “Would it help if I advanced you your first paycheck? Perhaps she’d let you move back.” Yolanda had followed Bret out from the kitchen and stood quietly to one side, listening. Oliver shook his head. “I believe she already had a prospect for the room. In any case, I’d feel uncomfortable taking money for work I haven’t done.” “What do you plan to do?” Bret kept the question neutral. “I’ll contact my family and hope they’ll take me in temporarily.” His gaze dropped to the floor once again. “It won’t be too difficult.” Bret recognized the “hrumph” of response from Yolanda as an accurate imitation of Harry. He and Oliver looked at her in unison. “Why send him crawling back to his parents when this house has half a dozen bedrooms, and only one of ‘em occupied?” she asked. “Wouldn’t it be easier for him to do your library work if he stayed here?” Oliver’s gloom was transformed to an expression of unexpected hope, and he beamed gratefully at Yolanda. Bret glanced at the housekeeper who shifted uncomfortably, as though suddenly realizing the awkward position into which she had just placed Bret. He gave her a smile of reassurance. She was right. It was the perfect solution. Temporarily, of course. He’d make it clear to Oliver that he had to find another place to stay by the time Carla arrived in the fall. Perhaps by then his assistant would have a supplemental job as well, to make things easier. He nodded. “That’s probably the best idea for now. I certainly have room for guests. How much notice did your landlady give? Do you want to move your things over today?” Oliver looked even more embarrassed. “Um, actually, I have everything out in my car. My rental room came furnished. I don’t have much,” he explained quickly.

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“Well, that makes it easy, then,” Bret said. “Come on, I’ll help you bring it in.” “I’ll start getting a room ready,” Yolanda volunteered. She headed toward the staircase. “Wait.” Bret stopped her. “Not the blue bedroom, Yolanda.” The housekeeper’s expression, at first puzzled, faded to understanding. “Of course, Professor. That’s more of a lady’s room. I think the bedroom next to the library would be best.” “Convenient, too,” Bret added, absently, his mind on Jessamyn. No way could he take the risk of housing Oliver in Jessamyn’s old room. As it was, he’d have to speak to her about behaving while Oliver was in the house. Somehow, he doubted his assistant, and now housemate, would see the charm of living in a haunted house. Perhaps it was only the result of thinking about her, but Bret felt Jessamyn’s presence as he helped Oliver carry suitcases and boxes of textbooks up to the bedroom. He warned Oliver automatically to take care on the stairs, then remembered the discovery he’d made the night before. He couldn’t pull up the fourth step with Oliver in the house. Some inner sense warned him to involve as few people as possible in Jessamyn’s mystery. He’d have to do it when he was alone, maybe he could send Oliver out on an errand. The job wouldn’t take long. And Harry did some woodworking, he knew. Perhaps he’d be able to use one of the other treads as a model to match the thickness. Then, they might be able to “cure” the stair problem altogether.

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Chapter Twelve Between the two of them, he and Yolanda managed to install Oliver into his temporary home. Yolanda seemed to take an almost motherly interest in the young man and when she discovered he’d not yet eaten, though it was nearly noon, bustled him down to the kitchen for breakfast. Bret’s stomach rumbled enviously and he nearly followed them in hope of finishing the meal he’d barely started earlier. But the sensation of Jessamyn’s presence was too strong, as though she were calling to him. He had to see her. He went outside through the front door and walked around the house to the garden. “Jessamyn,” he stage-whispered, looking around nervously. No telling where Harry was, but Bret didn’t want to be overheard calling ghosts in the backyard. The air in front of him seemed to ripple and he felt a soft gust of chill breeze, then Jessamyn stood before him, her blonde hair falling about her face and over her bare shoulders in soft tendrils. His pulse quickened at the sight of her and he felt unaccountably breathless, fighting to urge to trace with his fingertip the path of one soft strand that tumbled past her collarbone to end in a curl atop her right breast. “I’m so glad you’re finally here,” she said, her voice low and soft. “I’ve been calling and calling. I’d have come to see you, but you’ve been with people all morning.” So that was why he’d felt her presence so strongly. “It’s been a busy morning,” he said. My God, she seemed so alive. So lovely. He recalled her image from his dream the night before, the firelight limning her body through the gauzy film of her nightgown. He so wanted to take her in his arms, but forced himself to concentrate on the task at hand. “You know we have a guest in the house?” She nodded. “I’ve been watching.” “Why were you calling?” Maybe she knew something about the intruder of the night before. “I wanted to find out what happened last night.” “We didn’t find anything.” He tried not to let his disappointment show. “But I did see something out there, I know it.” “I saw it, too, Bret. It wasn’t your imagination.” She looked up at him earnestly, her eyes bright azure in the sunlight. “I honestly don’t know what’s happening. I wish I could help.” “Harry showed me the old cemetery while we were out there. I saw the grave of your tutor, Jeffrey Holt.” He hesitated, then added, “Harry told me he was murdered.”

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A shadow of pain crossed Jessamyn’s face. “Yes. Just a couple days after I fell. I found out about it much later, of course, but it still made me sad. I was very fond of Jeffrey.” Bret smiled. “I thought you were engaged to Andrew Barton?” Her eyes widened in a look of open innocence. “Well, yes. But I liked Jeffrey, as well.” Bret shook his head. “You’re a fickle creature, Jessamyn Radcliffe.” Jessamyn’s gaze turned intense, her eyes darkening to sapphire. “Not anymore, Bret.” She glanced away quickly, her cheeks pink. Sudden warmth burned Bret’s face, rippled through his veins, igniting a fire deep within him. What the hell’s happening to me? He was acting like a school kid. He took advantage of the silence to change the subject. “About Oliver, my assistant. He’ll be staying for a while. He’s been evicted from his apartment. I’d appreciate it if you stay out of his way while he’s here. I don’t want to have to explain you to him. I don’t think he’d have an open mind on the subject.” “I’ll behave as befits a properly brought-up lady, Professor,” she said primly, then glanced at him from beneath lowered lashes. “As I always do, of course.” She glanced toward the house. “You’d better get back to your guest,” she said, then slowly faded from sight. Her departure left Bret with an odd mixture of relief and regret. He wanted her around, he realized. The admission disturbed him. He wanted to remain faithful to Carla, and yet Jessamyn was so tempting, so willing. He had to admit his curiosity was piqued, as well. What would it be like to bed a ghost? Would she feel like a real woman beneath him? What would she experience? He already sensed she could feel physical pleasure. Her obvious arousal in the shower had made that clear. He shook the image out of his head. For someone trying to remain faithful to a fiancée, he was spending way too much time thinking about Jessamyn. If only she’d been able to take his suggestion and leave. Now things were even more complicated. With Yolanda and Oliver in the house, how long would it be before someone found out about her? Not that he doubted that she’d avoid Oliver, but he couldn’t help feeling that Jessamyn might be unable to resist a little mischief. Especially with a target like his assistant in the house. He hoped Oliver would be able to keep some of his more inflammatory opinions to himself. Jessamyn had no opportunity to talk with Bret the rest of the day. Between Oliver and Harry, he was never alone. She settled for remaining close by, secure in the knowledge that Bret knew she was near. The next morning, she watched from the balcony as Bret left for work, then glided silently down the hall to the room now occupied by Oliver. The door stood slightly ajar

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to allow a cooling draft from the window. Jessamyn hesitated briefly, then peered inside. Oliver lay sprawled across the bed snoring loudly. At this hour, Jessamyn thought, noting that the clock on the mantel read nearly eight. How did he expect to get anything done if he slept half the day away? And in his employer’s house, too. She started into the room, determined to shake his lazy bones out of bed. Then she caught herself. She had given Bret her word not to bother Oliver. But what if he was taking advantage of Bret? she argued with herself. No, it was none of her affair. He was Bret’s employee, not hers. Besides, young people had different work habits these days. She couldn’t expect Oliver to rise with the sun like folks had done in her day. Why, even Bret slept in on weekends. She stepped back out of the room and pulled the door closed. She’d speak to Bret about it when he came home. Then he could deal with it as he saw fit. An hour later, Oliver padded down the hall to the bath. Another hour passed while he showered and shaved. Jessamyn was in the kitchen, watching Yolanda, when Oliver finally made his appearance at nearly eleven. He smiled disarmingly at Yolanda and asked brightly, “What’s for breakfast?” Yolanda shook her head in disbelief. “Does this establishment look like a diner to you? I don’t serve breakfast twenty-four hours a day.” Her tone was light but firm. “There’s leftover sausage, if you like, and you can make yourself some toast. Or there’s cereal in the pantry. Help yourself.” She walked out of the kitchen, shaking her head again and murmuring, “Breakfast, indeed. Here it’s nearly lunchtime.” Jessamyn stifled a laugh at Oliver’s stricken face. He apparently expected the same coddling from Yolanda he’d gotten yesterday. But the reason for Yolanda’s change in attitude was clear to Jessamyn, if not to Oliver. Yesterday he had been a refugee, today he was an employee. And expected to pull his own weight. Oliver sat stunned a moment longer, then rose with dignity and hunted up his own breakfast of cereal, toast, and the leftover sausage. After his second heaping bowl of cereal, Jessamyn began to wonder just how he stayed so slender. He finished quickly and placed his dishes in the sink. Then, after a brief hesitation, he drew a sink full of soapy water, washed and rinsed the dishes, and set them to dry in the drainer. Yolanda had made an impression, Jessamyn thought. She followed him back upstairs, keeping a discreet distance lest he feel her chill presence. He went into the library, and she positioned herself in the doorway to watch him study the crammed shelves, then select a box of papers and notebooks to carry to the desk. He examined the contents of the box, briefly scanning each document, labeling them with sticky notes, and recording dates, correspondents and a brief summary in his spiral-bound notebook. Then each item went into one of several neat piles on the top of the desk.

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An hour passed and the box was empty. Jessamyn stifled a yawn as Oliver went to the bookcases again, pulled down a heavy binder stuffed with papers and took it to the desk. He leisurely skimmed one item after another. Fighting lethargy, Jessamyn paced the floor. Boredom warred with frustration. Ordinarily, she’d take the opportunity for a brief rest, but she hesitated to let Oliver out of her sight. Bret seemed content to have him work unsupervised, but someone had to make sure he actually did work. Oliver Delacroix didn’t strike her as an especially industrious employee. Maybe if she read some of the letters, she thought, the time would pass more quickly. She moved across the room until she stood behind his chair. Oliver pulled a letter out of a brittle, yellowed envelope and carefully unfolded it. Jessamyn leaned closer to read over his shoulder. Oliver shivered abruptly and she jumped back. He looked around thoughtfully, then returned to the letter. Jessamyn kept her distance while he read, then watched him replace the letter gently in the envelope and lay it in his open briefcase. Over the next hour, other documents joined it in a small pile. She eased past Oliver to the other side of the briefcase and glanced across the open lid at him. He appeared oblivious to her presence, concentrating on the paper in his hand. Jessamyn looked down at the pile. The top letter was upside-down to her and written in a broad, sprawling hand, the ink faded with age. But the scrawl struck a chord of familiarity. She leaned closer. The brief note was signed at the bottom. James Radcliffe. A letter from her brother! She looked at the top of the page. The letter was dated November 15, shortly after her death and that of Jeffrey Holt. She couldn’t make out any more of the letter from her present angle, but moving to the other side of the case might reveal her presence to Oliver. A gasp of surprise from the young man caught her attention. She glanced up. He held another letter in his hand, then dropped it on the desk, his face oddly contorted. Jessamyn moved close to read it. The date was 1922 and it was written to a girl Jessamyn knew was a grandniece of hers, a descendant of her younger brother. The letter was a thank-you from a friend who had recently visited Bonnie Doon. Near the bottom, a paragraph caught her eye. “Perhaps next time, you might visit me here. Our house is new and not so prone to restless spirits as yours seems to be. I must admit to being quite startled by the sound of footsteps in my room at night.” The letter continued, but before Jessamyn could read further, Oliver picked up the sheet, folded it and tucked it into his jacket pocket. He closed the briefcase sharply on the other letters and turned the locks with a snap. He collected the multiple piles into an orderly heap, which he tucked under his arm. Then, grasping the briefcase, he dashed out of the room. Jessamyn followed, alarmed, and watched him descend the stairs.

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“Yolanda,” he called over his shoulder. “I’m going out. I’ll be back in a little while.” He darted out the front door and down the path to his car. Jessamyn watched from the front window as he sped away. For the next half-hour, Jessamyn paced the floor of the foyer frantically watching for his return. When Bret’s car pulled into the drive first, she was nearly beside herself with relief. He barely made it through the front door before she materialized in front of him, startling him badly. “Bret, that no-good sneak you hired has run off with your books and papers.” “What?” he said loudly, then lowered his voice in response to noises from the back of the house. “What are you talking about?” “I spent all morning watching that young man.” At a questioning glance from Bret, she quickly added, “Oh, I didn’t let him know, of course. I just watched. He bundled up a whole bunch of letters and notebooks and carried them right out the door, just as bold as you please.” Bret shook his head and smiled reassuringly. “I don’t think he was stealing anything. He was probably just taking things out to make copies.” “Copies?” She frowned. “You know, photocopies. On a machine?” Jessamyn’s puzzled expression cleared. “Oh, like Xerox. I’ve seen the commercials on television. It’s just amazing what people are able to do these days.” “Well, I’m sure that’s where Oliver took the papers. You’ll see when he gets back.” “Maybe you’re right, Bret. Still,” she continued, “he just seems shifty to me. I can’t quite put my finger on it.” Bret laughed. “Have you always been this suspicious and distrustful?” “Of his kind, yes, I guess I have.” An indignant crept into her voice. Bret was teasing her now. She’d never cared for being teased. “Oh, and what is ‘his kind’?” She stuck out her lower lip. “He reminds me of a lowlife New Orleans gambler my papa brought home for supper once. The man was ill-bred, is all. Oliver is just like him. Less oily, but just the same.” She ended with a curt nod. “I think you’re a bit of a snob, Jessamyn.” “What?” She gasped out the word. How dare he. Why she’d always been willing to help those less fortunate than herself, regardless of how low they were. She told him so. Bret shook with muffled laughter. “Regardless of how low, huh? I guess that attitude shouldn’t surprise me, coming from a flower of Southern aristocracy.” Jessamyn scowled at him. She didn’t have to stand here and take this abuse. She dematerialized abruptly, leaving Bret with a look of shocked surprise, and moved back upstairs to the library. There, she waited, hoping to hear him call her name. But he

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wouldn’t, she thought. Not with Yolanda in the other room. Then she heard his footsteps on the stairs. She turned her back as he walked into the room. “Jessamyn, I’m sorry. Really.” He moved closer. She stood beside the mahogany desk, one hand resting on its smooth surface. She tilted her head so she could just catch his movements out of the corner of her eye. He reached downward, as if to lay his hand on hers. She bit her lip and concentrated, focusing all the energy of her being into that small part of her. How she’d dreamed of it, the image of her hand in his, the warmth of his touch. She had to make that dream a reality. She felt her legs dematerialize. No matter, Bret couldn’t see them under her dress, anyway. But her hand had to be both visible and tangible, a feat that required a tremendous drain on her resources. His hand closed over hers. She felt the warmth and strength of his fingers. A shock like electric current tingled up her arm as heat suffused her ephemeral body. Behind her, she heard Bret’s sharp intake of breath at the touch of living flesh against his fingers. She turned her head to meet his questioning gaze and suddenly everything became clear. Love of this man, whoever he had been in 1864, had brought her back, not her brother’s call. Bret was the key to her past and to her future. “Gone away young but never gone, love never known but passion strong.” The old woman’s words rang in her head and Jessamyn knew, beyond all doubt, that the lines referred to her. On that sunny October morning Granny Antigone had prophesied her death.

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Chapter Thirteen The front door slammed and Jessamyn pulled her hand from Bret’s grasp. They turned toward the sound of running footsteps on the stairs, Bret with a grimace. Jessamyn dematerialized as Oliver burst into the room, his arms laden with books and papers. “Sorry I’ve been gone so long, Professor,” he gasped, his face flushed. “I went out to make some copies for you.” He piled the armload onto the desk, except for a cardboard stationery box, which he ceremoniously handed to Bret. “This is just what I’ve gotten through today,” he continued while Bret examined the contents. “All the originals are in there, too. I thought they’d be safer in the box.” Bret nodded absently, his thoughts preoccupied with Jessamyn. She was still in the library. He could feel her close. His hand still tingled from her touch. “Looks like a good day’s work,” he said, hoping he sounded less distracted than he felt. “Did you copy the journals, too? Some of them are in pretty bad shape. Photocopying might be rough on them.” “The ones I took weren’t very fragile-looking.” Oliver handed Bret a notebook. “I took notes from the others in here. Then I labeled them with the author’s name and the dates they covered.” “Terrific, you got a lot done today.” Bret squinted at the piles that still filled most of the library shelves. “I think the worst is still to come, once you get to the really old stuff. But keep it up. We’ll get through it, eventually.” Oliver smiled, his eyes glittering. “You’d be surprised what I can accomplish once I set my mind to it.” Yolanda’s call sent them both downstairs for supper. Jessamyn, Bret noted, didn’t follow them. Without the distraction of her presence, visible or otherwise, he finally finished a meal. But thoughts of petal-soft feminine skin, sparkling eyes and moist pink lips parted in surprise disrupted his scholarly review of Oliver’s work and tomorrow’s lecture. Jessamyn remained behind in the library when Bret and Oliver had gone. She stayed invisible, drained both physically and emotionally after her effort, but happier than she’d been in years. She’d succeeded. Bret had touched her while she was visible. She trembled, still reeling from the shock and his stunned expression. What had he thought? she wondered. Did he feel anything for her besides intellectual curiosity? She was certain he did, despite his betrothal to another. His responses to her were something he couldn’t fake or hide. But if he had feelings for her, would he keep them hidden simply to stay true to his betrothed?

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After Bret left the next morning, Jessamyn returned to the library to await Oliver. His late rising appeared to be habitual, but this time she didn’t mind. The delay gave her a chance to look through the papers he had copied the day before. They confirmed her suspicions. The letters he had put in his briefcase were not among those copied. And he hadn’t mentioned them to Bret either. Why keep them a secret? What could he want with a bunch of old family letters and papers? She hadn’t a clue, but among those papers was a letter that referred to her haunting. Maybe Oliver suspected the house was haunted. Perhaps he was more sensitive than she had thought. Well, one thing was certain. If he didn’t stop taking others’ belongings, she was going to give him something to be afraid of. She was slouched in an armchair, half-dozing, when Oliver finally showed up to work at nearly eleven o’clock. He followed the previous day’s pattern, taking a stack of materials from the shelves and beginning to sort through it, marking pages, making notes and stacking the items into separate piles. Only once did he place a paper in his briefcase without documenting it. Jessamyn leapt to her feet to try and see what it was, but Oliver slammed the briefcase shut before she could read it. A mere two hours into his workday, Oliver stood and stretched and left the library. Jessamyn followed him downstairs and out into the garden where he looked around carefully, as though making mental notes of each feature, then started off across the lawn where she couldn’t follow. At the old wishing well, he stopped and leaned against the wrought iron that formed its decorative birdcage-like bonnet. He peered out across the grounds toward the working plantation, fingering the iron structure thoughtfully, then looked at his hand and grimaced at the rust stains the metal had left. He scrubbed his palms against his jeans and headed in the direction of the slave quarters. Jessamyn moved automatically to follow. She made it a few steps into the yard, then slammed abruptly into an invisible barrier as solid as stone. Damn. She’d forgotten just where “the Wall” started, it had been so long since she’d tried to leave the garden. She’d thought of it from the beginning of her haunting as “the Wall”, the warm, solid, yet somehow intangible border that surrounded the house and marked the boundary of her existence. Through the invisible barricade, she watched Oliver disappear beyond the trees. She stamped her foot impatiently, then remembered the letter Oliver had placed in his briefcase. He’d likely be gone a while, she thought, and whisked herself back to the library. Oliver kept the briefcase beside the desk. Where he could stash things quickly, Jessamyn thought with annoyance. She knelt beside the battered leather case and tried the latch. It didn’t budge. He’d locked it before he left!

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Damnation. Whatever Oliver was doing, he didn’t want anyone else to know about it. She lifted an open book from the top of Oliver’s pile and thumbed through it absently. He had marked several pages with small, yellow sticky notes. She glanced at the pages. Nothing particularly caught her interest, just dates and names she didn’t recognize. Impulsively, she pulled the yellow notes off, stuck them onto the desktop and closed the book, then scowled at the pile still on the desk. Inspired, she grabbed up the next book and pulled out all of its page marks and notes. She did the same with the next one and the next and so on, until a hundred or more yellow slips fringed the edges of the desktop like ornamental gilding and all the books were stacked neatly on top. She added other books Oliver had not yet inspected to the stack, neatly aligning all the spines and bottom edges to form a tidy four-foot tower, then stepped back to survey her work. That should give him something to think about. Satisfied, she arranged herself comfortably in the armchair to await Oliver’s return. She hadn’t long to wait. Within five minutes, the door slammed and she heard Oliver’s quick tread on the stairs. She clutched the arms of the chair, trying to urge him by sheer force of will to use a little caution on the steps. How it would annoy her to have to save his weaselly neck. He made it unscathed to the top, though, and walked into the library whistling a tune Jessamyn was certain was “Bonnie Blue Flag”. Just inside the door, he halted abruptly, his whistle dying to a near-soundless “whoosh” in the middle of the song’s chorus. Jessamyn leapt up and moved closer, delighted at the widening of his eyes as he stared at the neat tower on the desk. His lips remained pursed a moment in midwhistle, then his jaw dropped to hang slack in literal openmouthed astonishment. Jessamyn stifled a giggle. Being a ghost surely had its satisfying moments. Oliver gaped a second longer, then fled the room. “Yolanda!” His shout carried through the house. Jessamyn followed him down to the main floor, where Yolanda ran into the foyer to meet him. “What is it, Oliver?” she gasped, exertion and concern leaving her breathless. “What’s happened?” “Have you been cleaning in the library?” His voice edged upward on the last syllable in something akin to panic. Yolanda’s raised brows drew themselves into a puzzled frown. “The library? I haven’t even got to the second floor yet. Why?”

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“Well, somebody sure has,” Oliver insisted. “All my books and notes from this morning have been…rearranged.” He narrowed his eyes with suspicion. Jessamyn pressed both hands fiercely to her mouth, desperate to stifle a giggle. Yolanda squared her shoulders and regally stared him down. “I haven’t been in the library, Mr. Dela-crow,” she carefully mispronounced. “I haven’t had time. Some of us have work to do in this house.” She pivoted neatly and glided into the parlor without a backward glance. Oliver remained at the foot of the stairs a moment, sputtering and frowning, then turned and ran back up. He hesitated at the doorway, then squared his shoulders, walked into the library and slowly approached the book tower on the desk. Jessamyn followed a few paces behind, stopping when he stopped. She watched him hesitantly lift the top book from the stack and flip it open. She leaned in for a closer look. With a sudden pang of loneliness and longing, she recognized her mother’s neat script, crisp and virtually unfaded despite the years. She stepped nearer to read over Oliver’s shoulder. Jessamyn has certainly become the darling of the hospital. All the young soldiers vie for her attention when she visits them and she is hard-pressed to show no favoritism, but spends her time equally with them all, reading, praying, or just offering them her gentle companionship. I have invited some of the officers to the house for supper, as they have recovered and been able to stroll about the grounds. I fear none has captured Jessamyn’s heart, though she is happy to flirt with one and all. It pleases me that she is able to make such a brave showing for them after the loss of her dear Andrew. James tells me the men are preparing a birthday surprise for his sister, to present to her before the ball. He will offer me no clue as to its nature, fearing I may spoil the surprise unintentionally. It suits my purposes to let my sons think me frivolous and scatterbrained, yet I sometimes wonder if they are the scatterbrains to think that truly foolish female could bear such brilliant children as they. Oliver snapped the journal closed with a violence that made Jessamyn jump, engrossed as she had been in her mother’s words. She moved around to see him chewing fiercely on his lower lip. “Damn!” He hurled the fragile journal against the library wall. “Worthless piece of garbage.” The desiccated binding split and yellowed pages spun around the room to settle like fallen leaves. Oliver stared for a moment, his chest heaving angrily, then he frowned. “Damn,” he repeated, more softly as though with regret, and knelt to gather the scattered pages. Jessamyn stepped up silently behind him, her teeth and fists clenched. Mother’s book. He destroyed it. She trembled with anger and the light bulb in the desk lamp exploded with a loud “POP”. 94

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Oliver jumped at the sound, whirling to look behind him. Jessamyn let the energy of her rage catch him full in the face, an icy, shrieking blast of bone-chilling cold. The young man blanched, his face barren of both color and expression. A low moan of denial escaped his whitened lips. He leapt to his feet and raced for the hall. Jessamyn listened to his footsteps all the way down the stairs and out the front door. Bret returned from work to find the house empty. Even Jessamyn was “out”. The scent of fresh bread lured him to the kitchen where a golden loaf sat cooling on the counter. A brief note lay beside it. “Professor,” Bret read while buttering a slice of still-warm bread, “gone to market with Oliver. He needed to get out of the house. Yolanda.” He wondered what that was all about. Somehow he doubted Oliver had worked himself to the point of exhaustion. Yolanda probably felt she was helping him earn his keep. The back door opened and Harry poked his head into the room. “Coast’s clear.” Bret grinned. Harry came inside looking sheepish. “I thought I smelled bread baking. No one makes bread like Yolanda. And since her car was gone…” “She’s gone to the market. But she might be back any minute,” Bret couldn’t resist teasing. Harry smiled crookedly and reached for the bread knife. “I’ll risk it. Oh, by the way, I have your stair out there,” he jerked his head toward the door. “The replacement tread?” Bret stepped onto the porch and pulled the wide, beveled piece of wood inside. He ran a hand over the smoothly finished oak. “It looks great.” “Mmmph,” Harry acknowledged the compliment around a mouthful of bread. “Good thing we refinished all the woodwork. We had plenty of stain left to match. You want to pull up the old one now?” “You willing to risk it?” Bret asked. “I don’t know how long Yolanda’s been gone. She really could be back any time.” “Now’s as good a time as any. My tools are in the cellar.” He sliced another chunk of bread and spread it thickly with butter before heading out the door. “Back in a minute.” They met at the staircase a few minutes later, Bret carrying the new tread, Harry armed with a massive steel toolbox. The caretaker kicked a throw rug across the floor to the bottom step and tenderly placed the box on it. Then he squatted beside it, flipped open the latches and, after pausing a moment for effect like a master showman, turned back the heavy lid. An astonishing array of hand tools gleamed up at Bret, most of them unfamiliar and all of them so sterile-looking he was forcibly reminded of surgical instruments. He wondered if they were all new. A gift from a son or grandson perhaps. 95

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He watched Harry rummage through the upper tray and felt vaguely disappointed when the older man pulled out a large, but mundane, screwdriver and hammer and laid them side by side on the rug. Another moment’s sifting proved more rewarding, however. Harry extracted an exotic-looking prying tool, like a crowbar only shorter, and held it up for Bret’s approval. “These ought’a do it.” Harry nodded at his choices. “Don’t expect it’ll be too tough. Oh, almost forgot…” Another dip into the tool chest liberated a small tidily folded paper sack of nails which he slipped into the pocket of his blue coverall. Harry climbed to the fourth step, then knelt and studied it, peering at the tread from different angles like a golfer sizing up a difficult hole. At last, he settled onto the sixth step down and reached up with the hammer to tap gently at the underside of the tread. After a few taps, he gave a satisfied grunt and exchanged the hammer for the screwdriver. This he inserted into the space he’d opened between tread and riser, then, using it as a lever, forced the tread loose and pulled it free. Bret climbed up and traded the old tread for the new one, which Harry nailed into place. “I’ll fill the holes and touch up the stain tomorrow when the light’s better, Professor. But that should pretty much do it for you.” Bret studied the seamed edge of the wooden plank he held. “I hope so. Can I borrow some of your tools? I’d like to see if I can get this thing apart.” Harry looked hesitant, then relented. “I suppose it’ll be okay. You probably won’t need much more than a screwdriver, anyway. Just clean ‘em up when you’re done.” Bret forced himself to look serious. “Of course, Harry. Thanks.” Harry trotted spryly down the steps and gave Bret an appraising look. “You want me to carry the tool box up to the library for you?” “No.” They’d probably never get it down again and he didn’t want to be responsible for giving his caretaker a hernia. “I’ll just take a few tools up with me. I think you’re right. This should come apart pretty easily.” He selected a smaller screwdriver, the hammer, and an assortment of finer implements. “That should be plenty. I can take the toolbox to the cellar when I’m through.” Harry dropped to one knee beside the box and closed the lid gently. “That’s okay, I’m headin’ back down there now. I still have some work to do on those pipes. I’ll take the box and you can just bring those down when you get done.” He went back through the kitchen, lugging the heavy chest. Bret climbed the stairs carefully, tools in one hand, old tread in the other. He stepped carefully on the new fourth step, testing it with his weight. It felt sturdy enough. But then, the old one had never felt strange to walk on. In the library, he absently moved a stack of books aside and cleared a space on the desk to lay the board down. The plank was about four feet long and ten inches from front to back. A rounded lip finished the front edge, but the ends and back were simply squared off and sanded to take the stain. 96

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Bret confirmed his suspicions with a quick examination of the ends. The stair was definitely made from two pieces of wood. He tipped it onto its front edge to study the back. A small notch between the two layers caught his eye. Some kind of flaw in the boards? he wondered. He turned on the desk lamp and looked at it again under the light. The notch was a rectangular hole, formed by matching cuts in each of the two pieces of the board. This was no flaw. The cuts had been made intentionally.

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Chapter Fourteen Downstairs, the front door clicked open and Yolanda’s smooth alto sounded from the entry. “Professor, we’re back.” Bret came to the top of the stairs. Yolanda stood propping the door open, laden with a double armload of grocery sacks. Oliver stepped in from the porch, carrying his own load. Bret dashed down the stairs to help. “Don’t worry about me, Professor.” Yolanda rejected his offer of assistance, nodding toward Oliver instead. “I think you could give Oliver a hand, though.” Bret turned toward his assistant who unburdened himself with alacrity, then dashed back out the door muttering something about “more in the car”. Bret glanced a question at Yolanda who just shook her head and started for the kitchen. He followed. A few moments later, the front door slammed and Oliver skidded into the kitchen as winded as if he’d run a race. His gaze darted from Bret to Yolanda, then around the room as if afraid of what he might see. Bret put groceries away while Yolanda busied herself getting a casserole into the oven and making a salad. He watched Oliver out of the corner of his eye. His assistant had dropped into a dinette chair with his back to the wall. Now he sat drumming his fingertips rapidly on the kitchen table and, every few moments, glanced over his shoulder toward the dining room. Obviously something was bothering him, Bret thought. Oliver had never appeared this nervous. He thought a minute. Oliver had been in the house all day, with only Yolanda. And Jessamyn was nowhere around, he could tell. Resting, he thought, and frowned. She’d given her word. Surely she wouldn’t have… Bret shot another glance at Oliver. The young man certainly was acting like something had frightened him. But what could he do about it? Ask “Oh, by the way, did you happen to see any ghosts today”? Still, he had to say something. “So Oliver,” he began. Oliver jumped. “Wh-what?” “Sorry,” Bret apologized for startling him. “I just wanted to know how your day went.” “My day?” Oliver gave a tense half-smile. “My day was fine. Got a lot done, in fact.” Then his forehead wrinkled. “Wait, weren’t you in the library when we came in?” “Yes, I had some work to do. Why?” “You didn’t see anything unusual?” Oliver looked puzzled.

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Bret shook his head and tried to recall any details about the room that had struck him as strange. Nothing came to him. Oliver rose abruptly. “I have some errands to run, then I promised a friend in North Charleston I’d stop by. I may just stay up there tonight. Will that be a problem?” “No,” Bret replied, mildly surprised. “You’ll be back tomorrow?” “Certainly. I’ll just throw some things together.” He dashed out of the room. A few minutes later, the front door slammed. Yolanda threw Bret an exasperated look. “He’s been like that all afternoon, Professor. Nervous. Looking over his shoulder all the time. When I told him I was going shopping, he insisted on coming with me. I thought it would be good for him to get out.” “Do you have any idea why?” Bret was almost afraid to ask. He should have known better than to leave Oliver alone in the house. Yolanda shook her head, then stopped, thoughtful. “Now that you mention it, he came running down the stairs about two o’clock, yelling his fool head off. He asked if I’d been cleaning in the library. Said his work had been disturbed.” She paused, a look of growing understanding on her face. “Do you think he might have seen something up there?” Bret’s voice caught in his throat. He couldn’t speak. Yolanda persisted. “Are you sure you didn’t see anything odd when you were in the library?” Bret jumped to his feet. At the staircase, he took the steps two at a time with Yolanda close behind. At the library door, he stopped. Yolanda caught up and the two of them stood staring at the tower of books on the desk. Yolanda turned to give him a look of disbelief. “How in heaven’s name could you miss that?” “I wasn’t looking,” Bret answered honestly. He could have kicked himself. He’d been so involved with the old step that he hadn’t even noticed the books. He’d moved them and still not noticed. If he had, the sight probably wouldn’t have registered as unusual anyway. Oliver might have stacked them for some purpose of organization. But for Oliver, working alone, there could have been no earthly explanation. By now he must be sure the house was haunted. Yolanda’s expression of awe gave way to a grin. “I always knew she was real, Professor.” “Now wait,” Bret began, struggling for control. “Maybe Oliver did this himself while he was working. Maybe this isn’t what he was talking about at all.” He had to talk to Jessamyn. Did she have any idea what kind of trouble this could cause? The housekeeper raised her eyebrows. “Why would he do something like that? No. This is what upset him. I know it.” She looked at him closely. “Who are you trying to

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convince? You have seen her, haven’t you? Don’t worry. This is where she belongs, you know.” He couldn’t answer. Yolanda patted his arm comfortingly and he winced. “Your supper is ready,” she said. “Let’s go downstairs. And don’t worry. Miss Radcliffe will be our secret.” All of ours at this rate, Bret thought uneasily. Yolanda left after washing up the supper dishes despite Bret’s protests that it wasn’t necessary. She bade him goodnight with a sympathetic smile that bespoke shared understanding and left him alone in the house. He tried in vain to call Jessamyn. She probably sensed his anger and was staying away on purpose. At last, he gave up and returned to the library. He still had the stair tread to pry apart. A little manual labor would take his mind off things, he hoped. He flipped on the radio he’d recently unpacked from his household goods and tuned around until he found the classical station. An opera was playing. Richard Strauss, he thought, recognizing the music, but unable to recall the title. He turned up the volume, closed his eyes and let the music wash over him like soothing waves. Then he turned to the desk. He glanced briefly at Jessamyn’s tower and knew he’d never be able to concentrate if he left it standing. He took the stack apart, separating it into several neat piles, which he placed around the room. Only then could he turn his attention to the stair. He grabbed up the screwdriver, inserted the tip into the notch and angled the handle down sharply. The notch seemed made for that very purpose. As if someone wanted it to be pulled apart. Along either side, he could see the remnants of dried glue that hadn’t been cleaned off the hidden back of the step. If the stair was only glued all the way around, and not nailed or doweled, it might come apart fairly easily. Bret grabbed up the screwdriver, inserted the tip into the notch and angled the handle down sharply, then moved it gently between the laminated layers, sliding it slowly outward toward the corners as the glue gave way, then down the sides and along each end. No nails or dowel pegs impeded his progress. Finally, only one long side of the tread remained attached. Bret took one half in each hand, like the pages of a book, and pulled carefully. The old glue, now little more than dust, separated readily with a muffled pop. Bret glanced down in alarm, half-expecting to see the wood splintered in his hands. But the two thin planks he held were both intact. He laid them on the desk and tilted the lampshade to spill bright light onto the exposed inner surfaces. The inside of the upper half was smoothly sanded wood, bare except where dried glue stained the edges. He pulled the other half into the light. Glue stained the edges of the bottom half as well, but the rest of the wood wasn’t bare. In the exact center of the board, two small designs were carved into the wood. Bret leaned closer and ran his fingers over the side-by-side carvings. The first was a stylized sunburst, intricately detailed. It reminded him of the old-fashioned sun and moon 100

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symbols on antique clock faces or calendars, wavy rays emanating from a smiling, round face. The other symbol held no meaning for him. A small design like a rose blossom sat in the middle of an intricate interlaced pattern like he’d seen in Celtic jewelry and carvings. He’d have Carla take a look at it when she arrived. Maybe she could identify the pattern and offer some explanation of why it was hidden. Carla. Bret realized with a moment’s start that he hadn’t really thought about her, except in terms of the effect Jessamyn was having on him, for quite a while. He hadn’t talked to her in a couple weeks, but that wasn’t unusual. They’d never been the type of couple who called each other every night, or even every week, when they were apart. Still, she had usually been somewhere near in his thoughts, especially when he’d first started working on the house. He tried to bring her image to mind and discovered unexpectedly that he couldn’t recall some details, like the way she wore her hair, or the color of her eyes. The only eyes that sprang to mind were Jessamyn’s vivid blue ones, eyes that sparkled under fluttering lashes when she tried to convince him she’d behave, or that flashed indigo when she was angry. He struggled with a sudden wave of guilt. This is ridiculous, he thought. I haven’t done anything to feel guilty about. Wanted to, perhaps, but hadn’t acted on his desires. So much had happened in such a short time. He’d just been busy. That was why he hadn’t called Carla. Not because of some hidden intention to avoid her. He glanced at his watch. It was too late to call her tonight. She’d have an early class tomorrow. First thing tomorrow afternoon then. He’d leave a message on her machine, at least. So she’d know he was thinking of her. He rose and paced the room restlessly, then wandered into the hallway to pause on the balcony overlooking the entry. The first floor lay in darkness. He’d neglected to turn on the lights before returning to the library, and he’d been so engrossed in the old stair that he hadn’t noticed night approaching. The darkness didn’t bother him. Not anymore. Still, he thought, he should probably turn on the porch light, just to make the house look occupied. No sense making it a target for whoever might be lurking on the grounds. He descended the staircase. At the foot of the stairs, he caught a glimpse of movement to his right, a flash of white in the empty parlor. Jessamyn. He stepped quietly to the doorway. Here was his chance to confront her about Oliver. But the vision that met his gaze held him silent, unwilling to break the spell. In the muted light of the empty room, Jessamyn danced. She whirled silently across the floor, arms lifted in a pantomime embrace, her lace and satin skirt swaying in time to the music like a chiming crystal bell. Her eyes were closed. She danced on, unaware of his presence.

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Her circuit of the room brought her close and he reached out, tentatively, and felt the cool rush of her passage. She glanced up and stopped abruptly, the flush of her cheeks visible even in the darkened room. Bret stepped forward, his hand still outstretched. “May I have the honor?” She came to him, her eyes wide pools of indigo as they searched his face. He reached for her automatically, naturally, and was momentarily startled by the movement of his hands through her insubstantial form. She bit her lip, thoughtful. “It’s all right. Just close your eyes.” He did, without hesitation, and she moved into his arms, warm and solid. Human. He stood still for a moment and savored the feel of her body against his, her firm, inviting breasts thrust against him, the silky skin of her bare shoulders warm under his hands. He slid his hands down her back to where the smooth skin gave way to fine lace under his fingers. He could feel the stays and laces of her corset under her gown and imagined freeing her body of those restraints, letting those incredible breasts spill into and overflow his hands. He would taste and suck and tease them, swirling his tongue over each nipple until they stood hard and pink for him. He pictured himself running his palms along the naked curve of her rib cage, kissing and stroking his way down her side to her bare hips. He’d play over her flat, smooth belly with his tongue, tasting her as he moved ever lower, to the golden thatch between her thighs, then lower still. His pulse racing at the mental image, he paused briefly at the tiny waist he could span with his hands, then continued downward to where the hoop of her skirt flared to emphasize the rounded swell of her bottom. He cupped her buttocks through the skirt, pulling her hard against his growing erection. Jessamyn gasped and he almost opened his eyes, concerned that he had frightened her, but she whispered, “No, keep your eyes closed,” and he did as she asked. She laughed low in her throat and pressed herself harder against him, swaying gently in time to the music as she rubbed her body against the front of his jeans. He groaned and felt her reach up to wrap her arms around his neck and pull him down toward her. Their mouths met, hot and wet. As he’d suspected from the first, those full pink lips were soft and incredibly sweet. He pressed the kiss gently, forcing them to part for him, and she opened to him, letting his tongue inside to stroke and explore the silken softness of her mouth. He felt her tongue dance across his lips, tentatively at first, then more boldly as she sought to offer him the same pleasure. When she entered his mouth, he gasped, feeling his cock buck and strain against the tight confines of his jeans. God yes, he thought. This was what he’d wanted for so long. He twined the fingers of one hand in her hair, locking her mouth against him, while the other hand still imprisoned her against his hardness, holding her tight as their tongues explored one another.

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A hot swirl of sensation had begun to spread low in Jessamyn’s belly when Bret’s tongue thrust between her lips. When he grabbed her hair and pinned her to him, against the massive hardness between his legs, that swirl had become a torrent that threatened to carry her over the edge. She had always known it would be like this with Bret, but she hadn’t dared to hope for the incredible feelings he was stirring within her. When his hand left her bottom and paused on her ribs, then moved up to take possession of her breast, she felt a surge of moisture between her legs that left in its wake a yearning ache of emptiness that she knew only he could fill. His thumb stroked her peaked nipple through the fabric of her gown and she moaned against his mouth, twisting her body so he could cover her breast with his hand. His fingertips touched the curve of soft skin above her bodice, then curled over the edge of her décolletage. He slid his hand, with exquisite slowness, inside to cup her, flesh to flesh, and she gasped at the wave of pleasure that enveloped her. She felt so right in his arms, Bret thought, her hot body pressed against him as he kneaded her breast. Eyes still closed, he rolled the tight bud of her nipple between his fingers and she moaned again and arched her back. Moving his mouth from her lips to the line of her jaw, he buried his face in her fragrant curls, licking and nipping her earlobe, then trailing kisses down her throat. She sighed. “What is this music?” she asked. “It seems familiar, but I can’t place it.” “Strauss,” Bret replied absently, pulling her against him once again. “Richard, not Johann. It’s from an opera, Die Frau Ohne Schatten. The Woman without a Shadow. He fell silent as the image of Jessamyn standing in the lighted kitchen doorway, casting no shadow into the backyard, came forcibly back to him. Jessamyn was an otherworldly being, out of place in his plane of existence. How could he blithely treat her like a real person? He wasn’t a superstitious man, and yet, how could he tell what result tampering with the unknown might have. Especially when he felt himself beginning to care about her. The admission startled him. He opened his eyes. He was holding her against him, her head pillowed on his chest so that he looked over her shoulder. He caught his reflection in the mirror at the end of the parlor and stared. He saw only himself reflected back from the glass. Though his arms clearly held someone close, he was alone in the mirror. His breath choked in his throat. He looked down at the girl in his arms. He couldn’t see her. Her warmth, her weight and softness, none had changed, but the creature in his arms was invisible. He stumbled to a halt and felt Jessamyn step away from him. She materialized before him, pain and confusion in her face. He opened his mouth, but no words would come. He shook his head and stepped backward, ignoring her outstretched, imploring hand.

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Chapter Fifteen Jessamyn stood rooted to the center of the parlor floor and stared numbly after Bret’s retreating figure. She slowly turned to face the mirrored wall. The patterned wallpaper and mahogany wainscoting behind her reflected back, their lines unbroken by her presence. She stepped forward and pressed her palms against the cool glass, trying to will herself visible, straining to find some hint of her image in the glossy surface. But she saw only the glass itself and the darkened room behind her. She spun away from the mirror, skirts whipping around her feet, and clasped her hands in front of her in a grip that turned her knuckles white. Her frenzied gaze fell on a pair of brass candlesticks on the mantel, the only furnishings in the room. With a cry of soul-rending anguish, she spread her arms wide. The heavy brass sticks flew across the room and smashed into the ten-foot glass panels. A million sparkling fragments hung suspended for a split second, then fell, a roaring waterfall rush, to the gleaming wood floor. With the last tinkle of broken glass, the fury drained from Jessamyn. She fought back a series of dry, shuddering sobs and scanned the wreckage absently until one wrenching cry broke free. Then she turned and ran, through the house and out into the garden. In the cool darkness of the garden, Jessamyn collapsed onto a marble bench. Unable to fight any longer, she surrendered herself, her body trembling, to tearless misery. The absence of tears cut her almost as deeply as the pain of Bret’s abandonment. Crying might at least have given her some release. No wonder he had run from her, she thought. As though she were some kind of monster. Maybe I am. No reflection. No tears. How could she dare to love Bret, who couldn’t even touch her like another human being? It would serve her right if he never came back. The thought sent her into another paroxysm of sobs. Surely he couldn’t have left for good. How could she exist without him? He was her destiny, the key to her future. From the first moment she saw him, she’d planned to fall in love with him. Now for the first time, she realized she had. Bret fumbled for the key to his office door. Around him, the building was dark and silent. He’d hoped a few other professors might be working late to give him some cover, but no such luck. A custodian, pushing a broom and whistling, approached from the end of the hall. He nodded at Bret, his expression openly curious.

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“Evening.” Bret forced a grin that felt like a guilty grimace, as though he was a burglar caught in the act. The man returned his smile hesitantly and moved on. I must look like some kind of mental case, Bret thought. He knew his hair was disheveled and his collar askew. He’d seen his reflection, after all. And his headlong dash out of the house couldn’t have helped matters. He’d driven to the college like a maniac. It made sense at the time, but now he just felt like a fool. He couldn’t even bring himself to think about Jessamyn. About the pain he must have caused her. The door unlocked. Bret forced Jessamyn from his mind and pushed his way into the office. He turned on both the overhead light and the desk lamp, then the radio, selecting a jazz station. Anything but classical music. He dropped onto the dilapidated green sofa opposite his desk, closed his eyes, and rubbed his forehead wearily. Suddenly everything had become so complicated. It had all seemed simple just a few weeks before. His relocation, finding Bonnie Doon, the anticipation of a summer’s hard work to get the house in shape before Carla arrived. He’d planned everything out. But now, nothing was as he’d imagined it. He’d just spent the evening kissing a ghost, for God’s sake. And he’d willingly have done much more. Until he saw what he was doing. Memories of the past few hours flooded back. And foremost among them was the image of Jessamyn’s expression in the last seconds before he’d turned and fled. Surprise, pain, betrayal—all had been mirrored there. And something else he hadn’t recognized. Pity? Forgiveness? Love. The idea struck him like a physical blow. Love? How could Jessamyn be in love with him? She wasn’t even real. She’d died over a century ago. She couldn’t have the emotions of a living person. But even as the thoughts unfolded, he knew they were a lie. All he’d learned about Jessamyn told him that she was every bit as real as he. Her thoughts and emotions were those of a human woman. Whether she lived and breathed was beside the point, a mere physical detail of no more significance than the color of her eyes. He was tempted to think it in terms of a handicap, but realized that he was the more disabled of the two. Jessamyn could pass through walls. She could will herself to be wherever in the house she chose. She could become invisible. He was the one who was “ectoplasmically challenged”. God, how I must have hurt her. A strange, hollow ache accompanied his sudden awareness. He hadn’t meant to cause her pain. He hadn’t even thought of her, only of himself, in his blind reaction to her otherworldliness. He could kick himself for his stupidity. Whatever the physical explanation for Jessamyn’s existence, he knew she was no threat to him. He had to go back. To apologize. No. More than that, to beg her forgiveness.

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And if she was in love with him? He shook off the thought. As for his own feelings, he thought, it was only natural for him to be concerned about Jessamyn. He shared her house and he wanted to find out why she haunted Bonnie Doon. He wanted to help her. Sure, he was attracted to her. How could he not be? She was beautiful, sensual, eager for his touch. Her body was made for pleasure. A man could lose himself in that mouth. He stopped that direction of thought abruptly. Nothing could come of their relationship. He was engaged to a real, live, flesh and blood woman. He couldn’t get involved with Jessamyn. But when he’d kissed her, felt her body arch as he’d caressed her breast, heard her soft moan of pleasure. He groaned at the thought of how she’d aroused him, how much he’d wanted her. She was completely unlike any woman he’d ever known, but just as capable of giving and receiving love as any woman. He shook his head. What the hell was he going to do? How could he face her after what he’d done? He had to go home eventually, he thought, but not tonight. He reached for the granny square afghan that draped the sofa back as a makeshift slipcover and tucked it around his shoulders. For both their sakes, he’d remain where he was for the night. Tomorrow his head would be clearer and he could decide what he to do. “Hello?” An unfamiliar masculine voice interrupted Jessamyn’s sobs. She looked up. A young giant stood in the shadows on the opposite side of the garden and peered through the darkness at her. She sat completely still and he moved closer. “Who’s there?” he asked, stopping in the center of the paved garden walk, only yards from the stone bench where Jessamyn sat. He looked beyond her. She studied the man, her grief momentarily replaced by curiosity. Close up, he wasn’t as tall as he’d first appeared. Only the ramrod stiffness of his spine made him seem so. Soldier. The word sprang to Jessamyn’s mind. She hadn’t seen a soldier in many years, but still recognized the distinctive military bearing despite his obviously civilian jeans and shirt. He was solidly muscular with close-cropped blond hair. His gait was odd, she noted at his approach, and realized after another moment that he walked with a slight limp. “What the hell are you doing out here?” Harry’s shout startled both Jessamyn and the stranger. The older man stormed into the garden. “Paul, what are you doing?” he repeated. “Didn’t I tell you to stay the hell out of sight? Do you want the professor to see you?”

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“He’s not here.” Paul casually shrugged off Harry’s consternation. “I saw him take off in his car.” “Well what about Oliver? I don’t think you want him to know you’re here.” The young man’s crinkly smile might have been pleasant if not for the hard gleam in his eyes. “Oliver is going to find out eventually, Harry.” Harry gave a derisive snort. “Well, now isn’t the time. Anyway, I think he’s gone, too. So what are you doing out here?” Paul’s smile became a little sheepish. “Well, I know it sounds a little strange, but I heard someone crying. A woman, I mean.” Harry scratched his head and looked around. “You heard a woman crying in the garden?” “Not really. That is, it seemed to come from near the slave quarters first. When I went outside to look, it sounded farther away. It really carried, you know. I sort of followed it here.” “There’s no one here now.” Harry squinted through the darkness. “Anyway, the only woman ‘round here’s Yolanda. And she ain’t the type to sit wailing in the garden.” He added under his breath, “Or anywheres else for that matter.” “You’d best get back to the cabin,” he continued. “With our luck, everybody’ll come home at once and find you here. Then all hell’d break loose.” Paul nodded. “I guess you’re right. It was probably just the wind or a cat or something. By the way, sorry about leaving my junk in the cabin. You and the professor kind of surprised me the other night. What did you tell him?” “I said it was transients. I think he believed me, for now. He ain’t no fool, though. Another slip like that one, and he’ll put things together before we’re ready.” Harry’s face was grim in the shadowy garden. “Then, we might have to take drastic action.” The men parted, Paul heading back across the grounds toward the slave quarters and Harry returning to the house. Jessamyn remained where she was on the garden bench, her misery tempered by curiosity. What was the caretaker up to? she wondered. Who was Paul and what was he doing on her—or rather, Bret’s—property? He must have caused the lights that Bret had gone searching for the other night, she realized. But Harry had gone with Bret that night. And lied to him about the trash they’d found in the old kitchen. He was hiding Paul for some reason. Jessamyn jumped to her feet. She had to tell Bret. He might be in danger. Though why Harry should wish him harm, she didn’t know. She started back toward the house, then stopped short. Bret was gone. He’d run from her and she had no idea whether he’d ever return. The anguish that had gripped her before threatened to return with a vengeance. She hugged herself tightly and forced down the rising emotion. Of course he’ll come back.

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And if he doesn’t? Her thoughts were traitorous and she fought to clear them from her mind. I’ll worry about that when it happens, she told herself. If he does come back, I’d be foolish to have fretted over it. Satisfied with her decision, she smoothed the wrinkles from her gown and went inside to wait for Bret. A sharp rapping permeated Bret’s sleep-fogged brain. He threw off the afghan and swung himself upright, groaning at the stab of pain his back gave in response. Sitting on the old sofa was barely tolerable. Sleeping on it was nearly suicidal. The knock at the door sounded again. “Just a minute,” Bret called. He patted his back pocket for a comb, failed to find one, and raked his fingers through his hair in the hope of making himself presentable. For whatever good it’ll do, he thought. His clothes looked just like he expected them to, after sleeping in them, and a night’s growth of beard stained his chin. Oh well, if students could pull all-nighters, why couldn’t professors? His early-morning caller would just have to deal with it. He stumbled to the door and pulled it open. The stocky little woman stood with her fist raised, poised for her next series of knocks. She blinked up at him myopically through wire-framed glasses, and her cheeks round and pink above a toothy grin as she lowered her arm. “Ah, Professor Tyler. I’m so happy to find you here early. May I come in?” “Of course, Professor Hall.” He forced a smile in return and opened the door further to admit his colleague. Carrie Hall, professor of psychology and proponent, in Bret’s opinion, of some of the wackier theories of human behavior, stepped into the office. With her short, mincing gait and solid, yet compact, bulk, she reminded Bret of a mother hen, especially when she turned and stared up at him, her head tipped, birdlike, to one side and her expression expectant. “What can I do for you this morning, Professor Hen, I mean, Hall?” Bret asked, trying in vain to force the image from his mind. “You may want to close the door,” she murmured. “What we have to discuss is, well, shall we say, sensitive.” Bret shrugged and pushed the door closed, then gestured her, with malice aforethought, to the sofa. He sank onto the straight-backed guest chair in front of his desk and pressed his aching spine against its rigid slats, counting on the resulting pain to clear his muddled thoughts. What Carrie Hall wanted to discuss with him, he couldn’t imagine, unless they had a student in common who was doing poorly in one of her classes. That was probably it, he thought. He gazed at her with polite attentiveness.

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Carrie fingered the bow of her white, polyester blouse, straightened the lapels of her navy, double-knit blazer and perched cautiously on the edge of the sprung sofa. “I want to discuss the haunting of Bonnie Doon Plantation.” Bret felt his mouth drop open. He promptly closed it, pasted a puzzled expression on his face, and asked, “What haunting?” Carrie smiled tolerantly. “Bonnie Doon has quite a history, Professor Tyler, of which you may not be aware. Perhaps you have not yet experienced the manifestations that exist there, but they are real, I assure you. And I wish to investigate them.” Bret forced his voice to be calm. “I thought your specialty was behavioral psychology?” “Parapsychology is my great interest. But until now, I haven’t had a documented case to study. I have heard, however, that Bonnie Doon is very promising.” “Heard from whom?” Bret was curious. Carrie raised her narrow shoulders in a shrug that caused her arms to flap outward from her sides. “It’s common knowledge. In fact, I’m surprised that, being from the area yourself originally, you’re not familiar with the legends.” “I’ve been away a long time.” Bret tried to temper the impatience in his reply. “And ghost stories were never my specialty. Besides, I’m sure someone would have told me about the house before I bought it, if there were anything to the stories.” “I wouldn’t be so sure, Professor.” Carrie raised the pencil-thin lines of her eyebrows. “Times are tough, especially in real estate. I’m not surprised your agent would keep the story from you in order to make a sale.” “Well, I can assure you, Professor Hall.” Bret rose and walked to the door. “Nothing has happened at Bonnie Doon to indicate that my agent kept anything from me. So if you’ll excuse me?” He opened the door and stood to one side. Carrie hauled herself awkwardly to her feet, sagging cushions battling her every inch of the way. “Perhaps you aren’t sensitive to the types of manifestations that have been reported. If my staff and I could just spend a few hours at the house, I’m sure we could determine whether the stories are true. And if they are, I may be able to lay the wandering spirits to rest.” The thought disturbed Bret more than he wanted to admit. “No, Professor. I’m not about to have a bunch of, um, mediums, if that’s the word, rummaging through my house. You’ll just have to find another ghost to bust.” “We are not mediums!” Carrie bustled to the door and stared up at Bret, her lips pursed and her eyes swimming hugely behind thick glasses. “This is research, Professor Tyler. We use sensitive electronic instrumentation and scientific techniques.” “Well, I’m sure you can find some other place to use them. Bonnie Doon is my home, not a research project.” He eased the ruffled parapsychologist out the door and hurriedly closed it behind her.

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Bret sagged against the door and released his pent-up breath in a long sigh. He must have caught Carrie Hall off-guard to get rid of her so easily. When she started talking about Bonnie Doon’s history of manifestations, he’d half-expected a fight. He’d seen obsessed researchers before. Usually they were fanatically persistent. Carrie had surprised him by not putting up more of an argument when he refused her request, but he’d be even more surprised if she didn’t try again. For a just a moment, Bret played with the idea of letting her investigate the house. Carrie probably wouldn’t know what to do with a real ghost if she did find one. In any case, he couldn’t let Carrie and her staff turn Bonnie Doon into a carnival attraction. Or display Jessamyn like some kind of freak. He cared too much about her for that. The thought caught him off-guard. He did care for her. He couldn’t deny it. Whether phantom or figment, Jessamyn was real to him. In fact, he thought, Bonnie Doon would hardly be the same place without Jessamyn. She was part of its charm, just as the plantation was a part of her. He had to go home, he realized. To be with her. To ask her forgiveness for his stupidity. But what if he had hurt her too badly? Would she go away? She couldn’t leave Bonnie Doon, he knew, but she could leave him. Secreting herself in some dark corner of the house, walking the halls and gardens only under the cover of lonely darkness. Never appearing to him again. She had only to wait until he himself was gone. How many mortal lifespans had she seen? Time was on her side. He scribbled an apologetic note to his secretary. The class wouldn’t mind an extra day’s cramming before his exam. Then he dashed for his car. From the front porch, Jessamyn saw Bret’s car turn into the driveway. Relief flooded her. He had come back. She halted her frenetic pacing. Much more, she thought, and she’d have worn a path the entire length of the shadowed verandah. She watched him pull up and park, his gaze seeming never to leave her face as he did so. He left the car and ran toward her, then slowed with apparent self-consciousness. No telling who might be watching from the house. Jessamyn forced herself to wait, fighting the urge to run to him, the need to feel his arms around her again, his body hard against her. The thought sent a renewed wave of desire coursing through her, but she suppressed it. She had her pride. Best to let him think it didn’t matter, rather than act like a fool over him. Bret took the porch steps two at a time and came to a gasping stop before her. “Jessamyn, I’m so sorry,” his words came out in a breathless jumble. “Oh, Bret, I was so worried about you,” she began at the same time, then stopped and giggled nervously, her resolve melting away. Just seeing him again caused her body to respond in memory of the previous night, her nipples rising to rub against the muslin of her chemise, a rush of hot moisture between her thighs. She wanted him so badly. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.” 110

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A look of pain crossed his face and he shook his head. “It wasn’t your fault. I frightened myself.” His sensuous lips tightened into a grim line, then he looked down at her and his expression softened, his sherry brown eyes warmed. “Can you ever forgive me for being such a fool?” “I should have warned you,” Jessamyn argued halfheartedly, willingly losing herself in those amber depths. Faint shadows smudged the hollows beneath his eyes— evidence that, like her, he hadn’t rested. His clothes were wrinkled and stubble marked his chin and cheeks, but, to Jessamyn, no prince on a white horse could have looked better. “I’m so glad you’re back.” “I couldn’t have stayed away.” Jessamyn trembled at his words. Could he really care as much for her as she did for him? She didn’t dare hope. She forced down her rising excitement. If she was wrong… She couldn’t risk upsetting him again. She might lose him forever. In any case, there were more important things to consider. Bret noticed her change of expression. “What’s wrong?” “It’s Harry, Bret. Something happened while you were gone.”

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Chapter Sixteen “Something’s happened to Harry? Is he all right?” Anxiety filled Bret’s voice. “No, not to Harry,” Jessamyn clarified, then glanced away, suddenly hesitant. Harry had always been loyal to her family. Bret trusted him. Would she be destroying that trust? She met Bret’s eyes again. His expression was grave. She had no choice. He might be in danger. Reluctantly, she told him about Harry and the conversation she had overheard in the garden. Bret shook his head, his face darkening. “And he let me run around out there in the dark like an idiot? I should have realized he knew more than he was telling me.” He gave Jessamyn a grim smile. “I think it’s time to have a little talk with the old family retainer.” He walked into the house, Jessamyn following close behind. In the foyer, he yelled, “Harry.” No one answered, but, a moment later, the front door opened and Oliver walked in. Bret turned to greet him, his face still grim. Oliver took a step backward in surprise. “Well, this is quite the morning for homecomings,” Bret remarked more sharply than he intended. “Where have you been?” Oliver looked taken aback. “I’m sorry I left on such short notice, Professor, but I had a phone call from a sick friend.” Bret raised a questioning eyebrow, but he already regretted his angry reaction. Damn it, it’s not his fault. He asked simply, “And how is he?” “Who?” Oliver asked in return, then replied hurriedly, “Oh, fine. He’s fine. Should be out of the hospital in the next day or so, in fact.” Bret nodded. “Ready to get back to work then?” “Of course,” Oliver replied, but his nervous gaze slid toward the staircase. Belatedly, Bret recalled the book tower in the library and bit back a smile. He’d better talk to Jessamyn as soon as this matter with Harry was settled. “Go on up and get started,” he told Oliver. He glanced a warning at Jessamyn who stood at the base if the steps. She rolled her eyes and tried, unsuccessfully, to look innocent. “I’ll be along in a little while. I need to speak to Harry.” Oliver took a deep breath, as if to collect his resolve, then started slowly up the stairs. His assistant out of sight around the corner of the second floor landing, Bret spoke under his breath to Jessamyn. “Is anyone in this place telling me the truth?”

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“I am, Bret.” Jessamyn said softly. “Except for frightening Oliver after I told you I wouldn’t, but he deserved it. I’m sorry.” She gave him a wistful, sidelong glance, her full lower lip pouting ever so slightly, as though she dared him to argue. She was so tempting. He thought of their shared kisses, the taste of her mouth under his and the feel of her body pressed against his hard cock. He gave an exasperated sigh, then, impulsively, held out his hand. She placed hers in it, visible and intangible, but completely real to him. He realized he hardly noticed the chill from her proximity, when, like now, she allowed herself to get this close to him. “I have to find Harry.” He remembered his purpose and gently took back his hand. She seemed to concentrate for a moment, then said, “He’s in the garden. Be careful, Bret.” Taken aback by the unexpected warning, he turned to go. The idea that he might be in danger had never occurred to him. Whatever Harry’s purpose in sheltering this stranger, he didn’t expect it to be hostile. What possible reason could Harry have for threatening him? The gold. The thought came to Bret suddenly. A fortune even at the time of the War, it would be almost priceless now. Men had killed over far less. With growing trepidation, he walked through the house to the back door. In the kitchen, Yolanda sat at the table busily polishing a set of tarnished brass candlesticks. She looked up when he came in. “Morning, Professor, I mean Bret.” Her greeting was hesitant and he looked at her more closely. She dropped her gaze back down to her task and continued, “I’ve cleaned up the mess in the parlor. Thought I’d just polish these up while I was waiting for the man from the glass company.” “What mess?” Bret asked. And what glass company? Suddenly, he didn’t want to know. “Never mind. Is Harry outside?” “I have no idea.” Her voice was a little shrill this morning, Bret thought. “I don’t keep track of the man’s whereabouts,” Yolanda continued, then paused at Bret’s look of surprise. Her expression turned sheepish. “I think he’s down by the grove.” “Thanks.” Bret went outside and crossed the lawn, his mind racing. What exactly had gone on here after he left? He found the caretaker where Yolanda had directed him, standing over a pile of branches pruned from the surrounding trees. “Harry,” he called. The older man turned quickly, startled, a small ax in his hand. Bret stopped in his tracks. Harry grinned and slung the tool at a thick limb where it stuck solidly. “Professor. I was wondering where you’d got off to.” 113

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Bret tore his eyes away from the ax and met Harry’s curious gaze. “Uh, yeah. I stayed overnight at the college. Wore myself out preparing that exam I guess, and I didn’t want to drive home half-asleep.” Harry nodded. “Prob’ly a good idea. Did you want something?” Bret shook his head clear. This was ridiculous, he thought. Harry was no homicidal maniac. Still, he felt an overwhelming need to put some distance between them and any sharp objects. “Let’s take a walk, Harry. You and I need to talk.” “Sure thing,” Harry said. “I was about to take a break anyway. Been chopping these branches up to dry for firewood.” He pulled out a handkerchief and mopped perspiration from his brow. Bret started toward the slave quarters, an unarmed Harry in his wake. For a few minutes, neither man spoke. In the bright sunlight, the area took on a completely different atmosphere than it had a couple nights ago. Hardly cheery despite the pleasant day, it had the sterile feel of a long-deserted ghost town. The shades of the past, though not totally banished, were at least relegated to the shadows for now. They approached the old hospital and Harry piped up, “Aw, Professor, why do you want to come all the way out here for? We could’ve gone back to the house. Yolanda’ll be putting lunch on the table pretty soon, and she’s a heck of a lot more civil with you around.” “Just something I want to take a look at out here, Harry. You’ll see in a moment.” They took a few more steps. “There’s a comfortable spot over by those trees, Professor. It’s nice and shady. Sure’d be a lot more pleasant than out here in the sun.” “No doubt.” Bret stopped outside the old kitchen and rested one foot on the bottom step. He was glad he hadn’t been able to see the decayed wood when they’d been here the other night. The front steps and porch looked completely incapable of supporting weight. “What I want to look at is right here.” He turned to face Harry. “Have him come out.” Harry frowned. “Who?” “Your friend, Paul. The man you’re hiding in this building.” Harry smiled and shook his head. “Professor—Bret, I don’t know where you get these crazy ideas.” Bret ignored his protests and stepped carefully onto the porch. The sight of a shiny new padlock gave him a moment’s pause. Silently, Harry handed him the key. Bret unlocked the door and swung it open. Inside, the room was little changed from their previous visit. Except that the bedroll and fast-food wrappers were gone. “I straightened up a little,” Harry explained. “It was just transients like I told you.” 114

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Bret faced him. From somewhere on the outside of the building, he heard a noise like a door slamming shut. Then, over Harry’s shoulder, a glimmer of movement caught his eye. He pushed past the caretaker and ran down the steps after the intruder, turning his ankle when a rotted board gave way beneath him. He chased the man across the field, gaining despite his injured leg. A few more feet. Closer. Bret made a diving tackle. Grasping the man around the legs, he brought him down. He rocked back onto his knees, ready, even eager, for a fight. But fortunately for him, the massive blond man he’d just tackled rolled onto his side to face Bret and laughed out loud. Harry had followed Bret from the kitchen and now stood over them silently shaking his head. The stranger, his shoulders still trembling with mirth, climbed to his feet and offered a hand to Bret. Hesitantly, Bret took it. Suddenly he was airborne, lifted off the ground as if he weighed nothing at all, then placed gently on his feet beside the other man. The top of his head reached the man’s chin. Bret’s desire for a fight slowly ebbed. The man spoke up. “Well, Harry, you said he was smart, but I didn’t expect to blow my cover so quickly.” He turned to Bret and offered his hand again. “Paul Grady, Professor Tyler. Sorry we had to meet under such unpleasant circumstances.” Bret took the man’s hand, but addressed Harry. “What the hell’s going on around here?” Harry stepped forward. “I meant to tell you, Professor.” He hesitated at Bret’s raised eyebrows. “I did,” he protested, “but there was no good time.” “So tell me now. I’m dying to hear.” “It’s all my fault, Professor,” Paul stepped in. “I came around looking for work and Harry offered me a place to stay in exchange for chores around the place, and so forth. After my discharge from the Army, I didn’t have anyplace to go. I didn’t have a job. I was basically on the street. When Harry found out I’d served in Iraq, well, he just wouldn’t take ‘no’ for an answer.” “I didn’t know how you’d feel about it, Professor,” Harry added. “I meant to tell you, but I just never got around to it.” Bret nodded. “So when I came out here the other night, where were you?” “I was under the kitchen, where I was today,” Paul replied. “These old places are built raised up off the ground, with storage underneath. There’s a trap door in the floor, so it gave me a nice little bolt-hole if anyone got too close. Kind of like a bunker, though,” he added with a frown. “And, of course, you’re responsible for the lights I’ve been seeing out here,” Bret said. “What was that all about?”

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Paul shot a quizzical glance at Harry, who answered for him. “No, Professor. It wasn’t Paul who was causing the lights. In fact, he was out looking for whoever it was.” Bret looked at Paul. “Is that true?” “Yes sir.” Paul nodded. “Believe me, the last thing I’d do if I was trying to keep my presence a secret is walk around out there with a flashlight. Anyway, it’s bad for your night vision. All you can see is what’s in the beam, ‘cause your eyes never get used to the dark.” “Well, Harry. What do you propose we do now?” Bret asked. Somehow, he couldn’t bring himself to throw Paul off the property. He had no proof the man was a treasure hunter, and he was inclined to believe Harry. He wanted to believe him. Besides, if Harry was telling the truth and someone else was prowling around Bonnie Doon, an extra pair of eyes might be helpful. Harry scratched his head and looked thoughtful. “If you don’t have any objections, Professor, I’d like to have Paul continue on here. Now you know about him, there’s more stuff he can do to help me out around the place.” Bret nodded. “Fine. I’m going to trust your judgment on this. But if there are any problems…” He let the sentence hang and turned to Paul. “I guess there’s no sense having you stay out here without any plumbing or electricity. You might as well move up to the house for now.” Where I can keep an eye on you. “If you don’t mind, Professor,” Paul said, frowning, “it might be a good idea if I stayed out here. The fewer people who know I’m here, the better.” “The only people who don’t know about you are the housekeeper, Yolanda, and my assistant, Oliver. I hardly think either of them are a danger to you. And I’d rather they knew you were here than have them mistake you for a burglar or something.” “I know,” Harry spoke up. “He can stay at the caretaker’s cottage. I have an extra room and he can come and go without disturbing anyone at the house.” “That’s a good idea,” Paul agreed. “Okay,” Bret relented. “But I want to introduce you to Yolanda and Oliver anyway. They need to know who you are.” Paul’s gaze slid to meet Harry’s. For a moment, he looked defiant, then he nodded. “It’s a deal, Professor.” Paul gathered his few belongings from the cellar of the old structure and the three men walked back to the house. Oliver and Yolanda were both in the kitchen when they went inside. Bret introduced Paul as Harry’s new assistant, thinking it best not to mention that the man had been living on the plantation secretly for some time. Yolanda greeted him cordially. Oliver appeared more reserved. His pale eyes narrowed as he stepped forward to shake the newcomer’s hand. “What brings you to this area?” he asked pointedly.

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Paul flashed him a disarming smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I was stationed here with the Army. When my hitch was up, it seemed as good a place as any to try and settle down. Unfortunately, I didn’t have much luck finding work before I met Harry.” A noncommittal grunt from Oliver acknowledged Paul’s answer. Harry spoke up. “Well, let’s get you moved into the cottage, Paul. Then I have a couple projects to get you started on.” He walked outside, his “assistant” following. Oliver stared after them, a sour expression on his pinched face. He turned to Bret. “May I have a word with you, Professor?” He shot a glance at Yolanda. “In private.” Yolanda caught Bret’s gaze and rolled her eyes. “I don’t really think that’s necessary, Oliver,” Bret replied. Yolanda gave a derisive laugh. “Don’t let it bother you, Professor. Unlike some people, I have plenty to do around here. I’ll just get to it while Mr. Della-crow talks to you in private.” She threw Oliver a pitying glance and left the room. Oliver watched her go, then stepped closer to Bret. “We don’t really know who we can trust here, Professor,” he whispered. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Bret’s reply was, intentionally, a shade above his normal volume. He wasn’t about to coddle Oliver’s sudden predisposition to paranoia on top of everything else. Oliver frowned. “Don’t you think it’s suspicious that that man suddenly turned up working for Harry? Do you know anything about him? I suspect he may be a treasure hunter. And it’s altogether possible that Harry, and maybe even Yolanda, are in it with him.” Bret laughed. “I think your imagination is running away with you, Oliver. Harry’s been here almost all his life. If he was really interested in the treasure, I expect he’d have found it already. As for Yolanda, I don’t think she even knows about the Barton Hoard. In any case, I can’t see her digging holes around the place looking for it.” “Well, I can’t help thinking something fishy is going on around here,” Oliver said. “If you don’t mind, I’m going to keep an eye on Paul Grady. For your sake, if you’re not willing to do it yourself.” Bret grinned. “I appreciate your concern. Now, there’s probably something you’ll be wanting to get back to in the library?” Oliver’s mouth twisted, but he took the hint. “I’ll be keeping my eyes open, Professor,” he said on his way out of the room. “I’d advise you to do the same.” Yolanda, returning to the kitchen, passed Oliver on her way in. She nodded in his direction and asked Bret, “What’s his problem?” “He thinks Paul’s a treasure hunter,” Bret said, and was ashamed to catch himself scanning her face for some sign of guilt or conspiracy. He saw none. “Harry obviously doesn’t,” she said.

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“You think he’s right?” She looked thoughtful. “Harry’s a good judge of character. He wouldn’t make a mistake like that. You can trust him, Professor.” Bret gave her a mischievous grin. “For two people who go out of their way to avoid one another, you two certainly think highly of each other.” Yolanda’s eyes widened and her café au lait skin flushed. Within seconds, though, she’d regained her composure. “Do you have work to do, Professor?” she asked, raising one finely arched brow. “Or do you intend to sit around my kitchen gossiping all day?” Bret snapped a mock salute and beat a hasty retreat to the parlor, leaving Yolanda chuckling in his wake. He paused in the doorway. The room felt wrong, somehow darker than it should have been. A psychic response to his scene with Jessamyn last night? he wondered. He glanced around the room. Then he realized the problem. The mirrors that had covered the wall at the end of the room were gone, leaving in their place only yellowed paint and yellower stains of glue.

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Chapter Seventeen Yolanda’s comment about the mess in the parlor came back to him. “I’m sorry, Bret,” Jessamyn spoke softly behind him and he spun quickly. “You did this?” “I lost my temper.” She looked at him through lowered lashes, her expression contrite. “Sometimes I forget my own strength. Can you forgive me?” “It was my fault. If I hadn’t behaved like such an ass, you wouldn’t have been hurt. The glass probably needed replacing anyway. Just remind me to stay on your good side.” She laughed and he noticed for the first time that she looked paler than normal. Or maybe it was the light. The room was dim, its shades drawn. Still, he had to ask, “Are you all right?” She nodded and her color heightened in pleased response to his concern. “I’m fine. I just need to rest. Strong emotions weaken me, but it’s just temporary. Now, I’ll leave you alone for a time.” She dissolved away completely. He felt cool air and the touch of a warm hand against his cheek and knew she had gone. The afternoon passed quickly. He checked on Oliver’s progress and was pleased to see his assistant making considerable headway against the sheer mass of material in the library. He selected a stack of books, each thick with yellow sticky notes and slips of paper, and settled down to read. Several of the books were early, published histories of the area. Fairly informative, but dry reading. He skimmed them briefly, making notes on the yellow slips whenever something caught his eye. Oliver would have already catalogued these with their dates and subjects for his later reference. He selected another book from the stack. A journal, old but recently rebound. Strange, Bret thought, that old Radcliffe would choose one book out of so many for repair. He opened it carefully. The pages were no less brittle just because the binding had been repaired. He stared at the bookplate. The neat script read ‘Charlotte Radcliffe, July 1864’. His breath caught in his throat. Charlotte was Jessamyn’s mother. He recalled from the Radcliffe family Bible that Jessamyn’s parents had married in July of 1840. Perhaps this journal had been an anniversary present.

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He reread the plate. July 1864. Only three months before Jessamyn’s death. His hand trembled against the yellowed page. For the first time, he was connected with someone who had known her and loved her in her other life. Slowly, hesitantly, he turned the book to the last entry, dated October 15. Charlotte described Jessamyn’s penchant for flirting with the soldiers they tended at the hospital and their devotion to her. Bret made a mental note to himself to ask what the soldiers’ birthday gift to her had been. Her mother went on to discuss the preparations for the birthday ball, how they had borrowed and hoarded sugar for the cake and punch and bartered with a local blockade runner for the silk to make her gown. Charlotte had made no further entries in her diary. Jessamyn’s birthday ball, and her death, had followed just a few days later. Yolanda’s call to supper broke into his thoughts. He carried Charlotte’s diary with him and dropped it off by his bedside table on the way downstairs. Oliver was already at the table, digging into a steaming dish of chicken and dumplings. He’d brought reading material to the table with him, a habit Bret didn’t begrudge him being a mealtime reader himself, so conversation was minimal. “I’m surprised Harry and Paul aren’t here, too,” Bret commented to Yolanda after again expressing his appreciation for her cooking. “We seem to have plenty. Even with the chow hound here.” He nodded toward Oliver. “Hey, I’m still a growing boy,” Oliver said, laughing. “I have to keep up my strength.” Yolanda looked was skeptical, but she refrained from comment and returned to the previous topic. “I sent a casserole back to the cottage with Paul while he was here this afternoon. They aren’t sure when they’ll have time to eat, so Harry thought they could just reheat it when they’re ready.” She frowned. “I told Paul to remind Harry that this is not a takeout kitchen, but I couldn’t leave that young man to Harry’s cooking. He’d waste away to nothing.” Oliver finished quickly and excused himself, while Bret relaxed over his coffee and Yolanda prepared to leave for the night. An anguished cry rang through the house. Bret jumped up and ran into the entry, Yolanda on his heels. Oliver appeared at the top of the steps. “My room,” he choked out, his face contorted with rage. Bret took the stairs two at a time, Yolanda right behind. His first thought was for Jessamyn. Had she somehow appeared and frightened his assistant again after promising to leave him alone? Oliver led them down the hall and stopped at the doorway of his room. Bret stepped up beside him, almost afraid to look. Yolanda was less hesitant. She leaned around the corner between the two men and gasped. “Goodness sakes,” she breathed, her tone almost reverent.

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Bret’s own reaction lay somewhere between Oliver’s fury and Yolanda’s quiet shock. He stepped inside the room, carefully avoiding a turned-out dresser drawer, and looked around. The room was devastated. Every drawer of the small dresser had been emptied. Oliver’s belongings, still in boxes since his eviction, covered every inch of the wood floor. The linens had been stripped from the bed and his mattress lay askew. Bret knew this wasn’t wanton destruction. The room had been searched. He turned to Oliver who stood with his back pressed against the wall, his fists clenched at his sides. “Is anything missing?” Oliver shook his head, a gesture that seemed to convey uncertainty rather than negation. “I haven’t taken time to do an inventory.” His reply was more acidly coherent than Bret would have expected. He bent to lift one of the overturned boxes, dropped it, and rounded on Bret. “You know who did this, don’t you? That, that transient you took in, that’s who. No telling what he’s stolen.” He turned back to survey the mess and ran a hand through his tousled hair. “Everything was fine ‘til he got here. And it’s all your fault, Professor.” Bret felt a twinge of guilt. Oliver might be right, he thought. He didn’t know anything about Paul. He’d relied entirely on Harry’s word. Well, not entirely. Some gut instinct had told him Paul could be trusted. But even gut instincts were wrong sometimes. He turned to Yolanda. “Give Harry a call at the cottage and have him and Paul come up here.” Yolanda nodded and left the room. “I should have her call the police, too,” Bret suggested. “I suppose they could dust for prints or something.” “No!” Oliver’s response was immediate and forceful. “No, that’s not necessary. It doesn’t look like anything’s missing, and I don’t have much of value anyway, I don’t want to cause you any inconvenience. Let’s just try to settle this among ourselves.” Bret frowned. That gut instinct was back with a vengeance. This time he ignored it. “Well, if you’re sure?” “Yes, quite sure, Professor. Thank you.” Yolanda returned shortly and began helping Oliver straighten the mess. A few minutes later, the front door slammed and footsteps sounded on the stairs. Harry reached the room first, with Paul in his wake. “Christ,” Harry exclaimed, looking at the mess. Oliver glanced up at the sound of his voice and spotted Paul. “Well, did you find what you were looking for?” His voice was harsh. “Don’t try to deny it, I know it was you.”

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Harry stepped forward, placing himself between the two younger men. “Now wait a minute. You’re saying you think Paul did this? Why?” “Who else could it have been?” Oliver’s handsome face glowed red. “He’s the only one nobody knows anything about. He was in the house, so he had the opportunity. You take him in out of the kindness of your heart and this is how he repays you. By robbing me.” Bret looked at Paul. “I have to ask. Did you do this?” Paul opened his mouth to reply, but Harry beat him to it. “Don’t be ridiculous. Paul’s been with me all afternoon. He stopped by to pick up a casserole from Yolanda, but he was only gone a few minutes.” He gave a snort of anger. “He couldn’t have had time to do all this.” “Well, who could it have been, then?” Oliver stormed at him. “I don’t know. But whoever it was had plenty of time. They were careful.” He gestured around the room. “Look, nothing’s broken. It was all carefully dumped and sifted through.” He turned to Bret. “Have you called the police yet, Professor?” Bret shook his head. “Oliver thinks we don’t need to bring the police into it. He says there’s nothing missing.” Harry looked skeptical. “I guess if that’s okay with you.” He shrugged. “We prob’ly better keep the place locked up from now on, though. Might’ve been treasure hunters, a’ course, but I don’t know how they’d a’ gotten in without anyone seeing.” Bret nodded his agreement, but the thought struck him that until that very morning, he’d thought Paul was a treasure hunter. “You and Paul can turn in, Harry,” he said. “There’s not much more to do here tonight.” He glanced at Oliver who stood a little apart, glaring blackly at Paul. “Whoever did this won’t be back tonight. Tomorrow you can check the locks. I’ll have a look at the windows and doors. Maybe we can tell where they got in.” They left, passing Yolanda who was on her way in with a tea tray laden with a teapot and cups. She set it on the ransacked dresser, poured a steaming cup and urged it on Oliver. He accepted grudgingly, took a cautious sip and grimaced. “Robbery isn’t enough tonight? I get to be poisoned, too?” “You hush and drink that,” Yolanda scolded. “It’s chamomile. To settle your nerves.” She handed another cup to Bret and poured one for herself. Bret took a healthy swallow to set an example for Oliver, who paced the floor, cup in hand. “What makes you think I’m not calm?” Oliver stopped suddenly and tea sloshed onto his shirt. He cursed and mopped at the damp spot. “You have to do something about this, Professor.” Bret smiled. “Sorry, but you’ll have to do your own laundry.”

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Oliver wasn’t about to be cajoled into a good humor. “Not this,” he said, exasperated. “That thief Harry’s harboring.” “Look, we can’t prove Paul did this.” Bret sat down on the bed. “Harry vouches for his whereabouts. Besides, you said nothing was taken, so there was no theft.” “I haven’t checked every item. Something might have been taken that I haven’t found yet.” His voice rose again. Yolanda spoke up. “Perhaps we should start fresh tomorrow. Everyone is a little wound up. The tea will help you sleep.” Oliver’s eyes flashed a protest, but Bret preempted him. “That’s a good idea. Yolanda, why don’t you go home? We’ll straighten up here and call it a night.” He paused, then added, “Oh and lock the door behind you.” She left them alone. Bret made a move toward the overturned boxes, but Oliver stopped him. “Hell, Professor, I’ll take care of this tomorrow,” he said. “Don’t bother about it.” “Are you sure?” Bret asked. “It’s no bother.” “Quite sure, thank you.” Oliver’s voice was unexpectedly calm. He did seem more relaxed, Bret noted. Maybe Yolanda’s tea was working. The worst, he felt sure, was over. “Fine. Goodnight, then.” “Goodnight.” Oliver closed the door shut almost against Bret’s departing back. Bret went downstairs and walked through the house, checking the locks and making sure the windows were closed and latched. Nothing appeared out of the ordinary. If the prowler? thief? had gotten in any way except right through the front door, he hadn’t left any traces behind. Maybe it was Paul. Harry could be wrong. How much could he know about the man after all? But why? If nothing was taken, what could be the possible motive? Intimidation? A threat? Oliver and Paul didn’t appear to know each other. Neither had shown any signs of recognition or reaction when they were introduced, other than Oliver’s suspicion. But Bret was beginning to suspect that was simply part of his assistant’s personality. Not pleasant, he admitted, but not worth taking this kind of action. That left a couple possibilities. Either the housebreaker had been someone else in the household or a stranger seeking valuables in the room. Or perhaps Oliver had ransacked his own room. Bret dismissed that idea almost immediately. It smacked unrealistically of some sort of spy movie. And again, what would be the purpose? Finally, he thought, there was the chance that something had been taken that Oliver hadn’t discovered yet or that he wouldn’t admit to losing. In any case, the only thing they could do about it was to wait and see what happened. He walked down the hall to his own room, suddenly exhausted, and prepared for bed. His last waking thought was to remember to ask Jessamyn whether she had seen anything. 123

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Bret slept well despite the excitement of the previous night. The drive to the college in the bright morning air further refreshed him. Although summer had officially begun, the hot weather was taking its time in coming. It could stay away altogether as far as Bret was concerned. He rolled down his window to catch the cool, crisp breeze. He passed the morning uneventfully, reading Charlotte Radcliffe’s journal and taking notes while his class completed their midterm exams. Bret returned to Bonnie Doon in the early afternoon and looked for Oliver. Perhaps his assistant would know by now whether anything had been taken. Oliver’s door was closed. Bret knocked. No one answered. He opened the door slowly and peered in. The dresser drawers had been returned to their places. The boxes were refilled and stacked neatly against the wall. No evidence of last night’s events remained. There was no sign of Oliver himself. He went in search of Yolanda and found her sweeping the back porch. “Have you seen Oliver recently?” She frowned. “He went for a walk about a half hour ago. I haven’t seen him since.” “I’ll check the garden,” Bret said. “By the way, you handled him well last night.” Yolanda flashed him a bright grin. “I have a child of my own, Professor. Oliver’s not so different, just older.” Bret nodded. “Old enough to have outgrown temper tantrums, I’d have hoped.” “It takes some boys longer,” she replied. Still smiling, Bret walked across the lawn to the grove, the only place in the main garden where Oliver would be unseen from the house. He might have gone as far as the fields, but the afternoon had grown warmer and Oliver seemed to value his comfort. A long walk in the sun wouldn’t be his cup of tea. Bret started along the path that wound through the trees. The shade was still pleasant. “Oliver,” he called. No answer. He called again and thought he heard a noise in response. The sound repeated, louder—a groan, followed by a low moan of pain. Bret followed the noise and caught a glimpse of movement in the hedges just off the path. He stepped closer. It was Oliver. He lay on his side in a clump of azaleas facing the path, his eyes closed and his face pale. A thin stream of blood trickled from a deep-looking gash in his head.

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Chapter Eighteen Bret knelt beside the groaning man. Oliver’s eyes opened. “Professor? That you?” he murmured weakly. “What hit me?” “Shhh. Don’t try to move.” Bret placed a hand on Oliver’s shoulder, partly to comfort him, but also to keep him from rising. He leaned close to get a look at the wound, but Oliver’s blood-matted hair obscured the injury. Scalp wounds were profuse bleeders—he remembered that detail from some mystery novel—so it probably looked worse than it actually was. Still, better not take chances. He pulled his handkerchief from his pocket and, remembering his Basic First Aid, folded it into a thick square and pressed it against the wound. Oliver moaned and his hand came up in response to the pressure and Bret placed it on the compress. “Keep that there,” he ordered, not sure if Oliver was coherent enough to follow directions. Apparently he was. His hand stayed in place, pressing the reddening cloth against his scalp. Bret rose and looked around uncertainly. He should call an ambulance, he thought. He glanced down at his patient. Oliver’s eyes were closed, his breathing regular, but rapid. Bret didn’t want to leave him alone. Maybe he could get him to the house. “Oliver, can you hear me?” The responding groan sounded like an affirmative. “Do you think you can walk? We need to get you back to the house.” Oliver struggled to sit up. “I can try.” Bret crouched beside him and supported him to a semi-reclining position that brought to mind Devis’s painting of the death of Nelson. If Oliver asked for a kiss, however, Bret fully intended to drop him. “I think I can stand, if you’ll help me up.” His voice sounded stronger. Bret rose and clasped him under the arms to assist him to his feet. Oliver slumped weakly against him for a moment, then, regaining his composure, pulled himself upright. He stood, wobbly, but erect, then nodded reassurance at Bret. “Do you remember what happened?” Bret asked. Oliver shook his head, wincing at the motion. “I remember walking along the path and hearing a noise behind me. The sound of shoes on the gravel. Then someone hit me and everything went black, to use a tired cliché. I didn’t see who it was.”

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Bret scanned the site. It was probably too much to hope he’d find some kind of clue at the scene of the attack. A metallic glint caught his eye. He blinked and looked again. No, his imagination wasn’t playing tricks on him. Something had been shoved into the dense hedge of honeysuckle a few feet off the path. Oliver turned to look as well. “What is it?” “I’m not sure.” Bret parted the fragrant, viney growth and reached in to grasp the metal tube. The upper part pulled free easily, a gray metal shaft with a plastic hand-grip at the top. The bottom held fast in the foliage. He yanked loose a handful of vines to free the other end, a flat plastic disk about eight inches in diameter. “It’s a metal detector,” Oliver blurted. Bret nodded. “I’m familiar with them, thanks.” He pulled it out of the vegetation and something else in the hedge fell to the ground with a metallic clank as its support disappeared. Bret handed the detector to Oliver, who leaned on it for support. Then he reached back into the honeysuckle, feeling around near the ground. His hand closed around hard metal, cool from the shade of the vines. He pulled. The object, though heavier, was smaller than the detector and came free easily. It was all metal, with a triangular handle at the top, a short shaft, and a hinged spade at the bottom, now folded up to form a more compact unit. Bret held it up for Oliver to see. A thin smudge of red brightened one side of the dark-olive blade. Oliver’s pallid face paled even further. “Was that what hit me, some kind of folding shovel?” Bret nodded grimly. It was beginning to look like Oliver might have been right about last night. “It’s not just a folding shovel,” he said, his brief and best-forgotten stint in college ROTC coming back to him in a rush. “They’re used as camping or emergency shovels, but they’re best known as ‘entrenching tools’. In the Army, they’re called ‘Etools’, for short.” “Army?” Oliver stared at him, then his eyes widened. “It was Paul Grady. It had to be. I knew he was trouble, right from the first.” “Now, hold on. Just because he was in the Army, doesn’t mean he’s the one who did this. You can buy these things by the dozen at any surplus store. Besides, what possible reason would he have for attacking you?” “Revenge for my accusing him of breaking into my room,” Oliver’s voice rose. He was definitely regaining his strength. “And if he’s looking for the treasure, which this seems to indicate, he’d be willing to get rid of anyone who stood in his way.” Bret looked at his assistant. “Are you saying this was a murder attempt?” Oliver nodded. His voice dropped to a whisper. “I think he wanted to kill me.” Bret considered the possibility. Paul Grady was a soldier, presumably trained in hand-to-hand combat. He stood several inches taller than Oliver and outweighed him

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substantially. Bret recalled his own tussle with Paul. Somehow, he thought, if Harry’s protégé had wanted Oliver dead, Oliver wouldn’t be here discussing the issue now. As for Paul’s being a treasure hunter, the evidence was almost too obvious. Paul didn’t strike him as the type of criminal who’d be dumb enough to leave an incriminating shovel and metal detector next to the fallen body of his victim, if he had any intention of keeping his plans secret. “Let’s get up to the house,” he said. Oliver needed attention first. He could check out Paul later. “We’ll get you to a doctor. You might need stitches.” Oliver glared at him. “Are you going to get rid of the guy? Or does he have to actually kill someone before you believe he’s the culprit?” “I’ll talk to Harry and find out where Paul was when you were attacked. For all we know, he was on the other side of the plantation. If so, then we’ll know that someone else is on the property.” He started to go, but Oliver stood his ground. “So if Harry can vouch for Paul’s whereabouts that lets him off the hook, huh? He provided an alibi for last night, too, didn’t he? How do you know they aren’t in this together? Have you known Harry that long? Are you so sure you can trust him?” Bret sighed. “I told you last night, if Harry wanted the treasure, he’s had years to search for it. I just don’t think he’s involved. Now let it go. At least until I have a chance to talk to him. Maybe Paul wasn’t with him today. If that’s the case, we’ll deal with it, okay?” Oliver gave a halfhearted nod. They walked back to the house where Yolanda took one look at Oliver and bustled him to a kitchen chair to sit down. She took the sodden handkerchief from him and examined the injury. “How’d this happen, young man?” Her tone was business-like. “Paul Grady attacked me out in the grove.” Yolanda shot a glance at Bret. “Someone attacked him,” he clarified. “We’re not sure who, at this point. I’m going to take Oliver to the doctor. While I’m gone, find Harry and tell him what happened. Tell him I’ll want to talk to him and Paul when I get back.” Yolanda nodded over Oliver’s head, then smoothed his hair back to assess the wound. “It doesn’t look very bad. The bleeding’s stopped. Maybe a couple stitches.” Bret smiled. “You’re not very squeamish, are you?” “I told you, I’ve raised a boy of my own. I’ve seen plenty worse than this.” Oliver rose abruptly. “Before we go, I need to make a phone call. I had a date this evening. I’d guess I’d better cancel it.” He made his unsteady way out of the room leaving Bret and Yolanda alone. “You don’t really think Paul did that, do you?” Yolanda asked softly, raising a skeptical brow.

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Bret shrugged. “I’m not sure what to think. One thing’s certain, though, whatever is going on here has got to stop. Before someone gets seriously hurt.” Yolanda sniffed delicately. “I think if Paul wanted to seriously hurt Oliver, he’d be in a lot worse shape than he is now.” She held Bret’s bloody handkerchief under the faucet and turned on the tap. A stream of pinkish water swirled down the drain. “I’m ready.” Oliver stood in the doorway, clutching the jamb for support. “We shouldn’t be long,” Bret told Yolanda. “Make sure Harry’s here when I get back.” She nodded and walked with them to the front door. “He’ll be here, Professor.” The small urgent-care clinic was a short drive from the house, in one of the many strip-malls and shopping centers that marked the encroachment of twentieth-century life on the old plantations. A nurse ushered Oliver into the back immediately, leaving Bret in the waiting room to peruse back issues of Southern Living and National Geographic. None of the articles managed to distract his thoughts from the present situation. Yolanda appeared to share his opinion of Paul’s abilities. Still, the attack could have been intended as a warning rather than a murder attempt. Paul knew Oliver’s suspicions. He may have planned to intimidate Bret’s assistant into silence before Oliver could use his influence to get Paul thrown off the property. Okay, Bret admitted to himself, it was a motive for the attack. But the details of its execution were sloppy. He didn’t know Paul well, but the man didn’t strike him as careless. And the attack on Oliver had been careless. The equipment left at the scene so clearly pointed to Paul that it was almost as if he had been set up. Framed. The door to the exam rooms opened and Oliver came out, his hair damp and parted oddly over the crown of his head. “Two stitches,” he grimaced, looking, if anything, paler than he had following the attack. “And a tetanus shot. They x-rayed too, just to rule out any fractures.” The doctor met them at the cashier’s window where Bret, feeling obligated as Oliver’s employer, paid the bill. “The laceration was fairly minor,” the doctor said, “but you’d better keep him off ladders for a couple days. He might be a little lightheaded and we don’t want a repeat of that fall.” Bret looked at Oliver questioningly as they left the clinic. “Ladders?” Oliver nodded, his smile sly. “I told him I fell off a ladder clearing gutters at the house. I didn’t think I should tell them I was attacked. They might find it necessary to report this to the police. I think it’s better if we can handle it ourselves, don’t you agree?”

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They drove back to the house in silence, Bret’s mind awhirl with confusion. He had no more reason to distrust Oliver than he did Harry. Maybe Oliver wasn’t the most conscientious employee in the world, but he seemed to be doing the job he was paid to do. And he’d shown no interest in the stories about the treasure, beyond a few historical questions when he’d started. That was natural enough, though, with his interest in local houses. Well, there was no sense worrying about it now, he thought. He’d talk to Harry first. Whether he liked it or not, for now he had to consider Paul the prime suspect. He noticed a van parked in the driveway as he pulled up to the house. A movement at the dining room window caught his eye and he saw Yolanda’s face, drawn and anxious, peering out at him. He climbed out of the car and she met him on the front porch. “I tried to make them wait ‘til you got back, but they said they had your approval.” Her voice was tight with barely suppressed anger. “They just barged in here, loaded down with equipment. Them and that woman.”

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Chapter Nineteen “What woman?” Bret pushed past Yolanda into the house. The foyer looked like a movie set. Several expensive-looking cameras, mounted on tripods, had been trained on the doorways, the staircase, the landing and the ceiling. Sound recording equipment and microphones were similarly placed at intervals around the room. Other electronic devices that Bret didn’t recognize, scopes and chartrecorders, whirred and hummed. Bret heard voices from the parlor and followed them. A pale young man in coke-bottle glasses stood near the wall where the mirror had been and waved some sort of metal wand back and forth over the area. Another man, equipped with a video camera and boom microphone, filmed him. A third technician stuck his head in the door. “Everything’s ready up front, Professor Hall.” He disappeared back out the door. “I’m getting strong energy readings here, Carrie,” the nearsighted young man said. “Nearly off-scale.” Carrie Hall turned from her contemplation of the fireplace to respond. “Set up recorders and temperature sensors in here, too. It’s clearly a scene of strong ectoplasmic activity.” She caught sight of Bret and walked over to him, smiling. “Professor Tyler, I’m so pleased you decided to allow us to investigate your house. We’re already seeing strong evidence of manifestations. This site for instance.” She gestured to the space where the mirror had hung. “A location of tremendous energy. How long ago did this happen?” Bret took a deep breath. “Professor Hall, there’s been a misunderstanding. I didn’t authorize this.” Carrie appeared not to hear him. She bustled over to the wall her technician was scanning and studied the meter readings. “Incredible. Come look at this, Professor Tyler.” “Professor Hall, did you hear me?” He followed her across the room. She turned to blink up at him, her expression questioning, but before Bret could repeat himself, a loud wail sounded from the entry. Carrie’s eyes widened behind her thick glasses. The two technicians sprang into action, dashing into the foyer with their equipment. Carrie followed them with Bret at her heels. “The temperature sensors have alarms built in,” she explained over her shoulder to Bret, her voice gleeful. “It appears we have a presence.”

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The technician with the glasses grabbed up a handheld instrument, a kind of black box with a long probe on the front. He turned, aiming it at various points around the room. “A temperature sensor,” Carrie explained, her voice barely above a whisper. “Spirit manifestations are often accompanied by fluctuations in temperature, usually cold.” No kidding. Bret knew he should throw the lot of them out now. Before something happened. But, on the other hand, he wondered just what Jessamyn would do. And how this group of freaks would react when she did it. Against his better judgment, he waited. The technician with the sensor stopped abruptly, the probe aimed at the balcony rail. “There, Professor,” his voice shook, whether with excitement or fear Bret couldn’t tell. “There’s a twenty degree temperature drop at the middle of that landing.” Bret looked up, almost hesitantly, knowing what he’d see. He was right. She was there, leaning on the rail, an expression of childlike delight and mischief on her delicate face. The technicians rushed about, training cameras and microphones on the spot. Carrie stepped into the center of the room, her face flushed. She spoke, her voice rising dramatically above the hum of electronics. “Spirit, are you with us? Give us a sign, please.” Jessamyn caught Bret’s eye. He frowned slightly and shook his head almost imperceptibly. Please don’t do anything, he willed, hoping she could somehow hear his thoughts. She grinned widely and winked at him. A loud jingling sound filled the room. He glanced up, as did Carrie and her crew. Above them, the crystal chandelier suspended directly over the parapsychologist’s head began to vibrate. The technicians dashed to man their cameras, while Carrie, alarm on her face, moved with alacrity out from under the dancing crystal cascade. Bret smiled, despite himself. The jangling stopped abruptly, every pendant of the chandelier ceasing movement at the same instant. The group stood as if frozen in time, completely silent. Only Jessamyn moved, shaking with convulsive laughter on the balcony. Bret bit his lips to keep from doing the same. Carrie’s team members glanced at each other, then flew into action, checking their recorders and cameras to make sure they’d captured the event. The young man who’d been filming in the parlor pulled a long strip of paper from a chart-recorder to study his data, letting the roll of chart paper dangle from his hand to the floor. The temptation was apparently too much for Jessamyn. An icy wind roared through the foyer, scattering paper, notebooks and equipment in its path. It snatched the rolled paper from the hands of the startled technician and spread it through the house like toilet paper. The rest of the group watched helplessly, clutching doorjambs or stair rails against the force of the blast. 131

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Then it stopped, as suddenly as it had begun. Carrie stepped forward. Gray-brown hair dangled around her face where it had been blasted out of her neat bun. Her suit jacket hung askew off one shoulder. Her nearsighted assistant crawled about on the floor, feeling for his thick glasses that had come off in the maelstrom. Another technician stood reeling in foot after foot of strip-chart paper like a fisherman bringing in a length of broken line. The third technician had disappeared. Bret recalled seeing a white coat heading for the back door. Carrie blew a strand of hair out of her eyes and advanced on Bret. She peered up at him, her expression grave. “Professor, you are in serious danger if you remain in this house. I can attempt to lay the spirit to rest, but if I am unable to do so, you must leave this house.” “I don’t think that’s necessary…” Bret began, but Carrie wasn’t listening. Again. She turned to face the balcony, raised her arms above her head and began to chant. Latin. Bret could make out a few words. He glanced up at Jessamyn, still on the balcony. She had stopped laughing and now watched the little woman with an expression of amusement. “Professor Hall, I think it’s time you left.” Bret wasn’t getting through to her. He looked meaningfully at the two remaining technicians. They gazed at him doubtfully, then back at Carrie who continued to chant, oblivious to anything else in the room. Bret looked again at Jessamyn. Her amused expression had faded, replaced by one of growing concern, then alarm. She appeared fainter to him, and, as he watched, grew mistier by the moment. “Bret!” Her anguished cry spurred him into action. He lunged forward and grabbed Carrie Hall by the arm, whirling her to face him. “That’s enough, damn it. All of you, out! Get out.” He yanked his diminutive colleague toward the front door, swung it open, and propelled her onto the porch. Then he rounded on her technicians. Under his hostile gaze, they hurried to collect their equipment and, laden with armloads of instrumentation, made their way toward the door. “Not so fast.” Bret blocked their exit and reached for them. Too burdened with expensive equipment to struggle, they stood without argument while he relieved the cameras of their film and pulled the cassettes out of the recorders. He yanked the chart paper from an iron grip and handed it to Yolanda who had wisely decided to remain outside. “Burn that,” he ordered, and she nodded in reply. He turned back to the technicians. “I didn’t see or hear anything today. And if you come back on my property again, I’ll have you arrested for trespassing.” Carrie Hall stood at the bottom of the steps and comforted her crew as they passed her on their way to the van. She scowled up at Bret. “If you didn’t want us here, why did you have your assistant call and say you’d changed your mind? Why did you invite us?” 132

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Bret looked down at her from the porch. “What? I didn’t change my mind. And I didn’t have anyone call you.” He paused. “Wait a minute, who did you say called you?” “Your assistant,” Carrie said impatiently. “Paul Grady.” Bret caught his breath. Paul again. “Paul Grady is not my assistant and I gave no instructions to invite you here.” Suddenly the fight went out of him. “Take your people and go, Professor Hall.” Carrie drew herself up, the picture of wounded dignity. “Very well, Professor. But you know as well as I what happened here today. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” She spun on her heel and climbed into the van her team already had idling in the drive. Bret turned to Yolanda. “Where did Oliver go?” He’d just realized when Carrie mentioned his assistant that he hadn’t seen him since their return. Yolanda nodded and gestured toward Bret’s car. Bret could make out the form of the younger man in the front seat. Asleep. He’d never gotten out of the car. Bret shook his head. “Tell Harry I want to see him and Paul in the kitchen as soon as possible. I’ll be back in a few minutes. There’s something I need to take care of.” He paused. “And Yolanda, thank you for trying to stop them.” The housekeeper looked embarrassed. “I’m sorry I couldn’t. I didn’t think you’d invite them here, but they were so confident they had your permission.” Bret nodded. “It’s all right. You did your best.” He started inside. “I’ll be down in a little while.” Jessamyn had gone from the balcony. Bret took the steps two at a time. The blue bedroom, some intuition told him. He went in and closed the door behind him. “Jessamyn,” he whispered, praying he hadn’t been too late. He’d been so busy throwing out Carrie and her crew that he hadn’t noticed whether Jessamyn had gone away of her own accord or whether… His thought trailed off, his mind unwilling to even consider the possibility. “Bret.” He heard her first, then she stood before him. “Oh, Bret. She almost made me leave you.” Her eyes widened with remembered fear. She looked so beautiful, so vulnerable. “I never thought she’d have so much power.” Relief flooded through him, leaving him speechless. He opened his arms to her. She hesitated a second, surprise and sudden warmth in her eyes. Then she ran to him. He closed his eyes and felt her arms encircle him. He lowered his cheek to her silken hair and breathed in her honeysuckle scent, no longer caring whether he could see her or not.

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“I almost lost you,” he said. “I’m sorry I waited so long to stop her. I didn’t realize what she was doing would work.” He clutched her against him. Her voice trembled. “It wasn’t Heaven, Bret, the place she was sending me. She wasn’t helping me to ‘pass over’. The things she was saying…” She gave a shuddering sob. “It was an exorcism. She was trying to cast me out.” He ran his hands over her gently, fighting to quell his rising anger. No wonder Carrie’s Latin chant had sounded so familiar. Of all the stupid, ignorant… Had that woman any clue what she was trying to do? He could only hope she hadn’t found any other restless spirits to “help”. Who had put her up to it? His “assistant”, Paul? That was the next item on the agenda. He had believed Harry when Oliver’s room was ransacked. He’d even been skeptical that Paul was involved in Oliver’s injury. But this was one straw too many, since Paul’s arrival. The man had to go. “No one will hurt you now,” he promised, unable to keep the anger out of his voice. He’d come so close to losing her, without ever realizing until that moment how much he loved her. Reason struggled to surface, but he forced the inner voice silent. Logic had no place here. Whatever the puzzle of her existence, Jessamyn was here, she was real and she was his. Nothing else mattered. He twined his fingers in her hair and tilted her head back, seeking her mouth with his. He found her lips, warm, soft and sweet as rose petals. Their heated touch, the trembling ardor of her response, threatened to shatter his very soul. He opened his eyes and looked down, feeling her in his arms, yet unable to see her there. He no longer cared. “Jessamyn, I love you. I’ll always love you. I was stupid not to know it before now. Nothing will take you from me.” Her voice was soft, fear replaced with passion. “I’ve loved you from the first, Bret. I could only hope that somehow you’d come to feel the same.” “I do. I always have. I’ve just been a fool not to realize it.” He claimed her lips again, feeling them part for him. She was invisible to him, but he didn’t need to see. He would learn every line and curve of her body by touch, until he knew her like he knew himself. He slipped his tongue between her lips, probing the soft depths of her mouth. Jessamyn’s tongue met his in a passionate dance of exploration. She sighed and melted against him, at once languid and excited as heat blossomed deep within her. Bret kissed a fiery trail down her throat and she arched against his hand as he cupped one round breast through the lace of her bodice, lifting its top to his mouth as his thumb caressed her hardened nipple. She gave the neck of the gown a hard yank downward and freed her breasts for his touch. Bret groaned approval as his hands found her breasts bare. He dropped to a seat on the foot of the bed and pulled her against him, pillowing his face between her warm, soft orbs, then kissing and massaging each in turn. Jessamyn moaned softly as waves of pleasure like bolts of electricity flowed back and forth between her breasts and the hot, wet place between her thighs. When he closed his mouth over her right nipple, she

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thought she might shatter into a million pieces at the touch his wet, stroking tongue against her sensitive flesh. He licked and sucked her, urging the deep pink bud to hardness as his fingers worked the lacings at the back of her gown. He pulled her between his legs as he treated her other breast to the same caresses, and she felt his hardness straining at the front of his trousers. She reached down, slowly, suddenly shy, and ran her fingers over the glorious bulge. Bret gasped and pressed himself against her hand. “Oh God, Jessamyn,” he murmured huskily. “You don’t know how I’ve longed to hold you like this. You nearly drove me mad when you touched me in the shower.” “I loved touching you like that, Bret. Since then it’s all I’ve thought about.” She reached back to help him pull the last of her laces free, then unfastened the ties of her hoop and let it drop to the floor. She stepped away from Bret, becoming visible to him as she slid her gown down over her hips and let it fall in a pile of silk and lace. Bret watched her, eyes wide, as she pulled her muslin chemise, already shoved down to reveal her breasts, up over her head and off. She added it to the pile on the floor, then stood before Bret naked from the waist up, her petticoats and pantalets covering her lower half. Reaching up, she ran her hands over her breasts, kneading them and pressing them together, lifting them toward him, then brushing the flats of her palms over her erect nipples. Bret licked his lips and she could see the front of his pants bulging further with his arousal. “Should I take off my petticoats, Bret?” she teased. “Yes.” His voice was a hoarse whisper. “I want to see all of you.” Jessamyn reached behind her, not taking her gaze from his, and unhooked her top underskirt of heavy, quilted silk. It fell to the floor to form a creamy, glistening mound around her ankles. She unfastened the linen petticoat beneath it and let that drop, as well. The third petticoat was of fine cotton lawn, so sheer she knew Bret could see her pantalets beneath it. She unhooked it and stepped out of it, only the knee-length cotton undergarments between her and Bret’s hungry gaze. But she was no longer shy. She wanted him to see her, to feel her, to know every inch of her body. She reached for the lacing of her waistband. “Wait.” Bret stood up. “I want to look at you.” He stepped toward her, pausing before her to drink in the sight of her. God, she was beautiful, and as hot as any fantasy he’d ever had. Her blonde curls cascaded over her shoulders to fall in silken tendrils down over her bare breasts, not obscuring but enhancing their fullness. Her skin was like alabaster, her waist tiny and her belly flat where the band of her undergarment rested. He stepped behind her, noting the perfect shape of her back and shoulders, the curve of her bottom below the thin fabric. “I want to touch you,” he whispered, and reached around to pull her against him from behind, his hand splayed on her now-invisible belly. He kissed her soft shoulders

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and stroked her breasts with one hand as he slid the other from her stomach to her hip, then downward to slip a little at a time beneath the waist of her pantalets. Jessamyn gasped at his touch at the top of her thigh, then again when his fingers moved inward to caress the sensitive curve between her thigh and abdomen. They continued their descent, finding the soft fur of her mound. She quivered in his arms as he combed his fingers through the blonde thatch, then continued lower, curving his hand to cup her sex. She moaned and arched against him, pushing herself into his hand, feeling wildly wanton. Yes, she thought. This was what she’d wanted for such a long time. Bret’s other hand dropped from her breasts to the waist of her undergarments and found the drawstring that held them up. He pulled it slowly as one finger of his other hand gently probed her hot, wet cleft. She spread her legs farther to allow him better access, but he suddenly released her. At the same time, her pantalets fell from her waist and Bret stepped away from her. “Let me see you now, Jess,” he breathed. “Let me see all of you.” She became visible for him, standing before him completely naked. He shook his head and sank back to a seat on the bed. “God, you’re so beautiful, so sexy.” He held out his arms. “Come to me.” She stepped into his embrace, her visible form vanishing as she did so, replaced by her tangible body, still wet and throbbing from his earlier caresses. He pulled her across his lap and took her mouth with his own, one arm cradling her while his free hand moved down her body to settle once more between thighs she parted for him eagerly. He began to touch her, his fingers rubbing along her cleft from top to bottom, tracing the curves of her nether lips, feeling the moist silkiness of her most private places. Once, twice, his fingertips brushed the sensitive, swollen pearl of pleasure, and she gasped and bucked against his hand. Bret laughed low in his throat and ran his finger over the delicate flesh again, stroking it more deliberately as she shuddered in his arms. Jessamyn gasped and arched against his hand. “I’ve wanted this for such a long time. Please don’t stop touching me.” “I wouldn’t think of it. There are other sensitive places, though.” He moved his hand back, then slipped one finger inside her. Jessamyn moaned, wrapping herself around his hand. Heat and pleasure surged through her. She wanted him there, wanted to pull him inside her. “Should I stop now?” he whispered. She lay back over his lap and spread her legs wide for him. “No, please, Bret. Don’t stop.” He moved his hand in a gentle caress that gradually took on a more rhythmic motion. Heat suffused Jessamyn’s body, then focused between her legs as all her energy seemed to concentrate there, building, pulsing, throbbing. She thrust against his hand,

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matching his strokes as the pressure built within her, until she felt she might explode with the joy of it. “Come on, darling,” Bret murmured. “That’s it. Let me stroke your hot, soft pussy. I want to give you some of the pleasure you gave me.” She pictured Bret again in the shower, his muscular body slick with water, his phallus long and hard in her hands. She imagined riding it, straddling him as she had in his dream, spreading her legs over him and lowering herself onto that thick, hard column, drawing him into her. The image sent her over the edge, her climax claiming her. She spasmed against him, legs quivering wildly as waves of pleasure rolled over her, cresting and breaking again and again. At last they subsided, and she lay for a moment limp and spent in Bret’s arms, her eyes closed. When she opened them to look at his face, she saw satisfaction and wonder mingled in his expression. Puzzled, she glanced down, then realized what he was seeing. She lay in his arms, naked and glistening, her pale skin glowing pink from her exertion. He was holding her and she was visible. Somewhere downstairs a door slammed. Bret caught his breath and looked again at Jessamyn. How was it possible? At the moment of her orgasm, she’d become visible to him. He’d watched her buck and strain against his hand, back curved, nipples hard, shapely legs outstretched. He could see her. Still could see her and touch her at the same time. He could feel his cock pressed hard into her hip, could see it there straining against his jeans in an effort to join with her hot flesh. How? A voice called from downstairs. “Professor?” Yolanda. He started and Jessamyn sat upright. “Damn,” he swore softly. “You have to go.” Jessamyn rose, fading to sheerness as she stepped away from him. “Professor Tyler?” Yolanda’s voice came again. “I’ll be right down,” Bret called. He looked at Jessamyn. “That was…I mean…” She nodded, smiling. “Go.” Then she faded to nothingness and he knew she was gone. Bret splashed cold water on his face and ran a comb through his hair. A cold shower would have worked better, he thought, but remembered the shower with Jessamyn and banished the thought from his mind. He took a few deep breaths, willing his arousal to subside, then ran downstairs to meet Harry and Paul in the kitchen. Yolanda, clearly sensing a rising storm, left to find something to clean. “Harry, Paul,” he said by way of greeting before taking a seat at the kitchen table. “Paul, where were you this morning?” Harry started to speak up, but Paul gestured him quiet. “We did some work on the garden masonry, then we went out to the old slave kitchen to strip it and get it ready to repaint.”

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“Both you and Harry were there? Together the whole time?” “The whole time,” Harry said. “What’s this all about, Professor?” “Last night, Oliver’s room was searched. This morning someone attacked him in the grove. He thinks it was Paul. Both times.” Harry gave a disgusted sigh. “I told you last night, Bret, Paul was only out of my sight a few minutes. And this morning not at all. Now I know that little weasel is your assistant, but I trust Paul here a whole lot further than him.” “Harry, Oliver’s character isn’t the issue here. I’m afraid Paul’s is.” He went to the broom closet where he’d put the metal detector and shovel for safekeeping, opened it and pulled out the items. “We found these in the hedge where Oliver was attacked.” He handed them to Paul. Paul gave the metal detector to Harry. “I’ve never seen this before, Professor. My word on it.” “And those shovels are a dime a dozen,” Harry added. “You can pick ‘em up almost anywhere.” Paul smiled a little sheepishly. “Not exactly, Harry. This one’s mine.” Harry and Bret both said, “What?” in unison. “It’s mine.” Paul pointed to a series of numbers roughly etched into the underside of the handle. “My serial number,” he explained. “This has been missing for a couple weeks. I thought I’d just mislaid it. I swear I didn’t attack Oliver with it. And I don’t know why it was out in the grove.” Harry slammed the counter with his fist. “God-dangit, why didn’t you tell me about this?” “There wasn’t anything to tell. I thought I’d misplaced it. I had my gear stashed all over the place out there and I hadn’t used it in ages. Sorry, Harry, but I didn’t think it mattered.” “There’s one more thing, Harry,” Bret interrupted. “Someone called Carrie Hall and told her she had my permission to turn this house into a circus with her ghostbusters.” Harry scowled. “Is that who that old bat was? I thought they were exterminators or something.” Bret didn’t tell Harry how close his guess was. He shook his head. “I’d already told her ‘no’. When I threw them out, she said my assistant, Paul Grady, had called with my invitation.” Paul’s mouth dropped open. “It wasn’t me, Professor Tyler. I don’t know anything about it. I don’t even know who that woman is.” “I want to believe you. And Harry. But everything points to you, Paul. In the interest of keeping peace around here, I have to ask you to leave. I’m sorry.” “But Bret,” Harry protested.

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“No, Harry. Look, I’m not bringing in the police because I have no real proof here. But face it, all of this started when Paul arrived. All the evidence, however circumstantial, points to him. I have no choice.” “But…but,” Harry sputtered, but Paul cut him off. “The professor’s right, Harry. He has no choice.” He turned to Bret. “I can see your point. You’re making a mistake, though. There’s nothing more I can do. At least you have Harry.” He grinned, his blue eyes bright. “I’ll gather up my gear. Can I get a lift to town?” “Of course.” Bret felt suddenly unsure of himself. He wanted to trust this man, he realized. Somehow all of his common sense had flown out the window today. He fought the urge. “And I’ll pay you whatever Harry says we owe you.” Harry’s scowl seemed permanently etched on his face. “Come on, I’ll help you get your stuff together.” Paul hesitated, then turned to Bret and held out his hand. “Thanks anyway. I understand, really.” Bret took his hand and nodded, feeling like an absolute heel. After a moment, Paul released his steely grip and turned back to Harry. Then they left for the caretaker’s cottage. Bret watched them go, struggling to keep from running after them and apologizing. He’d made his decision and acted resolutely. Everything pointed to Paul as the culprit. He even admitted the E-tool was his. But he certainly didn’t act like a thief and assailant. Well, he thought, one thing in favor of his decision. Oliver would be pleased. The doorbell rang. What now? Bret wondered. He waited, then heard the sound of Yolanda’s steps heading for the door. Relieved not to have to face another visitor, he sank down at the kitchen table. “May I help you,” Yolanda was saying, at the door. “Yes please,” a familiar feminine voice answered and Bret caught his breath. “I’m not sure if this is the right house. Does Professor Bret Tyler live here? I’m his fiancée, Carla Stewart.”

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Chapter Twenty Jessamyn stared at the young woman on the front porch. Carla, Bret’s fiancée. And she was beautiful. Jessamyn wanted to run to her room and cry, but she felt pinned to the spot, unable to move. She could only stare at the tall brunette at the door. “Please, come in,” Yolanda was saying. “I’m Yolanda Patterson, Professor Tyler’s housekeeper. He’ll be so thrilled to see you. But he didn’t tell us you were arriving so soon.” Carla stepped inside and looked around the entry. “Oh, my. This is lovely. He wrote about it, of course, but I could never really picture it.” She turned back to Yolanda. “Actually, he didn’t know I’d be here this soon. I wanted to surprise him.” I’m sure you’ve succeeded at that, Jessamyn thought angrily. She moved closer for a better look at her rival. Carla was tall and willowy, dressed in black jeans and a red t-shirt. Her shiny, dark hair fell to her shoulders straight and impossibly smooth, like a cap of polished ebony. Her fair skin made her lips seem even rosier in contrast and she had the greenest eyes Jessamyn had ever seen on a person. Cat eyes. At that moment, Bret appeared in the dining room doorway. Carla saw him and the emerald eyes that had struck Jessamyn as hard and icy, warmed and softened to a misty shade like rain on springtime grass. Jessamyn caught her breath as the woman ran to him and he folded her into his embrace. She shouldn’t watch anymore, she couldn’t bear it, but she found herself compelled to stay. In Bret’s arms, Carla rested her head on his shoulder. “Sweetheart, I’m so happy to see you. I’ve missed you.” “I’ve missed you, too,” Bret said over her shoulder, scanning the room behind his fiancée. Was he looking for her? Jessamyn wondered. She had stayed invisible on purpose to keep from complicating things, especially after what they’d just done. From across the room, she watched the mix of emotions at play in his face. Worry furrowed his brow and he looked both surprised and unhappy at once. Perhaps he wasn’t pleased to see Carla, Jessamyn hoped. Maybe he’d send her away. “I wasn’t expecting you for another couple weeks,” he said. “What happened to your class?” Carla smiled. “Doctor Abbott went into premature labor and her doctor confined her to bed rest for the remainder of her pregnancy. Since we only had two sessions left in the program and it’s not graded, the class voted to end early. So I decided to fly down and surprise you.” She looked at him earnestly. “Are you surprised?”

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“More than surprised,” Bret said. Carla stepped back out of his arms, a little frown wrinkling her brow. “I hope you don’t mind. I know it’s not like me, but I really wanted to be here with you. I couldn’t help myself. I guess I just couldn’t wait to see the house.” She looked around her. “Bret, it’s beautiful. May I have a tour?” He nodded. “Sure, of course. There’s still a little work yet to do, of course. And I don’t have much furniture yet.” Yolanda, who had been watching at a distance, stepped forward. “Where would you like Miss Carla’s bags, Professor?” Bret hesitated and Carla spoke up. “Let me look at the rooms first and I’ll pick one for myself, if that’s all right?” “Okay,” Bret agreed. To Yolanda he said, “Just leave the bags and we’ll get her settled in later. Oh, and is Oliver still in the car?” Yolanda wrinkled her nose. “No, I woke him up. I don’t know where he’s got to now. Probably upstairs, napping.” “Well, he’s had a rough day.” Bret looked at Carla, who was watching him curiously. “I’ll tell you about it later. It’s been pretty, um, hectic around here.” They started through the house and Jessamyn followed a safe distance behind. She sensed Bret was aware of her presence. He glanced behind them frequently and seemed to lose his train of thought as he explained various details of the remodeling. Carla apparently noticed it, too. In the parlor, after seeing the rest of the main floor, she asked, “Is everything okay, Bret? You seem a little tense.” Bret shook his head. “No, everything’s fine. I guess I’m just worried about whether you’ll like the place.” “You silly.” Carla leaned forward to kiss his cheek casually. “I love it. It’s wonderful.” Jessamyn clutched her throat and made a gagging sound. Bret looked up, shock on his face, and shot a quick glance at Carla who was examining the space where the mirror had been, seemingly oblivious to any strange noises. “What happened here?” she asked. “An accident,” Bret’s voice went suddenly hoarse. “I’ve ordered a replacement. Should be here next week.” Coward, Jessamyn thought, leaning against the fireplace. All he had to say was, “the house is haunted and I’m in love with the ghost, so you have to leave”. But she knew he wouldn’t. “What a shame,” Carla said. “I expect a mirror that size costs a fortune these days.” “It’s pretty expensive,” Bret agreed. “The old glass was original, though, and very brittle. That’s why it shattered so easily. A new panel should be a lot sturdier.”

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“True, but new glass just doesn’t have the same character. Well, hopefully nothing will happen to the rest of these old panels.” She left the mirror and walked over to the fireplace to examine its detail. Don’t tempt me, Jessamyn thought. Carla had stopped a few feet from her. Jessamyn, curious, stepped away from the hearth and approached her. The dark-haired woman bent forward and ran her fingers over the delicate carving on the mantel. Jessamyn took a step closer and stopped two feet away. Carla showed no sign of surprise or discomfort. Jessamyn moved closer. Carla crouched to study the raised marble hearth. “A set of antique fireplace tools would be perfect here,” she called over her shoulder to Bret. Jessamyn came closer still and watched Carla in amazement. The woman was completely unable to sense her presence. Boldly, she stepped forward until they were inches apart. She held out her hand and brought her fingers downward to pass through Carla’s outstretched arm. Nothing. She stepped back, stunned. Almost all living people, in her experience, were at least able to sense a temperature change when she got near them. Yet this woman could not. She decided to take a chance. Bret had turned his back and stood gazing out the window. Jessamyn materialized next to Carla. Inches from her. She moved until she stood directly in Carla’s line of sight, between her and the fireplace. Carla looked right through her without response. A choking gurgle came from the window. Jessamyn glanced up. Bret had turned around and was staring right at her, his face red and eyes wide. She disappeared quickly, leaving Carla gazing in wonder at Bret’s choleric expression. “Bret, what’s wrong?” Carla went to him, concern on her face. “You look like you’ve seen a—” Bret pressed his fingers to her lips before she could get the word out. “Don’t say it. Something caught in my throat, that’s all.” He took her hand. “Come on, I’ll show you the upstairs.” He threw a glance over his shoulder as they left the room, but Jessamyn had already gone. Back in the entry, they started up the grand staircase. Bret fought a sense of rising tension. What was Jessamyn trying to do? He was in bad enough shape without watching her play cat and mouse with Carla. Fortunately, his fiancée seemed oblivious to anything strange, a fact that shouldn’t have surprised him, really. She was the most down-to-earth person he knew. Solidly grounded in reality. She’d always been that way. He’d thought it made them particularly complementary. It wasn’t healthy for both halves of a couple to be romantic dreamers. Her practicality offset his dreaminess, but their contradictory natures had never brought them into serious conflict. The key was compromise.

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Now he found the quality oddly discordant. Not that he wanted her to see Jessamyn. Not hardly. But the idea that someone could be so real to him and yet not exist on any plane for Carla disturbed him. They neared the top and Bret paused. “Be careful on this fourth step, here,” he said over his shoulder. “I’ve replaced the tread, but I’m not a hundred percent sure that was the problem.” Carla nodded and stepped carefully on the stair. “It feels okay. What was the problem?” “The old tread was made up of two boards laminated together. It was thicker than the others and the unevenness tended to throw people off balance.” Carla looked down the steep staircase to the hard marble floor below. “I could see how that might cause trouble.” “Yeah, it nearly killed me second night in the house.” “Bret, really?” Her green eyes flashed in alarm. “What happened?” Bret felt like kicking himself. He shouldn’t have mentioned it in the first place. “I just stumbled and almost fell.” He shrugged it off. “Gave me a good scare, though,” he added and was relieved when she didn’t ask for further details. He couldn’t tell her a ghost had saved his life. At the top of the stairs, Carla headed right, toward the blue bedroom. Bret moved to stop her, but fell back. He couldn’t keep her from seeing the room. It would look too, well, weird. “Oh, Bret.” She turned to him, delight on her face, “This room is lovely. I’d like to stay here, if you don’t mind. It’s just perfect.” Bret wanted to protest. He couldn’t put Carla in Jessamyn’s room. Jessamyn would have a fit. But what excuse could he use to get Carla to choose another room? “It’s a little drafty,” he attempted, feebly. He glanced at the bed. The coverlet was still wrinkled from where he’d sat with Jessamyn naked across his lap. The thought sent a sudden twinge through his groin to counterpoint a surge of guilt. He stepped to the bed and pulled the coverlet straight. Carla laughed. “Sweetheart, it’s summer. I’m not likely to catch my death of cold.” Bret shrugged. “I just thought maybe you’d like to start sharing a bedroom.” Somehow he doubted that would be something Jessamyn would like to hear, either, but he couldn’t think of any other way to keep Carla from choosing the blue room. He and Carla had refrained from living together, not to make any moral point, but because their jobs and schedules had never seemed to coincide enough to make sharing a place practical. Now there was no reason not to share a home and a bedroom. “Why, Bret, I’d love to. If you’re sure you’re ready, that is.” She turned back to examine the room. “What’s this?” She walked to the window and turned the large framed portrait away from the wall to face her. “Bret, a Scarborough! And it’s magnificent.”

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“I thought you’d like it.” Bret found himself unable to look at the portrait and stared out the window instead. “It came with the house.” Carla studied the painting. “What a lovely young girl. So delicate. Do you know who she is?” “Jessamyn Radcliffe,” Bret answered slowly. “Her family owned the house.” Carla nodded. “Civil War era, of course. Especially considering the artist. She looks quite the epitome of the Southern belle.” Something in her tone made the comment sound like a criticism. “She’s not really like that,” Bret blurted, leaping unthinking to Jessamyn’s defense. “I mean, the diaries and letters I’ve found…” He was rambling, he realized, trying to cover his mistake. “The family set up a hospital on the property and Jessamyn helped with the nursing. She was highly thought of by the troops.” When he looked at Carla, she was smiling. “What’s the matter?” he asked. “Nothing,” she said. “I’d just forgotten how caught up in your subject you could get. I’m sorry. I won’t put down Miss Radcliffe. I can see you think highly of her, too.” Bret returned her smile, hoping the bald relief he felt didn’t show. He led the way out of the room. In the library, they found Oliver working steadily through his latest stack of documents. Bret introduced him to Carla. “Welcome to Bonnie Doon, Miss Stewart,” Oliver said, offering his hand. “Please, call me Carla.” She shook hands with him, then looked around at the volume of material that filled the room. “You appear to have your work cut out for you.” Oliver smiled. “It’s a labor of love, Carla, believe me. And I am making progress.” Bret agreed. “I wouldn’t have anything done in here without Oliver. Between my course schedule and, well, other things, I’ve hardly had any time to spend on cataloging this mess.” “Well, I hope I can help out too,” Carla offered. “I’ll be at loose ends for a while until I can line up a job.” “Oh, I intend to put you to work,” Bret said. “A lot of the old furniture needs to be examined, plus all the smaller household items. Most of the actual art is gone, sold to pay off family debts, unfortunately, but there are a few pieces left.” “How’d they manage to miss Jessamyn?” Carla asked. Bret’s heart skipped a beat before he realized she was talking about the painting. He remembered to breathe again. “The Scarborough was hidden behind a mirror. I guess they had more use for a mirror than a portrait and placed it in the frame right over the painting. Or maybe they covered it to protect it in case Union troops commandeered the house. I broke it accidentally, the mirror I mean, and found the painting.” “You seem to have bad luck with mirrors in this house,” Carla remarked.

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Oliver chuckled and they both looked at him. “Bad luck, mirrors,” he explained. “You know the old superstition?” “Oh, right,” Carla laughed. “I didn’t even realize.” Bret grimaced and took her arm. “Let’s see the rest of the house and let Oliver get on with his work.” They continued through the rest of the second floor, then went up to the third, a full attic where most of the household items still sat in storage. “I know antiques aren’t really your line, but I saved this stuff for you to go through. We can sell or give away anything you don’t want to keep.” Carla looked around at the stacked boxes and dusty furniture. “I’m looking forward to exploring up here. And we’ll have a lot of room when this is all cleared out.” “Uh-huh,” Bret replied absently, his mind elsewhere. A moment passed before he realized Carla was speaking to him. “What?” He turned toward her. “I’m sorry, my mind wandered. What did you say?” She moved closer and looked at him intently. “I was asking if the windows opened. I thought it might be too hot to work up here without ventilation.” She frowned and reached out to touch his hand. “Bret, what’s wrong?” “Wrong?” “Wrong?!” she mimicked. “Yes, you’ve been acting strangely since I arrived. Bret, if my timing was bad, I can leave and come back in a few weeks.” Guilt and confusion tore at Bret. Hell, he thought, an hour ago he’d been on the verge of making love to Jessamyn. Now Carla was here and he didn’t know what he was going to do. Having her leave would be the easiest thing for him, but what about her? If he sent her away he might lose her forever. He knew he loved Jessamyn, but he wasn’t sure he was ready to give up Carla. He certainly didn’t want to hurt her, and telling her to leave would definitely do that. He shook his head and took her hands in his. “No, don’t go. I’m sorry. I know I’m behaving badly. I have a lot on my mind—some problems I’d hoped to have solved before you arrived.” Carla sat down on a large box and motioned Bret beside her. “Tell me. Maybe I can help.” Bret hesitated. He doubted she could help and didn’t want to worry her unnecessarily. And what was he going to tell her about Jessamyn?

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Chapter Twenty-One Bret knew he’d have to tell her something, eventually. He owed her that much. He made up his mind. He’d tell her as much about what was happening here as he could without mentioning Jessamyn. That would have to come later. “There’s a legend of a Civil War treasure hidden on the plantation,” he began. He told her the history of the treasure and string of deaths connected with it. “So what does this have to do with you?” Carla asked. “It appears we may have someone on the property looking for the treasure. It’s happened before, Harry says. But usually they dug holes around the place, that sort of thing.” He told her about the break-in the night before and the attack, just that morning, on Oliver. And the situation with Paul. “So you let Paul go?” she asked, when he’d finished. He nodded. “Do you think he might be a problem? I mean, if he was the one who attacked poor Oliver.” “No.” Bret was certain, but he couldn’t explain why. “I don’t think he’s a danger because I don’t think he did it.” “But all the evidence?” “I know.” His head was starting to hurt. “But it was all circumstantial. I can’t explain it, other than intuition, but I’m sure Paul wasn’t behind this.” “Well, he’s gone now. So if anything else odd happens, you’ll know it wasn’t him.” “Not exactly a fair solution, is it?” Bret rubbed his forehead, frowning. “I can’t see that you had much choice.” Carla stood up and pulled him to his feet. “Anyway, you have another pair of eyes here to keep a lookout, and I’ll let you know the minute anything weird happens.” Bret stared into her green eyes. “Let me know the instant anything happens, no matter how impossible it seems. Promise.” Carla blinked. “I promise.” They climbed down from the stuffy attic and went downstairs to the kitchen where Bret had promised Yolanda would have iced tea waiting. The housekeeper poured two tall glasses and Bret and Carla carried them outside. The sun was on the front side of the house now, leaving the back in shade. Bret and Carla walked together through the cool garden. Carla stopped and took a deep breath of the flower-scented breeze. “I’d almost forgotten how spring and early summer smelled here, it’s been so long.” 146

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“Did you miss it?” Bret asked, glad to be on a safe topic. “Terribly. Everything seems so intense here.” She paused and looked puzzled, as though grasping for her meaning. “Not the pace of life, like the rat race back in New York. I mean life itself. Everything here is so intent on being alive. The plants grow so profusely, the fragrances are so overwhelming. It’s as if they’re trying to squeeze every possible drop out of living before they let it go. It makes me want to accomplish things. To get on with it while there’s still time.” She stopped abruptly and looked at Bret. “Why, Carla, that was almost poetic.” He grinned. “I didn’t think you had it in you.” “Don’t laugh at me.” She swatted at him, good-naturedly. “And you always said I had no imagination.” Bret laughed. “I believed it. Now I’m not so sure. Did they confer one on you with your doctorate?” Carla didn’t answer. She stood staring at something across the lawn. “What is that?” “What?” She gave a sigh of exasperation. “That object in the middle of the yard. What else?” Bret followed the direction of her gaze. “It’s a wishing well. Apparently it used to be a real well, until it ran dry. Now it’s just decorative.” Carla had already started across the lawn toward it. He ran to catch up. The wishing well stood in the center of the yard, midway between the garden and the grove. Carla stopped a few paces away, then walked slowly around it, sizing it up from all angles. “I think a gazebo would have been more the thing,” she said after a moment’s consideration. “The well was already here,” Bret pointed out. “I suppose they could have built a gazebo over it.” Carla giggled. Bret looked at her with raised eyebrows. “Nothing,” she answered his unspoken question. “I just had this image of young lovers meeting in the gazebo in the moonlight, then crashing through the floor and down the well shaft.” Bret grinned. “Did I ever mention that you have a morbid sense of humor?” “Often. It comes from staring at all those grisly old paintings of saints being martyred.” She turned back to the well. “Seriously, though, it is unusual. Especially with that ironwork on the top.” Bret nodded. It wasn’t your typical wishing well with a quaint peaked roof and a crank for lowering buckets. The base was a standard circle of rough-hewn bricks and mortar, about four feet high and gray-green with its overgrowth of moss and weeds. Nothing strange there. The top, however, consisted of an intricately filigreed metal dome that rested on the base like a giant Victorian birdcage on a pedestal. 147

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“I like it,” Carla said decisively, at last. “Anyone can have an old gazebo. This has, I don’t know, character.” Bret gave a slight bow. “If you like it, we’ll keep it. Actually, I like it, too.” “Good. I’m glad that’s decided.” Carla pulled a long strand of sourgrass from the base of the well and chewed the broken end. Then she sat down in the tall, shade-cooled grass, reached up to take Bret’s hand, and pulled him down beside her. “I don’t know what it is about this place, Bret, but I feel like a child again. I feel like I’ve come home.” She turned to gaze into his eyes. “I’ve missed it. I’ve missed you.” “Charleston is your home,” Bret tried to keep his tone light. “You never were a New York girl. Heck, your family’s here. Why shouldn’t you feel that way?” She tossed back her dark hair. “No, it’s not Charleston. Well, maybe a little, but what I mean is this house feels like home. I can’t explain it. Maybe it’s just so close to what I wanted. I don’t know.” She reached for him, pulling him close. Their lips met, Carla’s seeking him hungrily. Her mouth parted beneath the pressure of his, her tongue hot and soft as it explored his mouth. Bret felt himself stiffen once more, his earlier arousal having been denied release with Jessamyn. “I’ve missed you so much, Bret,” she whispered. “It’s been so long.” “Professor, Miss Carla. Supper!” Yolanda’s voice sounded across the lawn. “Mom’s calling.” Bret pulled away with reluctance and extended Carla a hand to pull her to her feet. “Later then,” she said, her glance offering a promise as she noticed the bulge in the front of his pants. “I think it’s a good time to start sharing a room.” Yolanda had outdone herself at dinner, in honor of the new arrival. She left after the meal, and Oliver retired to his own room with a stack of journals from the library. Jessamyn followed Carla upstairs to the master bedroom and watched as she unpacked her things from the small suitcase she’d brought. Surely, she thought, the woman must own more clothing than that. She herself had never traveled without a couple trunks, and while clothing was less bulky these days, a woman needed more than a couple changes of underwear and an extra pair of jeans. Carla lifted a frilly nightie from her case and held it against her, checking her appearance in the mirror over the antique mahogany dresser. Why, it covered less than her chemise would, Jessamyn thought, eyeing the lacy, black fabric. Carla would catch her death if she tried to sleep in that. Hmmm, Jessamyn thought, now there was an idea. She dismissed it out of hand, though. With her luck, if Carla died, they’d end up both haunting the house and she’d never have a moment’s peace with Bret. Carla lay the nightie on the bed, then folded the rest of her things and put them in the empty drawers of the dresser or hung them in the dressing room that had been converted into a large closet.

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Bret was in the library, Jessamyn knew, and wondered when he planned to go to bed. This business of his sharing a room with Carla was disturbing. With luck, though, maybe Carla would go to bed alone and be asleep before Bret came in. She’d watched them together at the wishing well before dinner and knew no good could come of their getting together. Carla slipped off her jeans. Jessamyn watched with interest, studying the other woman’s body. Carla had the longest legs she’d ever seen on another woman. Perfectly formed, they seemed like they’d go on forever before they ended at the curve of a heartshaped bottom encased in black lace. Interesting taste in lingerie, Jessamyn thought, as Carla pulled her t-shirt off to reveal a bra of matching lace that covered high, firm breasts. The brunette unhooked the front of the bra and, freeing herself from its confinement, shook her body so that her breasts jiggled voluptuously and the strip of black lace tumbled off her shoulders to the floor. Jessamyn gasped, feeling her own nipples tighten, as Carla rubbed her breasts, luxuriating in the freedom of their nudity. Jessamyn had never paid much attention to other women’s bodies in the past. Her interest in Carla surprised her, particularly since she recognized it as something more than curiosity about a rival. Carla’s breasts, she noticed, were different from her own round, pink and white pillows. Elegant and low, they arced downward, then turned up at the dark nipples to form curved, jutting peaks like the blossoms of an orchid. Carla stood before the mirror, pinching the dusky nipples gently until they stood at attention. She ran her hands down her body, over her narrow rib cage and along her hips, then turned and viewed herself in profile, thoughtful. Watching her reflection, she reached down to cup her bottom through the black lace of her panties, then moved one hand around to the front of her body and slipped it inside the lace. Slowly, she began to stroke herself between her legs. Jessamyn felt suddenly warm and wet between her own legs, unable to keep from wondering about Carla’s pussy. Did Bret like it as well? She watched with growing interest as Carla caressed herself, one hand braced against the dresser as the other worked between her thighs, her movements becoming more frenzied. She gave a soft moan and Jessamyn moved to stand beside her, curiosity mingling with her own growing arousal. She wanted… She didn’t know what she wanted. She’d never experienced this kind of emotion before. Carla’s body, the way she touched herself, built in Jessamyn the same wild urgency she’d felt with Bret, the same throbbing ache of need. Confused, yet uncontrollably drawn, she stepped closer, knowing Carla couldn’t feel her. Closer still, until they were almost touching. She felt waves of heat from Carla’s sweat-sheened skin, smelled her perfume mingled with the musky scent of woman. Then they were touching, Jessamyn’s hands curving over Carla’s grinding hips. Her belly pressed against the brunette’s lace-clad gyrating bottom.

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And suddenly they were one. Jessamyn gasped as pulsating fire kindled between her legs, their legs, at Carla’s rhythmic caresses of the wet, hot contours of their pussy. She looked up, out of Carla’s eyes, to see the other woman’s body in the mirror as it shuddered and arched, feeling her own body as it did the same. Raising a hand to her throbbing breasts, she saw Carla’s hand lift as well to knead the swollen flesh and rub the hard nubs of her—no, their—nipples, sending electric currents of sensation coursing through Jessamyn. Staring at the image of Carla’s nearly naked body writhing in ecstasy, feeling her hands on Jessamyn’s breasts, Jessamyn felt a wild rush of response that drove her higher on the cresting wave. She wanted to scream, to explode, and she was certain she would if this went on much longer. Then, suddenly, violently, they climaxed in unison, waves of pleasure engulfing their joined bodies, surging through the core of liquid heat that pulsed between their thighs. The force of their shared orgasm snapped whatever bond held Jessamyn to Carla. Jessamyn felt them separate and found herself once again standing beside the other woman, knees weak, her pussy still wet and thrumming under her satin skirts. A heavy languor settled on her and she felt herself fading with exhaustion. She glanced with regret at Carla, wanting to stay, to somehow explore what they’d just shared, but the effort was just too great. She let herself drift into shadow, leaving Carla alone. Carla collapsed onto the bed, stunned, her heart pounding in time to the continued throbbing between her thighs. Wow. Okay, sure, it had been awhile, but she’d never had such an intense orgasm before, at least not that way. She wasn’t even sure it was hers. She shook her head at the odd thought. Not hers. Almost as if she hadn’t been quite herself while she was coming. She laughed, but deep down the sensation lingered. Her thoughts had been so different, so foreign. Suddenly sleepy, she yawned and pulled the covers over her nearly naked body. She was just overtired, that was it. She thought about Bret, how she’d really wanted to make love to him, but she felt languid and drowsy now. Not at all herself. She closed her eyes. She woke to a tickle on her cheek and bright sunlight filling the room. Bret brushed the strand of sourgrass across her nose once more for good measure. “What time is it?” she asked, unwilling to expend the effort to look at her watch. “Nearly eight, sleepyhead.” She groaned and tried to roll over, but Bret pulled her back to face him. “None of that, Yolanda’s got grits boiling and bacon in the skillet. Rise and shine.” Carla raised up on one elbow. “You’re kidding. After last night’s supper, I’ll ‘nevah be hungry again’.” She studied him. He looked great in snug-fitting chinos and a tan polo shirt that accentuated the muscles of his chest and arms. Hot. She felt a little tingle low in her belly and an answering surge of moisture even lower. “Did you come to bed last night?” 150

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He shook his head. “You crashed so solidly that I was afraid I’d wake you. Besides, you were pretty well sprawled across the entire bed, so there wasn’t much room. I slept in the blue room. I just wanted to stop in and say goodbye this morning before I took off.” She brushed her hair out of her eyes. “Where are you going?” “In to the college for a little while. I have finals to grade and I’ll probably get more done there.” “Do you have to leave right away?” She reached up to grab the front of his belt and pulled him onto the bed, flipping the covers back to reveal her body. His eyes widened as his gaze caressed her bare breasts and belly. “Did you sleep like that?” She smiled and licked her lips enticingly, noticing with pleasure the immediacy of his erection. “I was hoping you’d come to bed.” “I’m sorry I didn’t.” “Well, you can make up for it now.” She clutched the front of his shirt and pulled him down over her, claiming his mouth with hers. Her need surprised her, especially after the intensity of last night’s orgasm. “It’s been a long time.” “Too long,” he murmured. He opened her mouth with his, his tongue plundering its sensitive contours. Her breath caught in her throat as his hands found her breasts. He straddled her hips, then bent his head to her hardening nipples, laving first one then the other with his fiery tongue, biting and sucking them into erect buds of deep rose. Carla moaned, arching her back to encourage him to take more of each breast into his mouth, then shifted her hips against the hard cock she could feel straining against her through his jeans. She reached up and pulled his shirt out of his pants and up, baring his muscular chest and flat belly. He stripped the shirt off over his head, then lifted her to a sitting position, holding her against him. “Damn, I’ve missed you,” he said. She kissed and licked his smooth chest and hard nipples, running her hands over his back and down to his firm ass. She’d always loved his ass, but she’d never told him. She told him now, adding, “I can’t believe how much I want to fuck you.” He rolled to one side, rotating her over onto him as he went, and suddenly she was on top of him. He looked up into her face. “You’re different today. I can’t put my finger on it, but I like it.” She grinned. “I’m just so hot for you, that’s all. And I have someplace else for you to put your finger.” She took his hand and guided it between her legs, shuddering as his fingers stroked the moist, fevered flesh. Frantically, she grabbed at his belt, unfastening it, then unhooking the waistband of his pants. She slid down the zipper of his fly and his hard

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cock strained upward, sheathed only by a thin layer of black silk from his low-cut briefs. She raised herself on her knees, reluctantly breaking contact with his stroking fingers, then grasped the sides of his pants and stripped jeans and briefs down off his hips and groin beneath her, baring him completely to her gaze. Her heart was pounding, a counterpoint to the empty aching pulse between her legs. She’d forgotten how big and hard he was, red and hot and swollen for her. A part of her wondered why she was surprised. They’d been lovers for years. No part of his body was unknown to her. And yet something about this was completely new to her. Bret trembled, groaning as Carla slowly took his cock in her hands and began to caress it, tentatively at first then more boldly, as if exploring it for the first time. She stroked him, featherlight touches with her fingertips, then gripped him hard, one hand moving underneath to knead and squeeze his balls. Wrapping both hands around him, one above the other as if taking his measure, she grinned, an expression of wonder on her face, as she noted his length. It was as if she’d never known his body before, and it drove him wild. She kneaded him hard, up and down, watching intently as she did so, and it was all he could do not to come then and there. Then she leaned down toward him and extended her tongue. The moist tip touched his shaft quickly, then darted back in. Carla’s wet, full lips curved in a smile, causing Bret’s breath to stop in his throat. The pink tongue came out again and this time she licked him, boldly, a single hot stroke from base to tip that left him throbbing. He fell back onto the pillow and groaned, closing his eyes. She repeated the motion along another length of him, then another, until he was wet and slick all over. She stopped and he opened his eyes to see her poised above the red, swollen head of his cock, her lips parted. He gasped as she came down over him, taking him in, deep, deeper, until he could feel himself rubbing against the back of her throat, her lips closed silky tight around his shaft. He quivered as her lips, tongue and throat worked him, sliding up and down along his hardness. When at last he thought he could stand it no longer, she paused and he pulled her up onto his chest, reaching down to strip off her panties in a single smooth motion. Then he lifted her above him and slid her down over his cock. Jessamyn gasped as he entered her and Carla, his immense erection filling them, spreading them until she thought they might burst. Then he was inside, guiding her up and down his hard shaft in a slow, building rhythm, his hands on her breasts, between her legs. His caresses and her exploration of him had almost driven her over the edge, but she’d fought, waiting, letting Carla’s knowledge of Bret lead her and hold her back. Her boldness had both frightened and thrilled her. She’d never known a man in this way, feeling him in her mouth, licking, sucking him. And sharing the experience with Carla, sensing the woman’s growing excitement as she ran her tongue over the velvetsheathed hardness and tasted the saltiness of his juices, was like nothing she’d ever known. Jessamyn arched back at the thought, moving harder, faster, her hands massaging her—no, Carla’s—breasts, squeezing her nipples, her whole body alight with 152

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a fire that centered in her overflowing pussy and spread like a molten river through every inch of her. Bret sat up, his cock still encased tight within Carla, and shifted her onto her back so that now he rode her. His thrusts came harder, faster, and she moaned, writhing beneath him, as the pressure built in searing waves. Finally she shattered, bucking furiously against him, eyes clenched against a shower of shooting stars that seemed to burst from her deepest core. The room around them spun, then disappeared into a filmy haze as she abandoned herself to the sensation, biting her lip hard to stifle a scream. Beneath her, Bret arched upward, lifting her with him as his own violent climax filled her to overflowing. When Carla opened her eyes, the room was still spinning. Her head was at the foot of the bed and Bret lay draped across her body. Her pulse still sounded a drumbeat between her legs, but the rest of her was limp, as though every muscle had been drained of tension. Bret roused himself, lifting up on one elbow to look at her. He touched her cheek. “That was incredible.” She nodded. “I guess we missed each other more than we’d thought.” She kissed him, softly, but the touch of his lips sent another tingle through her and she saw his quiescent cock twitch in response. She laughed, suddenly self-conscious. “I think if you’re going to work, you’d better go now.” “I think you’re right.” He stretched, then sat up slowly and began to look for his clothes. “What are you going to do today?” “I’m going exploring. Since you’ll be at work, that’ll give me a chance to look around the place without a guide.” She smiled teasingly up at him and caught the briefest shadow flicker past on his face. “What?” He looked surprised. “What? Nothing! What do you mean? Just, um, be careful if you go out to the old slave quarters or the other outbuildings. Lots of dry-rot in the floors and steps.” “Thanks, I will.” He bent and pressed a quick kiss onto her cheek. “I should be back sometime this afternoon.” He smiled again, then threw a quick, nervous glance at the corner of the room. Carla looked too, but saw nothing. When she turned back, Bret had gone. She tossed back the covers, shaking her head. That was amazing. She hadn’t been herself at all. Memories returned of the night before. Maybe she had dreamed that whole episode. In the light of day and after her lovemaking with Bret, it seemed like no more than a dream, especially that strange bit about not being herself. Funny, but while making love, she’d had the same sensation. She shook her head. Dream or no, it had been incredible, and from her reaction to Bret this morning, it seemed to have some pleasant lingering side effects.

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She climbed out of the wooden bedstead, pulled on her summer-weight robe, grabbed underwear, jeans, and a t-shirt from the dresser and started out of the room. In the doorway, she looked back over her shoulder. The corner of the room was quiet and empty. Not alone, she thought. Then she shook her head and put the idea out of her mind. She had to admit, on her way downstairs after showering and dressing, that Yolanda’s breakfast did smell good. Nothing like a little morning exercise to stimulate the appetite. And a few minutes later, plied with strong coffee and fresh orange juice, she found she could more than do justice to a plate of bacon, eggs, grits and biscuits. The morning breeze through the open screens was still cool and she leaned back, languid and content, to enjoy it as she sipped her coffee. She let her eyes close as she breathed in the sweet scent of the garden. “Did you not sleep well last night, Miss Carla?” Yolanda’s voice brought her back to reality with a start. She glanced up at the housekeeper, wondering if she and Bret had been overheard, but she saw only concern in the woman’s brown eyes. “Actually, I slept very well, thanks. The breeze just felt so relaxing, I couldn’t help closing my eyes for a moment.” Yolanda’s slight frown didn’t dissipate. “Good,” she said. She looked like she wanted to say more. Carla sensed there was more to the housekeeper’s question than polite concern about her comfort. Whatever was going on with Bret, she was suddenly certain Yolanda knew about it. She decided to take the lead. “Yolanda, Bret told me about some of the things that have been happening here, the break-in and the attack on Oliver. I can tell he’s really worried. It’s not like him to be so, well, nervous.” Yolanda nodded without speaking and Carla paused, uncertain. Maybe the housekeeper would take offense at any questions. Still, she had to find out what was going on. She took a deep breath. “Is there anything else I should know about?” Conflicting emotions played across the woman’s café au lait features. Carla could see relief there, but also hesitation. Perhaps she was afraid of appearing disloyal to Bret. “Please,” Carla pleaded. “If I’m going to stay here, I need to know what we’re dealing with.” Yolanda bit her lip thoughtfully. “You’re right, Miss Carla. I’m glad you’re here and I want you to stay. He needs you here.” She paused and her gaze flicked around the room, then settled on Carla’s face. “The truth is, this house is haunted.”

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Chapter Twenty-Two “I try to keep an open mind, Yolanda, but I find it hard to believe in something I can’t see or feel,” Carla responded carefully, not wanting to appear judgmental about the housekeeper’s beliefs. “And I’d be very surprised if Bret doesn’t feel the same,” she added. “He may not have believed when he got here,” Yolanda said, “but after one night in this house, he did.” Her frown returned. “I talk too much. You should speak to the professor about it.” She turned to go. “Wait.” Carla stopped her. “What about Oliver? Has anything strange happened to him? Supernatural, I mean.” Yolanda’s smile was mischievous. “Yes, I think Oliver is a believer, too. He left here in an awful hurry a couple days ago. But he did come back.” Her tone was almost regretful. “He’s been nervous ever since, though.” “I should talk to him,” Carla mused aloud. “He’s not here this morning. Had a class or something.” Yolanda ran hot water over the breakfast dishes. “Don’t worry, though. The ghost has never hurt anyone. You’re perfectly safe here.” “Thank you, Yolanda,” Carla meant it sincerely, touched by the woman’s concern for her well-being, if not exactly comforted by her assurances. The housekeeper nodded and slipped out of the room. Carla sipped the last of her coffee, deep in thought and still comfortable in her skepticism. Nothing about the house seemed strange or otherworldly to her. She’d experienced none of the typical signs of ghostly presences, strange noises, icy drafts, weird odors, and so forth. If the truth be known, a ghost would have to walk up and introduce itself to her before she’d actually believe. She’d take Yolanda’s ghost stories with a grain of salt, but it still might be worth mentioning to Bret. For now, with nearly everyone gone, it was the perfect time to explore her new home. Ghosts or no ghosts. She started with the ground floor and retraced the steps of her brief tour with Bret the day before, studying each room in turn. For the most part, she’d missed little on her previous visit. Most of the rooms, though their restorations were complete, held little in the way of furnishings or works of art. Bret was right, they were going to have to do some shopping. The interesting areas were upstairs, she knew, and she was consciously saving the best for last. As for the outbuildings, she’d wait until Bret was with her so he wouldn’t worry about her safety.

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Back in the foyer, she paused at the foot of the grand staircase, savoring the anticipation. She climbed it slowly, then stood on the balcony landing to look at the entry below and the elegant chandelier suspended above it. Why had the chandelier remained after so many other fine household items had been sold? she wondered. Perhaps there had only been time to sell off the easily movable items, furniture, paintings and the like. Or maybe individual pieces were sold off only as the need arose. Really quite a lot remained. Not enough to completely furnish such a large house, of course, but more than just a couple odd or poor-quality items that wouldn’t have sold otherwise. She walked into the blue bedroom. The bed was a finely carved mahogany fourposter, delicate, with an air of femininity about it. An armoire had been placed against one wall to serve as a closet. The Scarborough portrait leaned against one wall. The portrait was a case in point. Why had it remained when so much else had been sold? Bret had said it was hidden behind a mirror, but even a large mirror in good condition would have brought considerable money. The painting even more. What had prevented its sale? Carla laughed. Bret was wrong, she did have an imagination, and Yolanda’s story was fueling it. To think that some agent from beyond the grave had kept these items in the house. What had come over her? The simple explanation was that a few things were sold off over the years and the rest became part of the estate. Sales of old houses with their contents certainly weren’t unusual. She knew that. There was nothing supernatural about it. She glanced at the painting again. Though the youthful face wasn’t smiling, the dancing gaze appeared to follow Carla. The joke’s on you, it seemed to say, more teasing than malicious. Let’s leave now. The voice that sounded in Carla’s head was unfamiliar at first. Then she realized it was her own, frightened and insistent. Annoyed, she stood her ground and stared at the painting for a long moment, daring herself to stay, until the tight knot of tension unwound in the pit of her stomach. Then, impulsively, she stuck out her tongue. The act of childish defiance broke the spell. The portrait was just paint and canvas. No sparkling blue eyes followed her across the room, silently chiding her for her skepticism. Relief washed over her, followed by chagrin. What an idiot. She’d really gotten carried away. The library next, she told herself. She needed a treat after almost scaring herself silly. And it would probably clear her mind of ghosts. She started down the hall. The cozy clutter of the library was a tonic after her experience in the bedroom. She could see where Oliver had been at work. Those stacks had a semblance of order to them, not to mention little slips of paper sticking out of the books he’d finished reviewing.

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She walked to the window and looked out on the front lawn and the tree-lined avenue beyond. The sun had climbed and shone through the branches of the live oaks to dapple the drive with light. Once again the feeling of familiarity and homecoming struck her, banishing her earlier discomfort. Carla had never considered herself especially intuitive, preferring to rely on facts rather than hunches or gut feelings. But this feeling about Bonnie Doon, this sense of belonging, was definitely intuition. She sensed something right about this house. Of course, she would have liked any house Bret selected, even if it wasn’t the one she’d choose for herself. Bonnie Doon, however, was perfect. If she walked in by herself, totally out of the blue, she’d know it, just as she knew it now. She turned and studied the room, picturing it as it must have once been, warm and lived in. As it would be again, the shelves straightened and filled with books, the desk lamp glowing warmly, the leather club chair by the far wall moved to the center of the room near the fireplace. Something beside the chair caught her glance. A long board, perhaps a shelf from one of the bookcases, rested between the lamp table next to the armchair and the wall. She crossed the room for a closer look. The plank was too long to be a shelf, at least for any bookcase in this room. She pulled it from its resting place, surprised at its weight, then alarmed when it separated in her hands. The board was two pieces. She recalled Bret’s remarks about the fourth step of the staircase. He’d mentioned something about the old stair being two boards laminated together. Obviously, this must be it. But what was it doing in the library? She leaned the two pieces against the armchair, cut sides facing her, and noticed the design carved in one half. A sunburst, rather nicely done she thought, and some kind of woven ring. She examined the other side. More glue had been applied to what would have been the top half of the stair. The yellow-brown stains obscured the grain of the wood. She scraped at a section that looked darker than the rest. Something was barely visible beneath it. She picked up the board and carried it to the window where the light was clear and unshadowed. A few more scrapes and she’d have it. But her nails weren’t up to the task. She needed something to dissolve the glue. Acetone or mineral spirits would do it, she thought. She hadn’t met Harry Osborne, the caretaker, yet, but he’d likely have some turpentine on hand, what with all the painting that had been done. “Or alcohol,” she spoke aloud, trying to remember whether Bret generally packed rubbing alcohol with his shaving kit. It wasn’t among her usual toiletries. A soft click sounded to her right. She glanced toward the noise and noticed the open front of the mahogany secretary that stood in the corner. A panel she hadn’t seen before stood open, revealing a small, cut-crystal decanter, half-full. She bit her lip. Had that panel had been open the last time she looked?

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It didn’t matter. Here was her alcohol, not pure, but hopefully strong enough. She felt through her pockets and found a mashed, but unused, tissue, which she soaked with the amber liquid. She touched a drop to her tongue. Brandy. She hoped it wasn’t expensive. Carla applied the moistened tissue to the wood, holding it in place against the old adhesive for a few seconds. Then she scratched gently at the sticky, dampened spot. A large piece of the old glue flaked off. Encouraged, she tried again. Little by little, the glue peeled away from the wood surface. She examined the piece again. She’d been right, something was carved on this side as well. Glue had worked its way into the lines, darkening them and making them easier to see now that the mess was cleaned up. She looked closer. What she’d thought was a word was actually a series of numbers. 101364. She frowned. What was the significance? A serial number, possibly? Or a combination to a safe? She looked at the numbers again. 10, 13, 64. Yes, perhaps a combination. But it would take an awfully large lock to have sixty-four digits. A date? It had to be. October 13, 1964. Or 1864. Even 1764 was a possibility. The house was old enough, although the stair didn’t look 250 years old. When had it last been replaced? She’d have to ask Bret. Now, if she could just figure out the meaning of the carvings on the other piece. She walked over to the armchair and sat down, pulling the plank across her lap. A sunburst and an interwoven ring. Take one at a time, she told herself. What did a sunburst signify? The possibilities were endless. It might refer to time, as in a sundial or a season, probably summer since it was a full sun. Direction was a possibility, east or west depending on whether it was rising or setting. It could have religious significance, referring both to pagan sun worship or Christian symbolism. What else? She racked her brain, calling to mind all the artistic uses of sunbursts she could remember. The style of the carving was old, she’d seen it before, the wavy rays extending from a smiling round sun face. Renaissance? Earlier? Wait a minute, she thought. Carvings. She’d seen woodcut illustrations in ancient books that used that style. In one she remembered, the sun sat on the head of a man while a woman in the picture wore a crescent moon. Carla brought her fist down on the board. Of course. How could she be so stupid? Secrets of Alchemy. That had been the title of the book. And alchemy was about the making of gold, symbolized by the sun. In fact, she recalled, metals were so strongly associated with specific planets that whole texts were written referring to them only by their associated planets. And gold was the sun. She set the board aside. Her hand trembled. This had something to do with the treasure. She knew it. Oh, when would Bret get home? “Good morning. Or I guess I should say afternoon.”

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Carla looked up with a start. Oliver stood in the doorway. How long had he been there? “I had a class this morning,” he said, crossing the room to slouch against the desk, his gaze frankly appraising her. “Did I miss anything?” Carla shrugged. “No, I’ve just been looking around.” A wave of guilt passed through her, as though she had trespassed on his territory. “What’s that?” He gestured to the board resting against the lamp table. “It’s the old step from the staircase. I found it leaning against the wall in here.” “In here? I wonder why?” He knelt to examine the board. “Hey, there are carvings on this thing.” “Yes.” Carla tried to keep her rising excitement out of her voice. If Oliver didn’t know about the stair, maybe it was because Bret didn’t want him to. “I was just admiring them. They’re very well done. I don’t know what they’re supposed to mean, though. If anything.” Oliver propped the plank across his lap and ran his fingers over the designs. “I wonder.” His tone was musing, but his voice sounded strangely thick. He looked down at her suddenly, eyes burning with feverish intensity. “I may be wrong, but I think this might have something to do with the treasure.”

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Chapter Twenty-Three Carla recoiled, alarmed at the sudden wildness in his expression. She shrugged, trying to appear noncommittal despite her growing discomfort. She glanced toward the doorway, hoping Yolanda might materialize there. Oliver leaned toward her, his gaze dropping from her face to her chest, then returning quickly with a guilty flush. “Don’t you see? This could be the clue I’ve… I mean, the professor and I have been waiting for.” “Do you have any idea what the symbols mean?” she asked. Humoring him seemed the best approach. Then maybe she could make her escape and leave him to his investigations. Oliver’s eyes narrowed. “No,” the answer came abruptly. “I mean, I don’t know that much about it. I’ve just found occasional references during my work here. Who knows, it’s probably just an unfounded legend.” “But the treasure,” Carla continued, puzzled at his sudden change of attitude. “That was historically documented, wasn’t it?” “Oh, it was real enough at the time.” Oliver sounded nonchalant, but his fingers clenched the edge of the plank, turning his knuckles white. “There’s just no real evidence that it ended up here. It was probably divided up among the thieves shortly after it was stolen.” “Then this carving may have no significance at all.” He nodded. “It’s a possibility. I suppose Professor Tyler has seen these?” “I expect so, since he took the stair apart. That’s probably why it was in here and not just thrown out.” Oliver caressed the carved patterns again and chewed his lip thoughtfully. “Well, you probably have more of the house to see. I’ll talk to the professor about this when he returns. Maybe he’s come up with some ideas.” Carla knew she should have been annoyed at the obvious dismissal, but all she could feel was relief. She gave Oliver a smile she hoped was innocent and nonthreatening and made her escape quickly. In the hallway, she paused, gasping, and realized she’d forgotten to breathe in the last few minutes. She shook her head. Something wasn’t right here. She was sure of it now, and as soon as Bret returned, they were going to have a talk about it. Jessamyn drummed her fingers silently against the windowsill and watched Oliver examine the carving once more. Weasel. Carla had been right to play dumb, she thought. Something funny was definitely going on here. She hadn’t liked the way he’d 160

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looked at Carla, either. She didn’t trust the young man any further than she could throw him. She felt rather pleased with herself for helping Carla find the other carving on the stair. Not that she’d intended to be of assistance, but somehow she couldn’t help herself. She had a connection with Carla. She couldn’t explain it, but she knew it was real. Besides, she rationalized, any help she offered Carla would ultimately help Bret. Nothing else she did had any effect on Carla, anyway. She hadn’t been exactly quiet while they were alone together in the library. But Carla was totally oblivious to any noise she made, except when she’d opened the liquor cabinet in the secretary. After the sensations she’d shared with Carla the previous night and this morning with Bret, the realization frustrated her, but she felt obligated to help. She sighed. Everything was so confusing. It had all been perfect. Bret was hers, he had admitted he loved her. Then Carla arrived to ruin it all. And now? Now she had discovered a link to Carla that she’d never imagined. She’d wanted to hate her, to drive her out, but she just couldn’t. The link they’d had the previous night and again this morning with Bret had been something special, something she wanted to share again. Just the thought of it sent tremors through her and made heat rise in her cheeks. She’d never imagined it could be like that. Jessamyn followed Carla out into the hall, rustling the papers on the desk behind Oliver and giving him a chill just to prove to herself she still could. Carla climbed the narrow staircase at the end of the hall to the third floor attic. Jessamyn took the quicker route through the floor and met Carla at top of the attic stairs, where the other woman passed though Jessamyn without response. Jessamyn gave a small huff of exasperation and followed her into the room. The single open space was hot and stuffy now that the sun was high overhead. Small, unshuttered windows at either end of the room let in gray, dusty-looking light that dimly illuminated the entire room. Carla climbed over boxes and trunks to reach the windows, then opened them with a shove that broke through the most recent coat of paint the outside of the house had seen. The draft cooled the room considerably, and Carla, her face already glistening from her exertion, leaned against the sill a moment to soak up the breeze. Jessamyn settled onto a flat steamer trunk and smoothed her skirts around her. Ladies, she thought, didn’t perspire, but she watched the moisture beading on Carla’s skin and imagined running her fingertip through it. An odd thrill of desire washed over her, leaving her shaken and unsettled, and bringing memories of that morning rushing back. Carla started with the furniture, pulling smaller pieces free from piles of old clothing and boxes so she could examine them. Numerous side chairs, their upholstered seats faded but intact, formed the bulk of the remaining furniture in the attic. Carla pulled them out one after the other and set them aside in neat rows.

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Twenty-three, twenty-four, Jessamyn counted. Twenty-five and five more downstairs. Thirty chairs total. That meant ten had been sold or discarded. She felt a twinge of sadness. Her mother had always been proud of the fact that she had forty matching side chairs, more than any of their neighbors. The chairs, and much of the furnishings, had been left to Mrs. Radcliffe by her mother, Jessamyn’s grandmaman, a French cousin of the famous Rutledge family of Charleston. Carla paused to catch her breath. She turned toward the chairs and stared a moment. A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth, then she gave a quick sputter of laughter. “Good grief, it looks like I’ve set up for a piano recital,” she spoke aloud. Jessamyn looked at the ranked chairs, five abreast and five deep. It did look like she was preparing for a recital or a prayer meeting. She laughed unselfconsciously, knowing Carla wouldn’t hear. Rested, Carla tugged a small chest away from the wall and pulled it over to the nearest chair. She sat gingerly, testing the strength of the seat before resting her whole weight on it. Then, satisfied, she relaxed and leaned over to open the chest. Curious, Jessamyn moved closer and sat down on the chair nearest Carla. Carla didn’t flinch. She tipped the domed lid back from the trunk and studied the contents. She lifted a piece of lacy, cream-colored fabric from the trunk and unfolded it carefully. “My christening gown,” Jessamyn said conversationally. Carla turned toward her and laid the frothy gown across Jessamyn’s lap where it passed through to the chair seat and draped softly. She reached over and caressed the delicate, handmade lace a moment, her expression wistful, then turned back to the trunk for the next item. Jessamyn jumped to her feet, frowning, and paced back and forth beside the chair, her emotions in turmoil. This was too strange, she thought. She’d lost interest in trying to scare Carla. Now she only wanted to make the woman notice her, frightening or not. She wanted—what? Jessamyn puzzled over it for a second. Yes, she wanted to communicate. But why? she wondered. She had intended to hate this woman who could take Bret away from her. But somehow, she couldn’t. Far from it. She was actually finding herself attracted to Carla. She stopped in her tracks. Carla lifted a bedraggled rag doll clothed in brown calico. She gently supported the limp head of yellow yarn hair and laid the doll across her knees. Black shoe-button eyes stared up at the ceiling, above a yellow thread nose and pursed red-yarn lips. “Josephine!” Jessamyn dropped to her knees beside Carla and gently stroked the hair of her long-lost, and most beloved, doll. Carla leaned past her to reach into the chest once more. She pulled out a bright length of gold satin ribbon and tied it in a bow around the doll’s neck. She smiled and gave Josephine’s stringy hair an affectionate pat. 162

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Somewhere below, the front door slammed. Carla glanced up. “Bret,” her voice barely whispered. Jessamyn nodded, turning toward the sound. She and Carla rose together and started downstairs. Bret looked up at the sound of Carla’s steps in the hallway upstairs. She appeared on the landing and started down. Bret stared. Jessamyn was with her! The ghost followed a step or two behind Carla, as if they’d spent the afternoon together casually discussing feminine matters like old friends. “What are you doing?” he blurted at Jessamyn. Carla hesitated, taken aback. “Just exploring. Why, what’s wrong?” Bret shook his head. “No, I didn’t mean…” He caught himself up short. What was he thinking? Carla had no idea Jessamyn was with her. She reached the bottom step and held out her hands to him. Jessamyn stood behind her, a step above, and flashed him an innocent smile. He crossed the floor and took Carla’s hands, gazing intently at her face to avoid seeing Jessamyn. Carla’s look was full of concern. “Something’s wrong. You look like you’ve had a terrible day.” “And I’ll bet you didn’t expect an evening like this,” Jessamyn added softly, and he shot her a look of disapproval despite himself. He tucked Carla’s hand under his arm and escorted her across the room. Jessamyn followed. “It’s the strangest thing, Bret,” she said. “She can’t feel my presence at all. Not even the cold. I’ve never seen anything like it.” She didn’t mention their activities that morning. Somehow she suspected Bret would be angry or upset if he knew how she had shared in their lovemaking. Bret glanced over his shoulder at her, jerking his head slightly in a subtle gesture to indicate that she should go, but she just smiled more sweetly and refused to take the hint. He faced forward again to find Carla looking behind them. “What’s the matter? What were you looking at?” Her expression was puzzled. “Nothing. I thought I heard a noise.” “Ooh, liar,” Jessamyn scolded, teasingly. Bret clenched his teeth. He didn’t know what he’d expected, once Jessamyn and Carla met. He’d tried not to think about it, but he’d never guessed it would be this strange. “Bret,” Carla began tentatively. “We need to talk. Something funny is going on around here.” Bret opened his mouth to say comment, but Jessamyn spoke up from the rear. “Now’s your chance, Bret. Tell her.”

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“Sweetheart, you’re acting awfully tense.” Carla commented. “It’s just not like you and I can’t help but feel I’m the cause. Please, talk to me.” She stopped and turned to look up at him, her green eyes dark with worry. Jessamyn moved closer to stand on his other side and laid her hand against his chest. “Yes, talk to her.” Her eyes were pleading as she turned her pale face up to meet his gaze. “I’m afraid of losing you.” Bret squeezed his eyes shut. What the hell was he supposed to do? He loved Jessamyn. He’d never felt this way about anyone before. But he cared for Carla as well. Too much to hurt her with a story she’d never believe. He almost wished they’d both just go away. He opened his eyes. Both women, flesh and phantom, gazed up at him expectantly. “Let’s take a walk.” He directed the suggestion to Carla. “I don’t want to take a walk. I want to talk about what’s happening in this house.” “We can walk and talk at the same time,” Bret argued. He had to get them apart. He certainly couldn’t carry on simultaneous conversations with both and manage to keep Carla from finding out about Jessamyn. “Better yet, let’s take a drive. You haven’t had a chance to see the area yet.” “Chicken,” Jessamyn teased. Carla shrugged. “A drive. Fine. But don’t expect to sidetrack me with scenery. I want answers.” Bret sighed “You’ll get them, I promise. Would you mind letting Yolanda know we’re going? We can catch supper out somewhere, if she hasn’t got it started yet.” “All right, but don’t try to make your escape while I’m out of the room.” “I won’t leave this spot.” He watched until she’d disappeared into the dining room, then turned to Jessamyn. “What have you been up to?” He kept his voice low. She blinked up at him. “Not a thing. We just spent some time going through the things in the attic. She never even knew I was there.” She chewed her lower lip thoughtfully. “I can’t understand it, but I think I like her, Bret.” “What?” This was unexpected, but whether good or bad, he didn’t know. She nodded. “I surely didn’t plan on it. But when I watched her talking to Oliver, and then later in the attic, there was just something about her I liked. And of course, last night and this morning.” “Last night? What? Why was she talking…” to Oliver, he started to ask, but Carla returned from her errand at that moment and he was forced to break off before he could finish. He tried to look innocent. What had Jessamyn said about last night? And this morning? Had she been there when he and Carla…? “Were you talking to someone?” Carla looked around the room.

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“No, just singing to myself.” He tried to hum, but his mouth was dry, his throat seeming to close. Carla took his arm and headed them toward the door. “I think you’ve been steeped in too much history for your own good.” “You don’t know the half of it,” was Jessamyn’s parting remark as they went out the door.

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Chapter Twenty-Four They drove the first couple miles in silence, Bret barely noting the passing scenery. A blue sedan parked along the side of the road caught his eye only because he hadn’t noticed it earlier. He glanced at Carla who stared out the opposite window. As if she sensed his gaze, she turned to face him and smiled shyly. He smiled back, suddenly self-conscious, and gave a short, uncomfortable laugh. She was right, he had been nervous since she arrived. Who wouldn’t be, under the circumstances? But he shouldn’t have let it get to him. He shouldn’t have let Carla see it. Now it was up to him to make the first move. “Everything’s been a little unsettled since I arrived,” he began slowly. Carla’s smile was understanding. “The remodeling and all, I guess.” “That. And other things.” He paused, guilty at her attempt to provide him with an excuse. She remained silent, waiting. “When the remodeling started,” he continued, “the workers complained about noises in the house, missing tools, that kind of thing. I didn’t take it too seriously. But, then things began to happen. I saw lights out near the slave quarters and that led to my finding out about Paul. And you know the rest.” “Yes,” she said. “And I can understand why all that would make you nervous. I guess my showing up unexpectedly didn’t help.” She looked away. Bret sighed. There was no way around it, he had to tell her the truth. He couldn’t let her blame herself for his present state. He spotted a wide shoulder and pulled the car to the side of the road. “Carla, the house is haunted.” There, it was out. No preliminaries, no excuses. “Yeah, that’s what Yolanda said.” Her response was matter-of-fact, unruffled by his revelation. “Yolanda told you Bonnie Doon was haunted?” Carla shrugged. “I asked if she knew what was bothering you. I thought you might be holding something back to keep me from worrying. She said the house was haunted.” She grasped Bret’s hand. “But, honey, I didn’t take it seriously. It just seemed like quaint superstition. Please, tell me you don’t believe it.” Bret looked away. “I can’t tell you that because it wouldn’t be true. Bonnie Doon is haunted.” Carla shook her head in silent denial.

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He continued, “That portrait, the Scarborough from your room, that’s Jessamyn Radcliffe. She died in 1864. And now she haunts the house,” he concluded. Admitting it aloud sounded as fantastic as he’d feared. He paused, awaiting her response. “You’ve seen her?” Carla sounded doubtful. “Seen her, heard her, talked to her.” Among other things, he thought, but wasn’t about to mention that. Carla shifted in her seat, turning to look him in the eye. “Wait a minute, you’re telling me you’ve had conversations with a ghost?” “Yes.” He wanted to say more, but could only answer her question simply and truthfully. For a moment, Carla gave no response. Bret sensed her tension, saw it in her rigid posture, the taut set of her shoulders and jaw. She gazed into the distance, unfocused, her brows knit with worry. “You aren’t serious.” She closed her eyes and shook her head again, quickly this time, as if to clear it. “No. I can tell you are serious. I—I don’t know what to say. Have you talked to anyone else about this?” You mean does anyone else know I’ve lost my marbles, Bret thought. “No, no one,” he replied instead. “Who’d believe me? I think Yolanda believes Jessamyn exists, and Harry, well, Harry’s a skeptic, but there are some things even he can’t explain away.” “But Harry and Yolanda haven’t actually seen her. Or talked to her?” Carla asked. “No. She can keep people from seeing her unless she wants them to. And some people can’t see her no matter what.” He found it hard to meet her gaze. “You, for instance.” Carla’s eyes widened. “Me?” “Yes. She was with you in the attic this afternoon.” “She told you that?” He nodded. Carla stared at him, slumped back in the seat and took several slow, deliberate breaths. Then she faced him again. “Bret. Sweetheart. I think you need to talk to someone who knows more about this than I do.” “If you mean some kind of ghost hunter, forget it.” His response was more heated than he’d intended. He continued in a calmer tone, “I’ve already had some experience in that area, and it’s nothing I care to repeat. I don’t want Jessamyn winding up in some variety of hell because of someone’s stupidity.” Carla stared in openmouthed surprise. “Bret, this isn’t like you. You’re talking about her like she’s real. I’ll admit I don’t know much about ghosts, but if this is the spirit of some dead person, it’s not like it would have any kind of awareness. Can’t we just exorcise it or lay it to rest or whatever those people do?”

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“No, it isn’t that simple. She is aware, like any living person.” He gripped the steering wheel tightly with both hands. “Anyway, she has as much right to be there as we do. More, really. It was her house.” Carla stared down at her hands clenched in her lap. “Well,” she began slowly, her voice soft. “Maybe you need another kind of help. Maybe you should talk to someone professionally.” Bret raised an eyebrow. “You mean if I won’t call in a parapsychologist to get rid of the ghost, I should find a real psychologist to get rid of the belief.” She frowned, her emerald eyes bright with brimming tears. “I didn’t say that. It’s just, oh, I don’t know what to do. Maybe you’ve just been cooped up in that house too long and you’re starting to imagine things. You’ve gotten too wrapped up in your work.” Bret remained silent, staring straight ahead. Carla gave a soft sob and moved closer to him to rest her head on his arm. “Please forgive me for not believing. I just care so much about you. I’m afraid.” He sighed and reached down to stroke her silky hair. “It’s okay,” he murmured. How could he expect her to believe such a story? He hadn’t even told her the whole truth and she was ready to cart him off to the funny farm. How could he tell her he had fallen in love with a ghost? In silence, he started the car and they drove back to the house. Darkness was falling as they returned to Bonnie Doon. Bret opened the door for Carla and she stepped inside hesitantly, looking around. Checking for ghosts, Bret thought. He tried to sound casual. “Looks like Yolanda’s gone for the evening. We can probably put together some sandwiches or something for dinner, though. If she hasn’t left a full meal warming in the oven, that is.” Carla shook her head. “I’m really not hungry, thanks. I think I’ll just go upstairs and lie down a while.” “Okay,” Bret said, unsurprised. He felt the same way himself. “If you want anything later, you know where the kitchen is, just help yourself.” He smiled broadly and felt as if his face would crack with the strain. “Thanks.” Carla turned and headed quickly up the stairs. Bret watched her go, then walked into the kitchen. A note from Yolanda directed him to leftovers in the fridge, but he was no hungrier than Carla. He sat down at the table and rested his head in his hands. A moment later, he felt a gust of chilly air. He looked up to find Jessamyn seated across from him, a tiny wrinkle of a frown marring her smooth forehead. Pleasure at seeing her mingled with the guilt he felt about Carla. “Did you tell her? What happened?” She wanted to know.

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“I told her Bonnie Doon was haunted. She doesn’t believe it, though.” He reached across to her. “She just thinks I’m crazy.” Jessamyn’s frown deepened. “Then you didn’t tell her about…” she hesitated. “No.” He shook his head and squeezed her hand gently. “I couldn’t tell her how I feel about you. It just wasn’t the right time. It was bad enough just talking about ghosts without telling her I was in love with one.” He didn’t add that he felt too damn guilty to hurt his fiancée with the whole truth. “Then you haven’t changed your mind?” Jessamyn asked softly. He looked up and saw the worry on her delicate face. “No, never.” He rose and reached to take her hands, which became invisible in his, then pulled her to her feet. “It’s not a question of my mind. I couldn’t just decide not to love you.” Her smile of response was radiant. “As long as we love each other, isn’t that all that matters? Everything else will sort itself out, eventually.” She pulled him toward the door. “The night is beautiful. Let’s walk in the garden.” “Is anyone else here? Have you seen Harry or Oliver?” “Harry went home. I think Oliver’s in his room, reading. I didn’t go in there to see.” She gave a little shudder of distaste. He smiled and let her lead him outside. They crossed the lawn, her hand in his, unseen but perfectly human to the touch. He didn’t look. He no longer cared. Her physical condition was of no consequence, he told himself. He would not love her less because of it, any more than his love for Carla would have diminished if she became disabled. The roses in the formal garden had begun to bloom, filling the night air with heady fragrance. Jessamyn stopped and turned to him. He pulled her into his arms, closed his eyes, and kissed her deeply, defiantly. She was right, all that mattered was their love. Let everything else take care of itself. But a nagging corner of his mind wondered how this kiss would appear to an onlooker. He remembered the night they’d kissed in the parlor and his shock at seeing himself seemingly alone, though he held her in his arms. It doesn’t matter, he told himself forcibly, and banished the traitorous thought from his mind. Jessamyn sighed softly in his arms and he abandoned himself to her kiss. Her lips were warm and soft and she stretched to twine her arms around his neck. He could feel every curve of her body pressed against him. The firm swell of her breasts, her gently rounded hips. He let his hands slide down her body. She felt so solid, so real, and he felt himself hardening in response. They dropped to a seat on the stone bench. She leaned against him and her hands moved over his body, hesitantly at first, then with increasing boldness. “Oh, Bret, Bret. I love you,” she whispered, her voice husky with passion as her hand curved over the front of his jeans to cover his straining cock.

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He gasped. She was so eager, so willing. Damn, but he wanted her. He imagined taking her on the bench, her skirts tossed up to bare her soft thighs. Well, at least once he got the damned pantalets off. Somehow the mechanics of sex with women of Jessamyn’s era had never occurred to him before now. She climbed into his lap and pulled his mouth down on hers, her hot little tongue ardent in its exploration of him. His cock jumped in response. She apparently felt it and ground her round, soft ass against him. What the hell was he doing? Even if they—he—wasn’t visible to anyone who happened to wander into the garden, there was still Carla to consider. He groaned and, grasping Jessamyn’s arms, set her away from him. She became visible immediately. He only had a fleeting impression of coalescing mist, except for her arms where he held her. She blinked up at him, her blue eyes wide and questioning, rosy lips still parted and swollen from his kisses. “We can’t do this. It wouldn’t be right.” Hell, he didn’t even know if it would be possible. “But Bret, I love you. I…I want you.” His resolve almost broke at her words. “We have to wait. At least until things are settled.” She looked thoughtful a moment, then nodded, lowering her lashes shyly. “All right, but at least let me touch you, like you touched me.” He swallowed hard, not sure what to say. She didn’t wait for a response, but stood and reached for his hand. He gave it and let her lead him to the shelter of the pergola at the side of the yard. Under the heavy, fragrant canopy of wisteria and honeysuckle, she stopped. “Jessamyn, what…?” he began. She shook her head and touched a soft finger to his mouth to silence him, then stood on her toes to replace her finger with invisible lips. She rested a hand on his hip, then Bret felt her other hand at the fly of his jeans. Her fingers massaged him through the heavy fabric and his cock pressed back hard, seeking release from the imprisoning material. He gasped and she laughed softly into his mouth, her tongue probing as she slid his zipper open. Gently, as though afraid she might hurt him, she eased open the jeans and spread the fly of his briefs. His hard, swollen cock sprang free and into the new, tender prison of Jessamyn’s hand. He moaned under his breath, clutching the latticework of the pergola for support, hoping it would hold his weight as she stroked and kneaded him. “Bret,” she whispered. “Look at me.” He opened his eyes to find her visible except for the hand that held his cock. Her ministrations seemed to have endowed it with a life of its own as it moved with her touch. She sank to her knees before him, her full skirt spread around her, her round

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breasts almost completely visible from his vantage point above the low-cut neck of her gown. Then she opened her mouth to his cock, and he closed his eyes again, sure he’d pass out from the sheer pleasure of it. Her lips closed around him, hot and tight, the silky wetness of her mouth enveloping him. She moved on him, tentatively at first, feeling her way, stroking her tongue along his shaft, swirling it over the sensitive head, probing each ridge and nook of him. He arched back, pressing himself deeper into her mouth as one hand reached down to twine itself in her hair, holding her head against him, while the other continued to grip the wooden lattice. She slid her mouth up his length taking as much of him in as she could, then began a slow, rhythmic caress, stroking, sucking, tonguing him until he bit his lip to keep from crying out, certain he could stand it no longer. When she slipped her fingers into his briefs to take his balls in one hand while her other kneaded his ass through his jeans, he exploded, thrusting hard into her soft mouth. She gripped him tightly, meeting his thrusts with her own strokes until he broke at last. Alone in the master bedroom, Carla had lain on the bed for a few minutes, but the turmoil of her thoughts prompted her to movement. She rose and paced the floor, halflistening to the hum of the radio in Oliver’s room next door in the hope that it would take her mind off Bret’s problem. It didn’t. In fact, the barely audible tunes of unrequited love on some easy-listening station made her all the more uncomfortable. Haunted! She looked around the room, daring any specter to show itself in her presence. Nothing happened, of course. She hadn’t expected it to. She made another circuit of the room. She’d brought this on herself. Coming down here unexpectedly. Insisting on knowing what was bothering Bret. He’s lost his marbles, that’s what’s bothering him, she thought. The isolation, the effects of the attack on Oliver and the other things that were happening, had pushed him over the edge. She shook her head. No, she didn’t really believe Bret was crazy. Deluded maybe. Caught up in the romance of the old plantation. She didn’t know. But whatever, it wasn’t like him. Oh sure, he’d always been a romantic at heart. He got it from parents who’d raised him on stories of swashbuckling and chivalry. The Sea Hawk, Captain Blood, The Scarlet Pimpernel, all were part of his literary and video libraries. They’d given him his love of history as well, so, Carla thought, they couldn’t be all bad. But this ghost thing, this wasn’t like him at all. And he seemed so sure of the haunting. He spoke of Jessamyn Radcliffe as if she were a real person. A frightening thought occurred to her. She pushed it out of her head. No, it couldn’t be.

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She remembered the way he’d laughed when he talked about Jessamyn, the soft look in his eyes when he’d described their conversations. My God. She dropped down hard on the bed and the springs bounced in noisy protest. He believes he’s in love with this Jessamyn. Suddenly, she was sure of it. He thought he was in love with her and he didn’t know how to break the news. Unaccountably cold, she drew her legs up onto the bed. What was she going to do? How could she fight Bret’s obsession with someone who didn’t even exist? Maybe it was an effect of being here alone so long. He knew Jessamyn’s story, knew what she looked like from her portrait. It was like that old movie, Laura. But there were no mysteries left about Jessamyn. She was long-dead. Perhaps, Carla thought, the obsession would fade with time. Especially now that she was here to bring him companionship and some sense of reality. She thought about their lovemaking. That had been real, intense, something he couldn’t deny, and something no ghost could give him. She’d wait it out, Carla thought. She couldn’t leave him now, when he needed her most. As for his claim the house was haunted, surely the only ghosts here were in his imagination. Her decision made, Carla felt calmer. She relaxed and realized with a start that she was hungry. Maybe Bret was still downstairs and they could have dinner together. She started out into the hallway. Light shone under Oliver’s door, but the rest of the upstairs was dark. She went down the stairs. A light was on in the kitchen, but the room was empty. The door to the backyard, she noticed, was still open. Maybe Bret was walking in the garden. It was a beautiful night for it, and still fairly early. She dug through the refrigerator for the makings of a ham sandwich, then put together her quick meal and made a second sandwich for Bret. She set the table and walked outside. The night was cool and humid. Flowers scented the soft breeze, giving the air an exotic flavor. Beyond the garden, a mist was rolling in off the river, interweaving feathery tendrils around the trunks of the trees that surrounded the house and lawn. It seemed to float toward the house. The effect was both beautiful and ominous. Carla shuddered, then felt foolish. This whole business was beginning to get to her, too. She heard voices in the formal garden. Or one voice. Bret’s. She followed the sound. He was seated on a stone bench, partly obscured from view by a cluster of large rosebushes. She took a step closer and started to call out to him, then stopped. Something strange was going on. His body rested at an angle, as though he leaned against something. His left arm was extended outward and around. Around what? Nothing was visible beside him, but his arm clearly encircled something next to him! As she watched, he bent his head down, attitude attentive as though listening. He chuckled softly. Then he kissed—what? Nothingness, it seemed. He closed his eyes and

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tilted his head back, groaning softly, his arousal obvious even at this distance. She stifled a gasp of shock and knew with wrenching certainty that something—someone— was there. And that she’d been right, and wrong. Bret was in love with Jessamyn Radcliffe, she realized, but unless he was seriously disturbed, Jessamyn was much more than a figment of his overactive imagination. She gulped for air, breathless and pain-racked as if she’d been punched in the stomach. Reflexively, she backed up. He mustn’t see her like this. Him? Them? A jealous confrontation with a ghost was just what she needed to make her day complete. Quickly and quietly, despite her rising anguish, she walked back to the house. On the porch, she couldn’t resist a look back toward the garden. But something else, in the other direction caught her eye. Perhaps it was a trick of the encroaching mist, but far off, beyond the manicured lawn and gardens, a light moved slowly through the darkness. Carla stared at it, fearing it would disappear if she so much as blinked. Bret had mentioned seeing a light out there, she thought. It could be the key to everything that was happening around here. To whatever had happened to him. Without further thought, she made her decision. She jumped from the porch and trotted along the length of the house, then skirted the grove, running toward the stand of poplars that marked the edge of the lawn. Crossing the lawn directly would have been faster, but Bret might have seen her. She couldn’t risk that, not now. The exertion combined with the cool night air worked to ease the knotted pain inside her. She reached the break in the trees that formed the gateway to the working plantation and paused to catch her breath, scanning the area for the light. A waning, but still bright, moon bathed the scene in a soft, silvery glow. The tall poplars that sheltered her cast muted, shifting shadows as they trembled with the soft breeze. There it was! Still approximately where she’d seen it earlier, near the slave quarters. She watched, sheltered among the stalky trunks, as it rose and glided slowly east, then south toward the river. Toward the creeping ground fog that shimmered in the crisp moonlight. Carla took a deep breath and followed at a brisk pace. She clung to the shadows, concentrating on keeping her presence a secret from whoever was out there. Or whatever. The unbidden thought sent a shiver down her spine and she forced it from her mind. Whoever, she thought emphatically. Surely a ghost wouldn’t need a light. The Edisto Light ghost carried a lantern. Damn, why did I think of that. The thought threw her off stride and she stumbled over a patch of bumpy terrain. A muffled “oof” escaped her lips. Ahead of her, the light seemed to hesitate. She threw herself behind the nearest tree for cover and held her breath, waiting. The light moved on. She let out a sigh slowly, silently, and started on again. A hot, knife blade of pain lanced up her leg and brought her to a shuddering halt.

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She dropped to one knee, clutching her ankle and biting her lip to keep from crying out. Damn, she thought, she must have twisted it when she tripped. She blinked away tears and looked for the light. It was still ahead, steadily moving away from her. She rose slowly and tested her weight on the ankle. Better, she thought. Achy, but tolerable. She massaged it gently for a moment, then hobbled on. What harm could a headless ghost do her anyway, she thought, hoping to jar her mind away from the pain in her leg? Short of scaring her to death? A person would be much more dangerous. This guy might have tried to kill Oliver. She wished she hadn’t remembered that fact. Indeed, this whole line of thought wasn’t especially comforting. It was a toss-up whether she’d rather meet a headless ghost or an attempted murderer in the dark. Another spasm shot through her ankle and she winced. Ahead of her, the light had reached the fog bank, glowing gold within the silver mist. After a few more steps, Carla realized she couldn’t go on. She’d be lucky to make it back to the house. She dropped to the ground to rub her ankle and watched the mist swallow her quarry. Then she was alone in the pale moonlight. The night seemed to close in around her. Fog rolled toward her from the woods ahead like mist from a tub of dry ice, low and dense. Time to get back to the house, she thought, and climbed awkwardly to her feet. She flexed her ankle experimentally. Not bad. Until she put her weight on it. She bit back a yelp of pain. Well, nothing for it but to limp back to the house. She sure couldn’t stay out here and yell for help. She might not like the answer. Carla made her way slowly back to the slave quarters. The large building directly ahead of her was the kitchen, she recalled Bret describing it. The break in the trees was just a little beyond. Could she make it back inside without Bret spotting her? She hoped so. She didn’t have the strength to face him tonight. A low box squatted directly in front of her. She hadn’t noticed it on her way out, sticking close to the trees as she’d been. Carla limped up to it and sat down for a muchneeded rest. Her ankle felt warm and puffy beneath her massaging fingers. Could it be broken? She didn’t think it too likely, after all she could move it pretty well. It was only standing on it that really hurt. From somewhere under her she felt an electric hum. What was she sitting on? She stood on her good foot and looked at the object. It appeared to be a cover for some kind of machinery. Not a generator? Then she remembered Bret’s remark about the old wishing well. They’d dug a new well out near the slave quarters when the area was being used as a hospital. Maybe this was the well. The hum was probably from the pump that forced water to the house. She looked toward the house, gauging its distance. When she’d come through the break in the poplars, she realized, this was where the light was hovering before it

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moved on. She glanced around. What would the carrier of the light be looking for around the well? Something shiny caught her eye and she bent to pick it up. Well, that ruled out the headless ghost theory, she thought with some relief as she examined the object by moonlight. Ghostly lanterns didn’t use batteries.

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Chapter Twenty-Five Bret opened his eyes and groaned. Sunlight streamed in the open window of his bedroom, banishing every shadow except the one that shrouded his soul. Guilt settled on him like a physical mass. He could barely move under its weight. Not that he’d done anything wrong, a part of his mind told him. Hah, he argued with himself, just betrayed your fiancée. He still couldn’t help wondering where that might have led. He remembered the softness of her breasts, the sweet heat of her lips on his cock. No! He pushed the thoughts away emphatically. This wasn’t the time. Not with Carla here, worrying about his sanity, as he knew she must be by now. He’d tried to talk to her last night, after he’d left Jessamyn. Racked by conflicting emotion, wild exhilaration and wrenching guilt, he’d found the bedroom door locked when he went upstairs. She hadn’t answered, despite his persistence. Either she was sleeping much more soundly than usual or she wasn’t ready to talk to him, after the day’s revelation. But now, this morning, he was the reticent one. He rose after a night in blue bedroom and dressed quietly, sensing the air for Jessamyn’s presence. Nothing. She must still be resting. No sounds issued from Carla’s room, either. Good. He didn’t want to face either of them. Maybe he could make it out of the house before they awoke. He had to get away and think this through. He slipped silently downstairs and out the front door. A deep throbbing pain carried Carla to the brink of wakefulness like a deep-ocean roller. The undertow of sleep caught her and dragged her back down toward warm oblivion, but another spasm shot through her ankle, forcing her to wide-eyed consciousness. She pulled herself upright in bed, careful not to push with her injured foot. Last night had been real. If not for the pain, she’d have guessed it was all a nightmare, the haunting kind where you run and run, but can’t see what you’re chasing. Or what’s chasing you. But last night’s shadows didn’t dissipate with the coming of dawn. She glanced at her night table. A silver-clad battery gleamed at her. No, definitely not a dream. She climbed out of bed and gingerly tried her weight on her ankle. Not too bad. She’d live, though for today, at least, she’d have a distinct limp. The swelling had

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decreased, probably due to the workout of getting back to the house and inside without Bret spotting her. Bret, she thought, and Jessamyn. They—or at least he—were still in the garden when she’d returned. She’d dashed inside, hobbled up the stairs, locked the door, knowing she couldn’t face Bret again, and collapsed in bed after downing several aspirin for the pain and inflammation. Between the fresh air and the stress exhaustion, she’d slept like the dead. Well, at least like the normal dead. She swore under her breath. What was she going to do now? What could she do? Try to make Bret see how hopeless his infatuation was? Or maybe she should appeal to Jessamyn. Not that she had any reason to hope the ghost would be more rational than Bret. She shook her head in disbelief. What was she doing? She was letting herself get caught up in this delusion of Bret’s. Maybe she was wrong about what she saw last night. She didn’t have a clear view, perhaps he only seemed to be sitting with someone. His movements might have been a trick of the light. In the clear light of day, it seemed possible. More than possible. She had to have been mistaken. What other rational explanation could there be? With her attitude much improved, she went downstairs for breakfast. “Good morning,” Oliver greeted her enthusiastically over a plate heaped with biscuits and gravy. “Good morning,” she replied and turned to Yolanda. “Just toast and coffee for me this morning, please. My jeans are already getting too tight.” Oliver’s expression was puzzled. “Really? They look fine to me.” His gaze seemed to caress her hips and thighs, and she felt her breath catch. Okay, this was the last thing she needed. She gave him a sharp look and his gaze dropped to her feet. “Carla, you’re limping,” he said. “Are you all right?” Yolanda looked as well. “What have you gone and done to yourself?” Carla shook off their questions. “It’s nothing. I just tripped on the throw rug as I was getting into bed last night and must’ve twisted my ankle.” “Well, as long as you’re all right.” Yolanda said. “You might want to put some ice on it, though.” Behind her, the toaster popped and she turned back to the counter. Oliver’s narrowed gaze lingered a few moments, then he returned to his meal. “Has Bret gone to the college?” Carla asked him. “I think so. At least, he was gone when I got up.” Yolanda gave a snort of laughter. “Most everyone’s usually gone by the time you get up, Oliver.” She handed Carla a plate of buttered toast and winked at her. “He nearly scared a year’s growth off me coming into my kitchen at eight o’clock this morning.” 177

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Oliver’s smiled with no trace of embarrassment. “I’m still a growing boy. Can I help it if I need my eight hours?” “So what got you up at eight, for a change?” Carla couldn’t resist asking. He shrugged. “Too much on my mind, I guess. I was up late reading one of the Radcliffe journals.” “Oh?” Carla tried, without success to keep the tension out of her voice. “Whose?” “James Radcliffe’s. He was the oldest son, back during the War.” Carla breathed easier. “Was he a soldier?” Oliver snorted. “Hardly. He was a thief and a terrorist. But his crimes caught up with him.” Yolanda had turned to look at him, an odd expression on her face. Oliver smiled, rather nastily, Carla thought. “Radcliffe didn’t survive the war.” “How did he die?” Yolanda asked. Surprised, Carla and Oliver looked up at her. “He was captured and executed by one of his victims.” Oliver’s voice warmed to his topic. “Most of his band of cutthroats were tracked down and made to pay for their crimes.” He looked back and forth from Carla to Yolanda, and his eyes glittered coldly. “Justice was served.” He stood abruptly, his face clearing. “Well, back to the grindstone.” He grinned and left the room. Yolanda remained still, a slight frown wrinkling her smooth, dark features. “What is it?” Carla asked. Yolanda looked at her suddenly, as if jerked from a trance. She blinked rapidly a couple times. “Oh, I’m sorry, my mind wandered. It’s nothing. I just always heard that James Radcliffe survived the war. He left home after his young sister died and no one ever saw him again.” The back door swung open and Harry stalked inside. He let the door slam, cupping his left hand carefully in his right. Yolanda rounded on him. “Were you born in a barn, Joseph Harold Osborne?” Her outburst brought him up short and he stared at her. Yolanda stared back, then her gaze dropped to the hand he cradled. “What happened? Are you hurt?” Concern abruptly replaced the anger in her voice. She reached for his hand. He dodged her, like a little boy avoiding his medicine. “Don’t fuss, Yo,” Harry said gruffly. “It’s only a sliver.” He glanced at Carla, surprise in his blue eyes. “Who’s that?” Yolanda rolled her eyes in exasperation. “She is Carla Stewart, the professor’s fiancée. Give me your hand,” she ordered.

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Harry submitted to her examination, looking at Carla over the housekeeper’s bent head. “Am I glad you’re here, Miss. Now maybe this place’ll settle down. Oof.” Yolanda had kicked him hard in the shin. “Hush up and sit.” Harry scowled and sat. Yolanda studied his injured hand. A red, puffy splotch stained his palm. She glanced at his face, then looked away. “It’s deep. I’ll try tweezers, but it’ll probably take a needle.” Harry winced. “It’s just a splinter. I don’t need major surgery.” He twisted to face Carla. “As I was saying, that boy needs a distraction. The isolation’s startin’ to get to him.” Yolanda kicked him again. “Ow! Stop that. What are you doing?” He snatched his hand away. “I’m going to get the tweezers and some antiseptic.” Yolanda said, straightening up. “Don’t you move from this spot.” She turned to go. Carla saw Harry’s rebellious glare soften as he watched Yolanda’s retreating from. She grinned to herself. Well, at least one relationship in this house was clear enough. Harry turned to face her, and she quickly pasted on a neutral expression. Harry shook his head. “I ain’t never seen such a bossy woman.” “She’s worried about you,” Carla remarked softly. The caretaker ran his uninjured hand through his shock of graying blond hair, his brow furrowing. “You think?” “I do.” A little smile played around his mouth. Carla didn’t know the man at all, but she sensed he was both embarrassed and pleased by her assurance. He was still smiling when Yolanda returned. The housekeeper paused and stared at him, suspiciously. “What have you been up to?” He gave a shrug with an expression of innocence. Yolanda set a small sewing kit and a bottle of peroxide on the table. “Now let me see it.” She held out her own slender hand. Harry meekly placed his, palm up, in hers and she set to work, oblivious to his silent contemplation of her. Yolanda glanced at Carla. “The way things are going around here, we’ll need a fulltime nurse before long.” She looked back at Harry’s face, catching him in mid-stare. At first, her expression was puzzled, then she smiled, looking suddenly shy and girlish. My cue to exit, Carla thought. She rose and stepped outside, apparently unnoticed by the other two occupants of the kitchen. Jessamyn leaned against the counter and watched Harry and Yolanda. About time, she thought, and followed Carla outside.

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The intensity of last night’s encounter with Bret had left her weakened and lethargic this morning. Strong bouts of emotion always drained her, and she’d had more than her share over the past couple days. She had hoped to see him before he left this morning. She’d expected him to seek her out. Maybe he’d tried when she was too weak to answer. Or maybe he hadn’t tried. Maybe she had done something wrong last night and offended or, worse, frightened him. She had certainly frightened herself. Instinct alone had led her last night, with no thought for propriety or decency. She remembered her Mother’s scathing words about young women who allowed themselves to be loose with men, but she shrugged them off. Bret said he loved her. And she believed him. She didn’t regret anything. She’d loved the feel of him, the taste of him in her mouth. Giving him pleasure had made her feel so powerful, for all that it had drained her energy. She still believed he loved her, even if he had fled this morning to avoid her. This couldn’t be easy for him. Especially with Carla here. The dark-haired woman entered the formal garden where Jessamyn had sat with Bret the night before. Carla walked to the stone bench and stood quietly looking at it. Jessamyn felt hot embarrassment flood her. She’d behaved disgracefully, pleasuring Bret as she had. It was simply shameful. And delightful, she thought guiltily. She’d never felt anything like the sensations she’d shared with him. And with Carla. She wanted more. Carla bent to brush her fingers along the smooth stone seat, her green eyes grave. A shock ran through Jessamyn. She knew. It didn’t seem possible, but somehow, this woman knew she and Bret had been here last night. Carla straightened and turned to look out toward the edge of the grounds. Worry marked her fine features. She walked slowly out of the garden and across the lawn. Jessamyn noticed for the first time that Carla was limping. An odd twinge of concern went through her and she stamped her foot angrily in defiance. It just wasn’t fair. She loved Bret and he loved her. So why was she feeling miserable about Carla? She had planned to hate this woman, her rival. But the more they were together, the more they shared, the more she was coming to care for the tall brunette. And the worse she felt about stealing Bret away. Damnation! She’d waited so long for the man of her prophecy and at last Bret had finally arrived to restore Bonnie Doon and to love her. He was the key to her future, of that Jessamyn was certain. Surely Carla could find someone else. She and Bret weren’t really suited for each other anyway. Jessamyn could tell that from the first. But why did she feel so terrible when she finally had her heart’s desire? She followed Carla until she could go no further, reaching the “wall” that prevented her from approaching the wishing well, identical to that at the edge of the grounds. She watched Carla linger a moment at the picturesque well, then head across the lawn toward the poplar barrier. At last she turned and went back to the house. 180

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Carla explored the area where she’d found the discarded battery, but no other evidence presented itself. Rain had fallen during the early morning hours and any tracks left in the loamy soil had been obliterated. She leaned against the pump cover. The hinged top rattled, startling her. She stepped around to the other side. The lock was missing from the latch that held the cover in place. It had been there last night, she was sure of it. Why would anyone take the cover off? Intrigued, she lifted the lid and looked inside. Nothing seemed out of place amid the machinery and pipes. Not that she’d recognize it if it were. Maybe Harry had been out here working this morning. He might well have gotten his splinter from the worn wooden lid. She closed the box and fastened down the latch, intending to mention it to Harry. It would give her an excuse to question him. Maybe he’d know something about the light she’d followed as well. Back at the house, Yolanda had released her reluctant patient. She stood at the sink, humming happily to herself as she washed up the breakfast dishes. Carla found Harry in the parlor, gazing at the empty wall mirror support, his left hand swathed in a large bandage. He glanced up at her arrival. “I see you survived your surgery.” She nodded toward his bandages. Harry grinned and held up his hand. “You’d think I’d ‘a lost a couple fingers, the size of this thing, but I had to let her make a fuss or I’d never have heard the end of it.” He gave a long-suffering sigh, but his pleased smile didn’t fade. “How did this happen?” Carla gestured to the wall. Harry shook his head. “Don’t know. I wasn’t here that night.” He wrinkled his brow. “We lose more mirrors around here.” “Harry, I was out near the old kitchen this morning, and there’s a box out there that covers some machinery.” “That’s the well,” he said, confirming her expectations. “The new well, actually, as opposed to the old well out back of the house with all the metalwork on it. There’s an electric pump inside the box.” “I noticed the latch on it was loose when I was out there.” “But there’s a padlock on it.” Harry frowned. She shook her head. “It’s gone now.” “Well, why the heck would anyone take the lock off that thing for?” He scratched his head. “Was there anything else amiss?” Carla took a deep breath. Here was her opening. “Not this morning, but there was last night.” Harry’s eyes narrowed. “Last night?”

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“I saw a light out there, moving through the trees. I followed it from the area of the slave kitchen out to the woods by the river. Then it disappeared in the fog.” Harry blanched beneath his tan. “You followed the light? Is that how you hurt your ankle? Dammit girl, you might ‘a been killed.” “Why, what was it?” He didn’t answer. Carla grasped his arm. “Harry, do you know what the light is? And don’t try to tell me it was a headless Civil War ghost, because I won’t believe it.” He stared down at her. “I’m not sure what it is, but I think it’s someone looking for the Barton gold. Has the professor told you about that?” She nodded and he continued, “I think it’s the same person that attacked Oliver. There’s a fortune out there waiting to be discovered, and they won’t hesitate to kill for it.” He turned to her and gripped her arms gently. “Have you talked to Bret about this?” “I haven’t had a chance. He left before I got up.” “Good. It won’t help him to know you’ve been out chasing through the woods. Let me tell him.” A thrill of alarm went off in Carla’s mind. She didn’t even know this man. Perhaps he had been the one she’d stalked through the darkness. How far could Bret trust him? “I don’t like the idea of keeping secrets from Bret,” she said. “He should know about this.” Harry frowned. “I said I’d talk to him and I will.” His grip on her arms tightened briefly, then he released her. “What you need to concern yourself with is this ghost business.” “Ghost business?” A chill like an icy finger ran down her spine. “The professor hasn’t been himself since the remodeling was finished. I didn’t believe in ghosts when we started. I lived in this place almost forty years and never saw or heard any sign of a ghost until he came here. Now I can’t think of any other explanation, and I think the professor believes it, too.” I know he does, Carla thought. “But what can I do? I haven’t noticed anything ghostly happening.” Except Bret in the garden last night. She forced the thought from her mind. Worry deepened the wrinkles on Harry’s tanned face. “I think the ghost is influencing him.” He paused. “I think he may be possessed.” Carla’s breath caught in her throat. “Possessed? You actually believe that could happen?” Harry shook his head. “I don’t know what to believe. All’s I know is I’ve heard him talking to things that weren’t there, as far as I could see. And when that ghost-hunting lady came here, he was like a madman, Yolanda told me. That’s why he threw Paul Grady out. The lady told him Paul had called her here.”

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“But possession?” No, Carla couldn’t believe it. Sure, Bret hadn’t been his normal self, but with all that was going on, that was no surprise. “It’s just too farfetched.” Harry shrugged. “Well, anyway, I’m glad you came down when you did. Maybe you’ll distract him from her, or even scare her off.” “Her?” Carla knew the answer even as she asked. “Yep. Jessamyn Radcliffe.” Harry flexed his bandaged hand experimentally and winced. “Don’t give up on him, Miss. He needs you.” He gave a brief nod and left the parlor. Carla stood staring after him. Possession? she thought. Ghosts and murderous treasure hunters? What exactly had she gotten herself into? What had Bret gotten into? She left the parlor and climbed the steps to the library. Oliver was there. He jumped up suddenly as she entered, dropping the sheaf of papers he’d been reading face down on the desk, and walked around it to greet her. “Carla. What can I do for you? How’s the ankle? Better? Good,” he fired in rapid succession. “Oliver, do you have anything here about Jessamyn Radcliffe?” Oliver squinted at the bookshelves. “Jessamyn, the sister of James Radcliffe? I haven’t found a diary, yet. Maybe she didn’t keep one.” His expression turned contemptuous. “Unlike every other member of the freaking Radcliffe family.” Carla looked at him. “What exactly do you have against the Radcliffes, Oliver?” Her question was half-teasing, but he certainly never seemed to have anything good to say about the family. Oliver’s eyes widened. “Nothing,” he replied quickly. “I never met any of them. Why should I have anything against them?” Something like malicious pleasure shown in his handsome face. “They’re all dead now anyway.” Carla shrugged and changed the subject. “Maybe one of the other family journals mentions Jessamyn.” Oliver nodded, calmer. “They do. I have her mother’s journal and her brother’s. Would you like to see them?” “If you aren’t using them.” She glanced at the desk. Oliver moved unobtrusively into her line of sight. “Not at all. They’re over here.” He led her away from the desk to the tidiest of the many bookcases and pulled out a pair of bound notebooks. “These should keep you busy for a while.” He handed them to her. “Be careful with them, though. The pages are brittle. Mrs. Radcliffe’s book has been rebound, but James’s hasn’t so it’s more fragile, too.” “Thanks, I’ll take good care of them.” She turned to go, feeling Oliver’s gaze on her until she was out of his sight. Carla begged an old blanket from Yolanda, then found a shady spot in the backyard to spend the afternoon reading. She’d been inclined to doubt what she’d seen the night before. In the bright sunshine, everything seemed so normal and natural she felt she 183

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must have been mistaken. But after listening to Harry’s remarks, she was no longer so certain. She felt compelled to learn all she could about Jessamyn. She skimmed the books for any mention of her rival. The vivacious young woman’s antics were a frequent topic of discussion by both her brother and her mother. But the Jessamyn they described bore little resemblance to Harry’s fiendish ghost, possessor of men’s souls. She had been a lively and loving girl, perhaps a little frivolous, but then she had no reason to be otherwise in the kind of life she had led. Carla read Mrs. Radcliffe’s account of her nursing activities when the old kitchen had been converted to a hospital. Jessamyn hadn’t flinched from the ghastly, but necessary work, and had won the affection of all who knew her. A twinge of pain ran through Carla. This had nothing to do with possession, she realized. Jessamyn was the kind of woman any man could love—the kind of woman she herself had never been—passionate, impulsive, in love with life. The complete opposite of her own calm, practical demeanor. She knew with a flash of clarity that she’d been right about what she’d seen. And that her fiancé was in love with another woman. No. Not a woman. The ghost of a woman. A ghost who apparently contained all the attributes of the person she’d been. Tears sprang to Carla’s eyes, tears of pain for herself and of sympathy for this unknown creature who loved what she could never have. Even as she thought it, it amazed her. She actually felt sorry for Jessamyn. Carla closed Mrs. Radcliffe’s journal. The ultimate barrier separated Jessamyn from Bret. Death. And the poor girl was too in love to realize it. A tremor ran through Carla. What did this mean for Bret? If he shared her feelings and realized that only the fact that he lived separated them, might he…? The thought was too terrible to complete. Carla rose and started for the house. She had to talk to Jessamyn. She had to make her understand the hopelessness of the situation and make her release Bret, before it was too late.

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Chapter Twenty-Six Jessamyn watched Carla limp back into the house, past a startled Yolanda and up the stairs. She followed the dark-haired woman into the blue bedroom. She’d spent the whole day confused and miserable. Bret was still gone and the fear that she’d frightened him last night hung over her like a pall. The need she felt to be with Carla disturbed her even further. The time they’d spent together in the attic yesterday and the physical pleasures they’d shared had given her a strange sense of comradeship with Carla, not the rivalry she’d anticipated. Somehow, she thought, being with Carla now would ease her pain. Carla stood in the center of the room and looked around her slowly, as though searching for something. Then she dropped onto the edge of the bed and chewed her bottom lip, indecision on her face. She took a deep breath. “Jessamyn,” she said hesitantly. Jessamyn started. She stared at the other woman. Surely Carla couldn’t know she was here. She’d never been able to sense Jessamyn’s presence before. “Jessamyn,” Carla continued. “I don’t know if you can hear me, but if you’re here, we need to talk. Woman to woman.” She stood up, as though too agitated to sit still, and paced the floor gingerly, careful of her sore ankle. Jessamyn glided across the room to stand out of her way by the fireplace and watched curiously. “I didn’t really believe in you,” Carla said. “I guess in a way I still don’t, but don’t take it personally. It’s just that I can’t see or hear you, so it’s hard for me to accept that you exist.” She fixed her gaze on a spot near the window and paused. Jessamyn, just to be polite, moved there and waited. “I don’t know what’s happened between you and Bret,” Carla continued slowly, “But you probably realize he’s my fiancé. I’ve known him since we were children together and I love him very much. I know you’re a woman of honor, Jessamyn, so I don’t have to tell you what our promise means.” She clasped her hands tightly in front of her and paused to catch her breath. Unshed tears gleamed in her green eyes, and Jessamyn shifted uncomfortably against a sudden and unwelcome surge of guilt and compassion. Carla went on. “Please understand, I don’t blame you for loving him. You must have been very lonely here all those years. Bret is a wonderful man. He gave you back your house, the way it must have been when you lived here. It’s only natural for you to care for him.”

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He cares for me, too, Jessamyn protested silently. “I’m no loose woman, throwing myself at men,” she spoke aloud, despite the fact that Carla couldn’t hear. “Bret and I love each other. We’re meant for each other.” Carla paced the small area in front of the window. Her voice softened, as though she could barely force out the words. “The thing is, Jessamyn, I’m afraid for him. You’re too caught up in your—love for him to see it, but you’re just too different for each other. When you both come to realize that, it’ll be painful. I don’t want to see him give up everything for you only to discover it won’t work.” No! Jessamyn wanted to shout, to force Carla to hear her. “Neither of us will be hurt. We’ll stay here together, always. We’ll be happy here. Bret has made his decision. You’re the one who doesn’t understand.” “Please give him up, Jessamyn,” Carla pleaded, unhearing. Tears began to fall in earnest, staining her pale cheeks. “Release him from whatever hold you have on him. If you try to keep him, you’ll only destroy him.” She gave a gasping sob and dropped to her knees on the hard wood floor. “I’m not asking you to do it for me. I couldn’t ask that of you. But I’d give him up myself to save him, if it were my decision. Please just think about what’s right for Bret.” Jessamyn’s eyes burned with the tears she could not shed. She wanted to smash things, to summon the energy at her command and tear the room apart in a hurricane blast. But she stood powerless before her rival. Furious at Carla’s words, yet hurting with her pain, Jessamyn could only stare at the crying woman. She hadn’t meant to cause such turmoil. She simply loved Bret. She knew he was the man from her past—the man whose love for her had been prophesied. The fact that he was engaged to someone else was irrelevant. It had to be a mistake. She’d been prepared to detest Carla on sight, but for some reason she hadn’t. And Carla’s grief, far short of filling her with triumph, only deepened Jessamyn’s own misery. They both loved Bret—Carla so much that she’d give him up rather than see him hurt. Did she, herself, love him that much? Jessamyn wondered. Would she give him up to save him? She shook her head clear. Of course she would, but the idea wasn’t worth even considering. Bret wasn’t in any danger. At least not from her. She loved him. They’d work everything out and be happy together, always. She gazed down at the weeping Carla, wanting to do something, but helpless even to offer her comfort. Finally, she left the room. Carla collapsed against the frame of the iron bed and let hot tears flow unchecked. The hurt and anger that had been building since her arrival at Bonnie Doon spilled out, triggered by this new and unexpected menace. She could tolerate Bret’s indifference, as painful as it was, but the thought that he might be in danger, a danger she had no power to defend against, was too much to bear. 186

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At last, when she could cry no more, she pulled herself up onto the bed. The dressing table mirror caught her reflection and she stared at her face, puffy and tearstreaked, the green of her eyes brilliant against reddened rims and wet spiky lashes. She blew her stuffy nose and dabbed a few last escaping tears from her cheeks and chin. What a fool. As if crying about it would solve anything. She’d thought she’d outgrown the childish habit of using tears as a response to every emotional stimulus. She was a grown woman, sophisticated and successful, far too practical for such outbursts. She rested her face in her hands and massaged her temples. She just hadn’t been herself the last few days. Unannounced arrivals, crying jags, foolhardy dashes through the woods after God-knew-what, these weren’t the acts of the rational, sensible woman she knew herself to be. She wasn’t herself lately. She straightened and breathed deeply, letting the tension flow out of her as she exhaled, then glanced at the spot near the window where she’d addressed the ghost. Heaven forbid Jessamyn, if there was a Jessamyn, had actually been there to witness her collapse. She hadn’t intended to make the girl—ghost?—pity her, only to convince her to do what was right by Bret. Of course, she thought, she would have maintained her composure had Jessamyn actually been there, standing before her. At least, she liked to think she would. Had Jessamyn been in the room with her? Carla had no way of knowing. She’d felt nothing unusual, but then she’d had no sensation of anything out of the ordinary since she’d arrived at Bonnie Doon. Nothing except Bret’s odd behavior. She could only hope that she’d gotten through to the ghost. The room was growing dim as afternoon shade bathed the back of the house. Carla rose. A twinge in her ankle reminded her again of last night’s foolishness and she crossed to the window slowly. Cool shadows softened the lines of the lawn and gardens below. She opened the window and caught the soft breath of approaching night, honey sweet and soothing against her heated cheeks and tear-stung eyes. She leaned on the sill and a feeling of calm came over her, the aftermath of her emotional catharsis. Glancing downward, she found herself able to smile. The little wishing well with its ironwork bonnet lay directly beneath her window, and she wondered idly whether a penny tossed from this distance would make its way through the metal interlacing. Her breath caught in her throat. She stood up to improve her perspective and leaned further out the window for a better view. From above, the spun iron formed a perfect circle of metallic lace, a pattern with no beginning or ending, reminiscent of the interlaced designs worked in gold and stone by the ancient Celts. Or, more recently, of a small carving etched into the middle of an old wooden stair.

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Bret stretched out his legs on the warm sand and watched foam-edged surf inch up the beach toward him, then pause and scurry back to the safety of deeper water. At just over eighty degrees, the day was, to his tastes, too cool for swimming. For sitting on the beach, however, it was just right. His original intent on leaving Bonnie Doon had been to return to the college, to drown himself in paperwork again and take his mind off the situation at home. Once he crossed the Ashley, though, he impulsively bypassed the freeway exit into the city. He continued around downtown and crossed the Cooper River bridge to the Isle of Palms. Despite the temperate weather, the beach was far from deserted. The shouts of children mingled with seagulls’ screams and the pounding of waves to create a cacophony, not entirely unpleasant, that blurred conscious thought. He’d walked far down the beach, scanning the sand for shells and sand dollars and skimming surf-polished stones into the gray-green water. Along the way, he searched for landmarks remembered from childhood. Some he thought he recognized, a battered pier, the ruins of a beachfront cottage, though most were little more than rubble after the series of severe hurricanes over the past few years. Other places he’d known were gone altogether, blasted out of existence by the storms’ fury. When he returned to the cluster of shops and arcades at the entrance to the beach, his head had cleared considerably. He was going to have to stop this, he realized. He couldn’t just run away from this problem. He had to face what was happening, to be fair to both Carla and Jessamyn. Trouble was, he wasn’t sure just what fair entailed. Telling Carla, straight out, that he was in love with Jessamyn seemed the simplest course of action. He and Carla had always maintained a policy of open, honest communication. They knew each other too well and respected one another too much to be anything but forthright. Unfortunately, under the circumstances she’d think he was, at best, crazy or, at worst, concocting an elaborate lie to get out of their engagement. She’d be hurt either way, something he wanted to avoid at all costs. He still loved her despite his overwhelming passion for Jessamyn. It was mostly the placid, companionable love of close, long-time friends, although their lovemaking the other day had revealed a passion he’d never experienced between them. It had left him shaken and confused, and his later encounter with Jessamyn had only served to blur things further. The more Bret considered the possibilities, the fewer plausible ideas presented themselves. Finally, he made up his mind. He’d tell her. He’d do it gently, somehow, and hope for the best. When he pulled up to the house, Carla was sitting on the front steps, looking like a lanky teenager in jeans and a t-shirt with rolled sleeves, her dark hair swinging round her ears. She rose gracefully at his approach and leaned against a white column, dispelling the unsophisticated image.

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Bret searched her face. She didn’t look angry, he thought. Anxious maybe, or excited, but not furious that he’d left her alone all day. She came down the steps as he opened the car door. She was limping slightly. “Finally,” she said. “I thought you’d never get back.” Her words held no anger, only relief at his return and an undercurrent of tension. An electrical tingle of warning went through him. “What is it? Has something happened? What’s wrong with your foot?” She looked surprised. “Oh, I just turned my ankle. And nothing’s happened. Or rather, I guess, something has happened, in a way.” She plucked at his arm. “Come inside, I’ll show you.” She turned and darted back to the house, careful of her foot, yet girlish again. Bret followed, puzzled. Carla took the stairs cautiously, but Bret stayed close behind her, his knuckles white on the rail until she’d reached the top. She headed for the blue bedroom. He followed her into the room and tensed in surprise. Jessamyn stood beside the open window, the breeze ruffling the fine white silk of her gown. Carla ran to stand next to her, leaning on the sill to look outside. Did Carla know she was here? Bret threw a quick questioning look at Jessamyn and nodded toward Carla. Jessamyn shook her head quickly, then moved aside as Carla turned. Carla motioned Bret to her side. “Now look. Straight down.” Bret did as he was told. All he saw was the little wishing well. “What am I looking at?” “At the well.” Carla pointed. “But don’t think of it in terms of a well. Think of it in terms of a design.” He glanced at her doubtfully. “Art’s not really my specialty.” She grinned. “Don’t I know it. Just look. See the pattern in the metalwork?” He looked again. Jessamyn leaned close so she could see, too, and he fought the urge to shiver. It took a moment’s careful concentration to see only the design rather than the whole structure, like viewing one of those optical illusions that hides a face or an animal form. But once he’d spotted it, there was no doubt. “It’s the same as the carving on the stair. That round woven design.” He turned to face Carla. She nodded. “Identical. Bret, that carving is a map to this well.” Bret felt a warm pressure on his arm. He looked at Jessamyn. “What carving, Bret?” she asked, barely suppressed excitement in her voice. “The stair. The fourth one from the top, where you…” he glanced up. Carla stared at him, her brow knotted in a frown.

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“Where I almost fell,” he went on, directing his remarks toward Carla. “There were two carvings on the inner pieces when I took it apart. Isn’t it possible the carving and the metalwork were done by the same person? The design might just be a signature.” Carla’s frown relaxed. She shook her head. “No, the other design, the sunburst, definitely points to its being a map. I puzzled over it for a while, then Oliver told me that Jeffrey Holt, the Radcliffe children’s tutor, dabbled in alchemy.” Bret glanced surreptitiously at Jessamyn, who nodded confirmation. Her voice came to him like a whisper, “We teased him and called it ‘voodoo’. His grandmother had been a slave, you know. But we kept it a secret. Otherwise, Papa would have dismissed him and we liked him very much.” “Bret,” Carla went on. “In alchemy, the chemical elements, iron, mercury, lead, and so on, are each represented by a different planet. And the alchemical symbol of the sun stands for gold.” For a moment, Bret couldn’t speak. Then his voice returned, hoarse and low. “The Barton hoard is in the well?” Carla nodded. “It must be.” “Oh, my land,” Jessamyn’s voice was a low moan of pain. Bret looked at her, concerned. “The stair that I tripped on—it was different from the others. James made it and hid the clue to the treasure inside it, then I tripped on it and died.” She stared at Bret, her blue eyes shining with anguish and understanding. “He blamed himself for my death, Bret. Because he replaced the stair.” “Aargh! Help! Stop, thief.” Screams echoed down the hall. Oliver! Carla had already spun away to head for the door. Bret turned to Jessamyn, slumped against the window frame as though in shock. But she looked up, nodding reassurance and waved him away. Confident that she was all right, he followed Carla. Harry and Yolanda were already up the stairs in response to the screams. Carla reached the room first. When Bret got there, she was trying to calm Oliver. He stepped into the room and stopped short, staring. A small section of wall in the side of the room stood gaping open. Inside, Bret could see the top of an extremely narrow flight of stairs leading down into the darkness. Oliver pushed Carla out of the way. “Don’t just stand around! Do something!” He gestured toward the hidden staircase. “He’s getting away!” “Who?” Harry stepped forward. “Did you see anyone?” “No.” Oliver shook his head. “I mean I saw someone, but it was just a dark shape. I couldn’t tell who it was.” Harry leaned through the opening and wrinkled his nose. “Faugh,” he grimaced. “Smells like a swamp down there. Don’t hear anything, though. Whoever it was, he’s long gone by now.”

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Oliver flopped onto his bed and heaved a deep, disgusted sigh. “He wouldn’t have escaped if you’d come when I yelled.” “We got here as fast as we could,” Carla argued. “We were just next door. You should have tried to stop him. Or followed him.” Oliver paled, aghast. “Down there? Not on your life. I don’t get paid enough to chase phantoms, or sneak thieves, down secret passages.” He turned to Bret. “Why didn’t you tell me this was here?” “I didn’t know.” Bret glanced at Harry. “Did you know about this?” “Naw.” The older man shook his head. “There’s just as many stories about secret passages in these old houses as there are about ghosts.” He paused and stared apologetically at Bret, pinkening under his tan. “I never knew there was a secret passage in this house.” Bret sighed. “Well, get a couple flashlights. We’d better see what’s down there.” Harry left the room and Bret turned to Oliver. “Is anything missing?” His assistant shook his head. Bret was unsure whether he meant “no” or that he didn’t know. He didn’t press further. Harry arrived with the flashlights. Bret took one and held another out to Oliver. “Want to go?” Oliver backed away from the light. “Not on your life.” Carla reached out and took the light from Bret. “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he started to protest. She raised her eyebrows and gave him a quelling look and he relented. “Okay, okay.” Yolanda took a step forward. “I want to go, too.” “Fine.” Bret handed her a light. “Oliver can stay here and hold down the fort. Just in case the guy comes back.” “Now wait, wait a minute.” Oliver clutched at Bret’s arm. “I’m not staying here by myself.” Bret grinned. “Come on, then.” He took Carla’s arm. Much to Bret’s surprise, Harry and Yolanda paired off. Oliver, without a flashlight, brought up the rear by himself. “Wait.” Harry stepped to the front of the group. “These steps may be rotted out. Let me test them before we put all our weight on ‘em.” Oliver snorted. “Well, someone sure got up and down them without crashing through.” Harry ignored him and stepped down onto the staircase. He bounced slightly, listening and feeling for a response from the plank beneath his feet. “Seems solid enough,” he pronounced. He stepped down to the next stair. The rest of the group followed, down one stair at a time into the moldy darkness. 191

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The stairway was narrow and steep, just wide enough for them to descend single file. Except for Harry’s, in the lead, their lights were virtually useless in the tight space. “What do you suppose is down here?” Carla’s voice sounded unnaturally loud in the narrow gloom. “I expect it’s been used for storage of some sort,” Bret responded. “Maybe smuggling. Not recently though, or more people would know about it.” Yolanda looked back at him from her place in line behind Harry. “How old do you think this is?” This time Harry answered. “Prob’ly as old as the house, and that’s nearly Revolutionary War era. What do you think, Professor?” “I agree. If not Revolutionary, then War of 1812. The passage seems integral with the surrounding walls rather than built in after the fact. They’d have had to make false walls in the bedrooms on both sides to insert it. And the ground floor would be even harder to manage.” He glanced at the walls surrounding them. “This opening is barely two feet wide. I guess no one noticed that some of the walls seemed thicker than they needed to be.” The air in the shaft was dense, close, and humid with the stored heat of the day. A drop of moisture beaded on Bret’s upper lip. Carla’s hand resting on his shoulder felt damp through his cotton shirt. How far had they come? he wondered. How deep did this thing go? “Bottom,” Harry called, just as a gust of air, not fresh, but less stale, reached Bret. Bret stepped down carefully and felt sandy soil beneath his feet. He moved away from the stairs to give Carla and Oliver room. Everyone switched on their lights as they touched down. Bret looked around. They were standing in a wide, level passage with a dirt floor. One wall appeared to be masonry, the opposite one, hard-packed clay. Almost a cellar really, it was probably, Bret estimated, deeper than the actual cellar of the house. It was vacant, except for a few rotted pieces of wood, empty, moldy barrels, and other debris. The passage continued on into the darkness, like a long corridor. Bret gestured toward the beckoning darkness. “Shall we?” “Let’s,” Carla replied, her eyes deep and black in the dim light. “If we must,” Oliver murmured unhappily from the back of the group. They grouped into a cluster, clumped together for safety as if something might spring out at them. An absurd notion, Bret thought, since the clay walls offered no crannies or hiding places for someone to lie in wait. The stairs backed up against one end of the hall and the other end lay somewhere ahead of them in the darkness. He’d intended to count paces to estimate the length of the hall, but other thoughts had gotten in the way. “Harry, how far have we come?” When in doubt, ask. “I dunno, maybe a coupla’ hundred feet.” “This is some job of excavation,” Carla remarked. 192

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“I suspect part of it might be natural,” Bret replied. He shined his light along the wall. The reddish clay had given way to smoother, whitish rock. “That looks like limestone.” “Then some of this was a cave and they just tunneled back toward the house?” Yolanda asked. “Why?” Oliver’s voice piped up shrilly. “I know why. The Radcliffes were pirates. They probably dug this out to hide their booty.” “That’s a possibility,” Bret hated to admit it. “It may also have been used during the wars to hide supplies and raiding parties from the British.” He looked at Carla. “It might be worthwhile to get some of your archaeologist friends down here for a look. Not that there seems to be much here.” Carla nodded. “You’d be amazed what those guys can turn up. No telling what might be buried under a few inches of dirt.” “End of the line, folks.” Harry shined his light on a wall ahead of them. A modern, wooden ladder rested against what appeared to be a dead end. “There’s nothing here,” Oliver griped. “No wait.” Bret aimed his light at the ceiling to reveal a raggedly square opening blocked by a piece of wood. Harry started up the ladder. “No, Harry.” Bret stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. “Someone might be waiting for us at the top of that thing.” Harry nodded gravely. “And there’s nowhere to run.”

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Chapter Twenty-Seven Oliver shoved his way to the front of the group. “What are you saying?” he began loudly, then glanced up at the trapdoor. His voice was a harsh whisper when he continued, “You’ve led us to a dead end and someone’s up there waiting for us to poke our heads up so they can blast us?” The whisper took on a note of panic. “We’re trapped like rats in a hole. They could leave us down here to rot and no one would be the wiser.” His gaze darted wildly around the dim confines of the cavern. Bret threw a glance at Harry, whose scowl evinced impatience and exasperation. He laid a hand on Oliver’s arm. “Oliver, listen to me,” he said firmly. “We’re not trapped. All we have to do is go back to the house. And I seriously doubt anyone’s up there waiting for us. A common thief isn’t going to wait around for us to come after him, and he certainly won’t want to take on all of us.” Oliver looked skeptical, his glance darting to the top of the ladder. Yolanda leaned toward them. “He’s right, you know, Oliver.” Her lilting accent was soothing. “How many criminals would risk a run-in with that?” She gestured to Harry who stood glowering with one foot tapping restively on the lowest rung of the ladder. “You see, we have nothing to worry about.” The corner of Oliver’s mouth twisted in what might have been a smile. He shrugged. “Sorry, I guess I just got a little anxious.” He looked around nervously. “I don’t like dark, closed-in places.” Bret patted him on the back. “All the more reason to get out, then. Harry?” Harry nodded and started up the ladder. “No, Harry.” Bret stepped to the foot of the ladder. Bonnie Doon was his now. And whatever was going on here, it was his fight. “I’ll go first.” The older man opened his mouth to protest, but Bret silenced him with a quick shake of his head. Looking remarkably like a little boy called in from the playground, Harry relinquished his place on the ladder without argument. Bret climbed the wooden rungs as quietly as possible. He hoped he’d told Oliver the truth. His assistant’s concerns had crossed his mind, too. Near the top, he turned and looked down at the rest of the group. Carla’s expression was especially unhappy. He addressed Harry. “Better back off a little. Just to be on the safe side.” Harry nodded. “We’ll shut off the lights, too. No sense giving ‘em more of a target than we have to.” 194

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“Thanks,” Bret said wryly. That was just what he needed to hear. Below him, no one hesitated. They moved farther back down the corridor and pressed against the wall. Harry tucked Yolanda and Carla behind him for cover, if needed. Oliver installed himself on the other side where the wall curved away. Bret and Harry exchanged glances and simultaneously switched their lights off. Without the flashlights’ beams, the darkness of the cavern was almost tangible in its intensity. Bret blinked blindly into the void, his eyes straining for some point of focus. His grip on the ladder tightened against a sudden wave of vertigo. He raised a hand and felt for the wooden cover, then climbed upward until his shoulder contacted it. Gathering his strength, he shoved. The wood creaked loudly above him. Startled, he flinched away and nearly lost his grip on the ladder. From the darkness below came a gasp and the whoosh of an expelled breath. The sounds of human presence calmed him. Harry and the others were only a few yards away, Bret knew, but in this blackness it might as well be a few miles. He crouched and shoved upward again. Another creak sounded, then something gave above him. He kept up the pressure and was rewarded by the dry snap of splintering wood and a metallic squeal like a rusty hinge. The trapdoor swung back unexpectedly and Bret found himself propelled upward by the release of pressure. He ducked back down into the hole, half-expecting a hail of bullets. Nothing happened. He raised his head through the door and looked around. It didn’t do any good. Whatever space he’d entered was just as dark as the one he’d left. He heard a noise below him, then a beam of light hit him in the eyes. “Whoa, turn that off!” The beam swung away and Harry’s face appeared, ghoulishly illuminated from below. “What’s up there? Can you see anything?” “Nothing. It’s like pitch. Hold on a second.” Bret fished his light from his pocket and shined it around the chamber. “Looks like another cellar. The ceiling’s high. Give me a second and I’ll climb out.” He pulled himself up onto the floor of the room. It was a room, though the floor, like that of the cavern he’d just left, was dirt. So were the lower parts of the walls. But the upper walls and the ceiling, which was lower than it had looked from the floor, were wood. Harry poked his head up. “Well, I’ll be.” “Do you know where we are?” He squinted up at Bret. “Yep. We’re in the root cellar under the old kitchen.” The thief hadn’t bothered to lock the hatch that led to the kitchen itself. A few minutes later, the five of them stood in the relative brightness of the ramshackle building. “It was Grady, I know it,” Oliver muttered.

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“Now hold on a minute,” Harry argued. “The professor fired Paul and there’s no evidence that he’s been back.” He compressed his lips into a thin, hard line. “Or that he caused the other problems in the first place.” Oliver stepped forward. “You just won’t admit he had anything to do with this, will you? Maybe that’s because you’re in it with him.” Harry stood deathly silent. Bret could see the clenched line of his jaw. Oliver must have noticed it, too. He back away as though realizing he’d gone too far. Bret stepped between them. “Stop it, both of you. We don’t have time for this.” He turned to Harry. “Let’s get back to the house. Then I’m calling the police.” “No,” Oliver spoke abruptly behind him. “I mean, what’ll you tell them? They’ll just take a statement about disappearing intruders and secret passages and think we’re all nuts. A crime hasn’t even been committed.” Bret frowned. “I’d consider breaking and entering a crime, whether anything was taken or not.” “Not to mention assault,” Carla added. “But I’m the one involved, in both cases.” Oliver continued to protest. “I’d look like a fool.” Harry sounded a derisive snort from Bret’s other side and Oliver glared at him. “Please, Professor Tyler, is public humiliation really necessary?” Oliver asked. Bret sighed. In a way, Oliver was right. There was little the police could do, except possibly apprehend Paul Grady. And somehow, Bret was still reluctant to accuse Paul. “Okay, fine. But if anything else happens…” he trailed off. Oliver nodded, a tight smile of relief on his face. Bret looked at Carla. Dirt smudged her face and her shiny hair looked wild in the dim light. “Are you okay with that? And you, Yolanda?” Carla nodded. “I hate to admit it, but I think he’s right. We’d look like nuts.” Yolanda agreed. “If I thought they could do something, right now with things as they are, I’d say call them. But I don’t think they can. They’ll just take a statement and poke around a little, then leave.” Bret nodded. “Okay, well, that settles it then, for now. Let’s get back to the house and make sure we haven’t been cleaned out in our absence.” They walked out the open door into the clear moonlight. The contrasting brightness seemed like daytime after the darkness of the passage and root cellar. Carla walked with Bret, Oliver behind them. Harry and Yolanda brought up the rear. A few paces from the kitchen, Carla hesitated. “Look, what’s that?” She pointed to a white object on the ground ahead of them, then moved ahead and picked it up. “It’s a sheet of paper.” Several other sheets littered the ground. Bret shined his light on the page Carla held. “It looks like a photocopy of one of the journal entries.” The intruder must have raided Oliver’s notebooks and dropped some of the copies in his flight.

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The others gathered around. “I reckon they’re welcome to copies, long as they leave the original books,” Harry remarked. “But why would anyone steal photocopies?” Yolanda asked. “Especially when the real books are valuable.” “I can answer that,” Oliver said. “Grady isn’t interested in the books, just in the information. He’s looking for clues to the Barton treasure.” “If he wanted to find out what was in the books, he could have just read them when he worked here,” Harry scoffed. “It’s not like we keep them in a safe. Treasure hunters it might be, but it’s not Paul Grady.” Oliver opened his mouth to argue, then appeared to think better of it. Bret had already taken Carla’s arm and started toward the house. “Bret,” Carla said softly, “that page said something about Jessamyn’s birthday present. About how it was a secret.” “Um-hm,” Bret nodded, suddenly exhausted. The fresh air and the evening’s exercise were beginning to wear on him. “Her mother’s journal mentioned the present, too,” Carla went on, “But Mrs. Radcliffe didn’t know what it was.” Bret glanced at her, surprised. He hadn’t realized she was reading up on the family. Or maybe she was studying Jessamyn. The thought disturbed him, but he shook it off. “What about it?” “Do you know what the present was?” “The well,” he replied. “The one behind the house. It ran dry and they dug the new one out here. Then James and the soldiers from the hospital built up the old one and decorated it with that metal thing…” he trailed off, remembering their discovery before the intruder had interrupted. Jessamyn’s birthday fell shortly after Barton’s Raiders had stolen the gold shipment. Carla was right, the gold had to be in the well. They’d hidden it there when they made Jessamyn’s present. Oliver spoke up behind them. “How do you know that? I’ve looked—that is, nothing I’ve come across tells what the present was.” Bret shrugged, feeling his face redden. Good thing it was dark out here. “Well, I must have read it somewhere. Probably in one of the diaries you haven’t gotten to yet.” They walked through the backyard toward the house. As they approached, the back door opened and a tall woman with caramel-colored skin stepped out. More solidly built than Yolanda, she shared the housekeeper’s fine features and commanding bearing. “I was wondering where everyone had got to,” she called, the Caribbean tang of her voice pronounced. “Did you forget about me?” she directed the question at Yolanda.

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“I did, May. I’m sorry,” Yolanda said. “Something unexpected came up.” She turned to Bret. “My sister, May,” she explained. “My car is being repaired, so she drove me here this morning.” Yolanda introduced Bret and Carla. May shook their hands and looked past them to the rest of the group. Her eyes widened and even in the yellow light of the porch lamp, her face seemed to lose a shade of its color. “Harry Osborne?” Her tone was accusing. She turned to her sister. “Yolanda, you didn’t tell me he was here.” “I didn’t think you needed to know,” the housekeeper said stiffly. “But Yolanda,” May went on, her voice dropping to a harsh whisper. “I brought Joseph with me.” As if listening for the sound of his name, a boy of about ten years old appeared at the screen door. “Mama, are you ready to go? We’ve been waiting forever.” He pushed open the door for her. He was tall, like his mother, with hair a slightly tawnier shade of mahogany. His skin was a golden ivory-tan and his almond eyes unmistakably gray. He looked puzzled at the sudden silence from the adults. “Mama?” he asked uncertainly. Harry stepped forward, shock and dawning understanding on his pale face. “Joseph,” he said gravely and held out his hand. “My name is Joseph, too, but folks call me Harry.” He fired a glance at Yolanda who met it squarely. The youngster put his small, smooth hand into the large callused one. “How do you do, sir?” “Just fine. Son.”

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Chapter Twenty-Eight Yolanda winced. Harry looked up at Yolanda’s sister. “May, will you take Joseph for a walk in the garden? Your sister and I need to talk.” May hesitated and glanced at Yolanda. The housekeeper nodded. “Take him into the gardens. We won’t be long.” “The hell we won’t,” Harry muttered as the boy and his aunt walked hand-in-hand across the yard. “Christ, Yolanda, why didn’t you tell me?” “You’re jumping to conclusions, Harry.” she said softly. “Jumping to conclusions, hell. That’s my son, isn’t it?” He reached out and grasped her hand. “Isn’t it?” Yolanda nodded, her eyes downcast. “Yolanda. Darling. Why?” She looked up in surprise. “Harry, it just wouldn’t have worked out. It was a mistake from the beginning. You knew that and I did, too. I couldn’t stay here and let you pay for it. So I left.” “A mistake,” Harry’s murmur was full of irony. “I loved you. I’ve never stopped loving you and you call it a mistake? Do you consider that child a mistake?” “Harry,” her voice was pleading. Bret shifted uncomfortably and glanced at Carla. She nodded toward the house. Oliver stared at Harry and Yolanda as if they’d each sprouted two heads. Bret nudged him. He jumped, but took the hint. “I’ll be in the library if you need me,” he said tightly and went inside. “Harry,” Bret said, “Why don’t you two go inside and talk? We’ll stay out here awhile. It’s a nice night.” The caretaker nodded and opened the screen door. Yolanda paused, looking rebellious, then brushed past him and went inside. Harry followed. “I knew something was going on between those two,” Carla said. “But I didn’t realize how serious it was.” Bret shook his head. “Or how long it’s been going on. I thought they didn’t like each other.” He looked at her and shrugged. “Don’t say it, I know. I’m clueless.” He dropped onto the top step and motioned Carla down beside him. “At least you’re willing to admit your shortcomings,” she teased. “I like that in a man.”

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She tilted her head and met his unwavering gaze. “Bret, you do realize where the gold is?” He nodded and looked past her toward the wishing well. “The treasure hunters, if that’s what they were, were sniffing around the wrong well. They must have known the new one was dug at the time the gold was stolen and figured that’s where it had to be.” “That old stair step had a date carved in it,” Carla said. “A date? I must have missed that.” “Well, at least I think it was a date. It was mostly hidden by the glue. I cleaned it off and found a series of numbers. One, zero, one, three, six and four. I thought it might be ten, thirteen, sixty-four.” “October thirteenth, eighteen sixty-four,” Bret said thoughtfully. The date was familiar. He considered a moment. “On October 13, 1864, Colonel John Mosby and his partisans attacked a train at Kearneysville, Virginia. Among his prisoners were two Union paymasters carrying a couple million dollars in Union greenbacks.” “Do you think the raids were related?” “It may be a coincidence, but General Sherman’s supply trains were one of Mosby’s favorite targets. He even had access to their railroad timetables. It’s likely they knew in advance the paymasters would be aboard. And with the communications network the guerrillas had, Barton’s Raiders may have learned about the Mosby raid and scheduled theirs for the same night.” “And they stole it, brought it here, and what? Dumped it down the well where it’s been for over a hundred years?” Carla frowned. “Seems to me they could have put it to better use.” “I expect putting it there, if it is there, was intended to be a temporary measure. Unfortunately, Barton and Jeffrey Holt were killed. James Radcliffe disappeared.” “Oliver says James didn’t survive the War.” “Where did he hear that?” Bret asked. “Not that I’m surprised, since no one heard from James again after he left Bonnie Doon.” “I don’t know. That’s just what he told Yolanda and me.” She leaned back on one elbow. “So what are we going to do about the treasure?” He turned to face her. “We can’t do much tonight in the dark. Tomorrow we’ll take a look at the well and see what we find. We still might be wrong. And there’s always the chance that someone already found it.” Behind them the kitchen door opened and Harry stepped out. He stood silently a moment, both hands shoved in his jeans pockets. He looked down and cleared his throat, not meeting Bret’s gaze. “Um, Professor, would you mind asking May to take the boy home? I’ll bring Yolanda back when we finish talking.” “Sure, Harry.” Bret looked up at him, fighting to hide his grin. “Take your time.”

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The older man smiled a little sheepishly and nodded his thanks, then went back inside. Bret rose. “I’ll be right back.” He headed toward the garden. Alone on the porch, Carla remembered the last time she’d seen him in the garden. Was Jessamyn out here somewhere? she wondered. Was she close by, watching them? Carla shuddered. If only she knew whether her pleas had made an impression on the ghost. The only way to find out would be to ask Bret. And that meant admitting that she believed in Jessamyn and knew of Bret’s feelings for the ghost. Chilled by a sensation that had nothing to do with the cool night air, she sat up and wrapped her arms around her bent knees. Suddenly the world was no longer the safe, rational place she’d always believed it to be. She watched Bret return by himself. “Where are May and Joseph?” “Joseph wanted to walk through the pergola, so they went out the side gate. He seems like a nice kid. I hope his mother and Harry are able to work things out.” “Me, too,” Carla murmured. Now was her chance, she thought. She had to talk to Bret about Jessamyn. But the words just wouldn’t come. The realization seemed to define the width of the break between them. They’d never had trouble talking. Even about serious matters. Why now, when it was so important, did her nerve fail her? “Are you hungry?” he asked. “I have a sneaking suspicion Yolanda’s not going to cook tonight. We could go into town for a bite.” “Okay.” Glad for the distraction, Carla reached up. Bret took her hand and pulled her to her feet. His touch was comforting. Perhaps a couple hours away would help. They could go somewhere quiet. Then maybe she’d find the guts to say what she needed to. “Magnolia’s on East Bay is good,” he said. “And afterwards we could drive along the Battery.” “Sounds fine,” Carla agreed. The Battery, with its elegant, antebellum mansions that faced Charleston Harbor, had always been one of her favorite parts of the city. “Oh.” Bret stopped. “I forgot about Oliver. Should we ask him along?” Carla hesitated. She didn’t really want Bret’s assistant to come with them. He was attractive and usually seemed nice enough, but something about him bothered her. Maybe it was the way he looked at her. Plus, with him along, they’d never be able to discuss Jessamyn. It was postponing the inevitable, but she grabbed at it like a lifeline. “I suppose we’d better.” A murmur of voices came from the parlor as they passed to climb the stairs. Yolanda and Harry were still deep in conference. In the library, Oliver sat hunched at the desk. Engrossed in his journals, he didn’t look up as they entered. Bret cleared his throat softly and Oliver jerked upright.

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“Oh, Professor, I’m sorry. I didn’t hear you come in.” He started to rise. Bret gestured him back down. “Don’t worry about it, Oliver. We’re going into the city for dinner. Would you like to come along?” “Oh.” Oliver looked startled at the invitation and blinked rapidly. “Why, thank you for asking, but no, I don’t think so. All this excitement tonight has worn me out. I’m just going to finish up here—” he gestured to the desk, “—then call it a night.” “Are you sure we can’t bring you back something?” Carla asked, guilty at feeling relieved that he wouldn’t accompany them. Oliver shook his head. “I’ll just put together some leftovers if I get hungry. You two go on and have a nice time.” “Thanks,” Bret said. “We’ll be back in a couple hours.” “Take your time,” Oliver said softly as they left the room. From her usual station on the balcony, Jessamyn watched them leave and fought back a wave of jealousy. How lucky Carla was, that Bret could take her away from here. They’d never be able to do that together. She was imprisoned here, as surely as if she’d committed a crime. All she could hope for was that Bret would stay to keep her company until they discovered what kept her here. Did Carla have any idea how wonderful her freedom was? Jessamyn doubted it. She probably took it for granted, the same way Jessamyn now took for granted her own ability to pass through walls. Carla could go anywhere with Bret. She could dance with him while he gazed into those deep emerald eyes. She could hold his hand and stroll along the Battery with him in the moonlight. Jessamyn stamped her foot. Why did she keep torturing herself with thoughts of Carla and Bret together? At least if they were here, she could share in that togetherness. Even at its most intimate. An answer, only half-formed, but painful nonetheless, came to her. She forced her thoughts away from it, but it returned, nagging. She remembered Carla’s words in the bedroom. Do what was best for Bret, she’d said. What was best for Bret was to continue to love him, she argued with herself, as she had all along. But was that fair to him? The question pulled at her consciousness. Was it fair to imprison him here, as she herself was imprisoned? And it would be a prison for him, she knew, though he walked into it willingly out of love for her. He’d remain here, she had no doubt, faithful to her, loving her, until all his interest in the world outside Bonnie Doon’s invisible walls faded away. But she loved him, she protested. It’s not enough, her nagging conscience retorted. There was so much she couldn’t give him. She’d watched him in the garden, seen the way he looked at the little boy who was Harry’s son.

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She’d never be able to give him that. But Carla could. Would any amount of love make up for the sacrifice he’d make to stay with Jessamyn? Would he send Carla away, then, when it was too late, come to realize what he’d given up and hate her for it? What about what’s best for me? Jessamyn’s thoughts whirled. She knew Bret was the man she’d waited for. He had to be. But what if she was wrong? Her interpretation of Granny Antigone’s prophecy had led her to believe that Bret’s love would be the key to her freedom. Well, Bret loved her. He’d told her so. He’d even made love to her, albeit through Carla. And, yet, nothing had changed. She was still here. Still a ghost. Still imprisoned. She felt weak with anguish and sorrow. She couldn’t think about this anymore. Bret was the man she loved, prophecy or no. She’d worry about the rest later, after Bret talked to Carla about her. She leaned on the railing, suddenly weary. Below her, Yolanda and Harry emerged from the parlor. Their glances were shy, like romantic teenagers, and a fresh surge of pain struck Jessamyn. Still, she couldn’t suppress a feeling of happiness for them. At least someone in the house had settled their differences. Harry opened the door. “Take a look at the cottage,” he said. “If you don’t like it, I’ll build you another one. Anywhere you say.” Yolanda smiled tolerantly. “I’ll look, but I’m sure I’ll like it, as long as you’re there. You do realize, though, that this isn’t going to be easy.” Harry nodded and it occurred to Jessamyn for the first time that he wasn’t old at all. “I do,” he answered, “but nothing that’s worthwhile is ever easy.” Yolanda took his hand and they walked outside together. Jessamyn watched the door close behind them, then overcome with exhaustion, she faded away to rest.

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Chapter Twenty-Nine Dinner out was a good idea, Bret thought as he opened the car door for Carla. They both needed some time away from Bonnie Doon and all the craziness of the past couple days. Besides, a quiet supper would give them a chance to talk. This time they’d settle everything. And this time, he promised himself, he’d hold nothing back. He’d tell Carla about Jessamyn. The whole truth. He started the car. Carla watched him thoughtfully, but didn’t speak. She sat stiffly in her seat, then looked back over her shoulder at the house as they pulled away. They turned out of the drive onto the main road, and she slumped down into her seat with a sigh. Bret gave a short laugh. “I feel the same way.” “After everything that’s happened, I had the strangest feeling we wouldn’t be able to get away from the house.” She laughed softly. “It’s silly, I know, but it feels like we’re escaping. I’ve really felt we needed to talk alone. Away from…well, everyone. And that we wouldn’t be able to.” “I know,” Bret agreed. “Like poor Harry and Yolanda. I’m sure they’d prefer to keep the details of their relationship personal, but it’s nearly impossible, even in a house the size of Bonnie Doon.” Not for the first time, he wondered whether the rest of the household knew of his relationship with Jessamyn. “Well,” he continued, pushing the thought out of his mind, “we’re definitely alone now.” He paused, hoping she’d pick up the thread of the conversation. With any luck, she’d be the one to introduce the topic, not him. He heard Carla’s deep intake of breath and steeled himself for the subject. Then the engine coughed. The whole car shuddered. Bret let off on the gas, then pumped the accelerator once more. The vehicle sputtered again. “What is it?” Carla voice held concern tinged with resignation, as though a new crisis was no surprise. Bret tried to sound upbeat. Just a coincidence, he told himself. This had nothing to do with what was going on at the house. “Probably a clogged fuel filter or water in the line or…” He glanced at the dashboard. Damn. Carla followed his gaze, “Or we could be out of gas?” she suggested. She shook her head in disbelief. Bret aimed the car for the curb and it puttered to a halt. He couldn’t face Carla, only stare at the fuel gauge where the needle rested slightly below the large red E. “You romantic devil,” Carla teased. “Whatever will we tell Harry?” 204

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Bret glanced at her and smiled sheepishly. He’d never felt so foolish before. She sat biting her lip hard, trying to hold back the laughter. “I can’t believe I ran out of gas,” was all he could say. He vaguely recalled noting the tank was low when he’d come back from the beach. Then things started happening and he hadn’t had time to think about it again. “Neither can I. Talk about your absentminded professors.” She looked back along the way they’d come. “How far is it back to the house?” “About two miles. We could try to flag someone down, but I haven’t seen another car since we left the house.” “Ah, the simple uncluttered life of a country gentleman.” Carla slung her purse over her shoulder and opened the door. “Looks like we’d better hit the road.” “Why don’t you wait here?” Bret suggested. “I won’t be long.” No sense making Carla pay for his dumb mistake with a forced march back to Bonnie Doon, he thought. He could siphon a gallon out of Harry’s truck, then get a lift back to the car. Carla wouldn’t hear of it. “Not on your life,” she protested. “I’ve heard too many of those horror stories about the girl who waits while her boyfriend goes for help.” She laughed. “Seriously, Bret, my ankle’s much better. Besides, I have my walking shoes on and it’s a beautiful night. By the time you get to the house and back, it’ll be too late to go out anyway.” He shrugged. “Okay, a leisurely moonlit stroll and a ham sandwich back at the house.” He locked the car and walked around to offer her his arm. “Not exactly my ideal romantic evening, but it’ll do.” Carla linked her arm through his, and they started back the way they’d come. They walked the first few hundred yards in silence. Around them the night made its music. A soft wind whistled through the tall scrub pines, providing a backdrop to the orchestral hum of night insects, chirping crickets and whirring cicadas. Now and then a seabird called, an eerie lonely cry in the darkness. If things were normal, Bret thought, on a night like this they’d be walking close together, Carla resting her head on his shoulder, the two of them talking softly. Making love when they got home. But tonight, despite the warm pressure of her hand on his arm, he sensed the distance between them. He waited for her to speak, knowing what was coming. “Bret,” she said at last. “I’ve had a lot of time to think things over the past few days.” “Oh?” He hoped he sounded casual. “What kind of things?” She stopped and turned to him, searching his face in the wavering shadows. “Bret, I’ve known you all my life. You’ve been a part of me for as long as I can remember. You know I love you.” She paused, looking away, and Bret’s heart sank. He’d hoped this would be easier.

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“But more than that,” she went on, meeting his gaze once more. “I care about you. At first, I wanted to fight because I knew the choice you were making was wrong.” She touched his hand. “I still think that, Bret. I’m afraid for you. But I care too much for your happiness to hold you to a promise made when we were kids if that isn’t what you want.” She turned away and he caught a quick flash of moonlight on unshed tears. “Carla, I…” he sputtered, unsure what to say. Somehow, she had guessed his feelings for Jessamyn. A wave of guilt washed over him. “I didn’t want to hurt you,” he said, miserable both for himself and for Carla. She faced him again, blinking hard. “I’m not hurt.” The brightness of her voice sounded forced. “Not really. I mean, if you had fallen passionately for one of the local girls, I would have understood. We’re friends more than lovers. We have been for years.” Bret winced, but knew it was the truth. They were more a habit with each other than a passion. But the closeness and camaraderie had remained. They were very much best friends. “Don’t you see, Bret,” her voice dropped to a husky whisper, “what you want is impossible. It can’t be real.” A sob caught in her throat. “And I’m so afraid it’s going to destroy you.” He pulled her into his arms, smoothing her hair and murmuring words of comfort. “How long have you known?” he asked softly, now certain that she did know everything. She told him about the night before, when she’d followed the light and discovered him in the garden with Jessamyn. He felt his face flush hot with remembered passion, and with the embarrassment of knowing Carla had been there as well. “Bret—” she looked up at him, “—I want to believe she exists, because you do, and because it’s important to you. But I can’t help thinking that one or both of us is crazy.” He nodded. “I thought I was crazy myself. But then I talked to her. I came to know her. Carla, she is real. And I do love her.” There, he thought, it was out. Carla didn’t reply. She took his hand again and they walked on toward the house. “Do you think Harry and Yolanda have settled their problems?” she asked after a few moments. “I don’t know,” he answered, surprised and relieved by the change of subject. “They’re both strong-willed people. They’ll have to learn to compromise.” “It’s not going to be easy for them. She knows that. Even in this day and age.” “They both realize it, I think. But it’ll be good for Joseph to know his father,” Bret pointed out. “I think that will weigh strongly with Yolanda, now that Harry knows he has a son.” Carla nodded. “I hope so.”

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They continued quietly a few moments longer. Across the field, the lights of Bonnie Doon came into sight. Bret started down the drive, but Carla held him back. She spoke up again. “Bret, promise me something.” “Of course.” “Please promise that I’ll always be your friend and that you’ll talk to me before doing anything rash.” He leaned toward her and kissed her cheek. “You’ll always be my best friend. And I never do anything rash.” They walked down the long drive, between the rows of towering oaks with their beardlike drapes of Spanish moss. At the front of the house, Carla started for the front porch. “Wait.” Bret caught her arm. “Let’s go around the back way through the kitchen, so we don’t interrupt Harry and Yolanda again, if they’re still in the parlor.” Carla nodded and followed him around to the side gate. He reached for the latch. A metallic creak sounded from beyond the gate and he paused. Something fell with a heavy clatter. “What was that?” Carla asked, her voice a whisper. “I don’t know,” he whispered back, then wondered what intuition had prompted them to be quiet. He opened the gate. The hinge squealed rustily, and they both jumped at the sound. Well, so much for keeping their presence a secret. He took the lead and they walked beneath the twisting, fragrant vines of wisteria and honeysuckle that wove through the latticework arbor along the side of the house. Sheltered here, the sweet air seemed eerily still, like a breath held in anticipation. The pergola opened onto a forked stone path, one branch of which led to the garden, the other to the back door of the house. They walked slowly toward the door, their footsteps abnormally loud on the paving stones. Nothing stirred amidst the shadows of the backyard. “Bret, look,” Carla whispered again, more urgently, and pointed across the yard. The delicate iron bonnet of the wishing well lay on the ground. That had been the crash they heard, Bret realized. Even from here, he could see the damage, the metal bent and twisted by the impact of the fall. But how? A shimmer of white flashed before him and Jessamyn appeared, her eyes wide with fear. “Bret, get away from here,” she cried. “Run.” It was too late. A dark figure detached itself from the shadows of the porch steps. “Don’t move, Professor, Miss Stewart,” Oliver’s voice sounded confident and smug. “I don’t want to shoot you, but if you leave me no choice, I won’t hesitate.” The hand that held the automatic pistol didn’t quiver. “Oliver,” Bret choked back the tremor in his voice and stepped forward, shielding Carla with his body. “What are you doing? What do you want?” 207

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Oliver chuckled, a low, menacing sound. “It’s obvious, isn’t it? I’m taking back what’s rightfully mine. I’m taking the treasure.” He stepped quickly to the well and gestured with the gun for them to follow. They did so, Bret taking Carla’s hand and holding her a little behind him. Her fingers were icy. “So it wasn’t Paul, after all,” Bret said. “Were you behind all of it? The light? The times your room was searched?” Maybe he could buy time for them by engaging Oliver in conversation. “What about the attack on you?” “I staged the attack,” Oliver said coolly. “A minor self-inflicted cut was a small price to pay for the Barton Hoard. A little blood on Grady’s shovel and it was the perfect frame-up. Unfortunately, you preferred to give him, a total stranger, the benefit of the doubt.” His eyes narrowed. “You always took his word against mine, didn’t you?” Bret glanced sideways at Carla. She looked up at him, her eyes dark with fear. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Jessamyn, still standing on the paved walk. She could offer no help. He knew she could come no closer to the well than the edge of the path. She caught his gaze. “Don’t push him, Bret,” she called, her body straining against the invisible barrier that held her at bay. “He’s crazy.” Yeah, I sensed that, Bret thought. He looked back at Oliver. “You’re quite an actor, Oliver. When your room was searched the other night, I could have sworn you were genuinely upset.” Oliver’s face twisted. “That wasn’t an act. Someone did search my room. It had to have been Grady, trying to beat me to the treasure.” Carla spoke up. “You said it was rightfully yours. Why?” “It’s my birthright. Barton and his thieves stole that gold from my great-great-greatgreat grandfather, Alexander Crosse. Then they publicized the fact that Crosse was profiteering on the War. They ruined my family.” His pale eyes seemed to lose focus and he stared into the darkness, as though reliving events that had happened a hundred years before his birth. “They burned us out of our home. We lost everything. We lived like white trash.” He clenched his teeth. “One of the noblest families of Charleston and Barton reduced us to nothing.” “We got some measure of revenge, though.” He glared at Bret and Carla. “Alexander’s son, Oliver, for whom I was named, tracked down all the Raiders he could find and killed them one by one. Barton himself was wounded in the raid and died right after, but we got Holt, that pretentious mulatto bastard. We lynched him right here on Radcliffe land.” He smiled with hideous satisfaction. “Then we waited for James Radcliffe.” “You told Yolanda and me that James didn’t survive the war,” Carla said softly. “James left Bonnie Doon after his sister died. Then later, he wrote to Jeffrey Holt to have him make arrangements to move the gold off the plantation.” Oliver gave a snort. 208

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“But Holt didn’t answer. He was already dead. We knew James would come back himself and when he did, we were waiting. The men disposed of the body and no one ever heard from poor James again.” Bret shook his head, unbelieving. We, Oliver kept saying. He spoke of the killings as if he’d been there. As if he’d taken part. “Your family has pursued this vendetta for over a century?” “I was raised on the legend of my family’s disgrace, Professor. I was the first Crosse, or Delacroix, since that time to go to college and I swore that I would be the one to find the gold. I will be the one to restore my family fortune. The Radcliffes are all dead and I know, thanks to you, that the treasure is here.” Oliver lunged forward, grasping Carla’s arm and wrenching her away from Bret. He whirled her around to face Bret, twisting her arm roughly behind her back. “Obviously, I can’t leave you two alone up here while I go down for the gold.” He nodded toward the well. “So I’ll stay up here, Professor, with your lovely fiancée for insurance. Then you can climb down the well and bring up my treasure.” He brought the gun up to Carla’s neck, running the barrel along her skin in a parody of a caress. “You’ve got to be kidding,” Bret said. He tried to stall for time, hoping that Harry or Yolanda might look out back and see what was going on. Oliver pressed the gun to Carla’s head. She closed her eyes, her whole body stiffening, lips moving as if in prayer. “I don’t need you, Professor. And I certainly don’t need Carla, here, sexy though she is. You have a choice. Either you cooperate with me, or you die. Ladies first, of course.” “Ever the gentleman,” Bret said softly, hoping his fear didn’t show. “Put the gun down. I’ll do it.” He released his pent-up breath as Oliver lowered the automatic. Carla opened her eyes, relaxing slightly. “There’s a rope ladder next to the well.” Oliver pointed with the gun. “Go get it.” “Christ,” Bret yelled. “Stop waving that thing around.” Oliver scowled, but held the weapon still. “Shut up. Don’t order me around, I’m not your employee anymore. And, believe me, I know how to handle a gun. Now get the ladder.” Jessamyn was right, Bret thought. The guy had lost whatever sanity he’d had. He couldn’t risk angering Oliver, he was too unpredictable. The smartest thing to do was to obey and buy them some time. He picked up the coil of nylon rungs and raised it for Oliver to see. “Good.” The other man nodded. “Just hook it over the top of the well and let it drop. I’m not sure how deep that thing is, but the ladder should be long enough.” Bret placed the metal hooks over the edge of the well and dropped the ladder down the shaft. After a moment, he heard its weighted end strike water. “I’ll need a light,” Bret said.

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Oliver released Carla and dug into his jacket pocket. Bret saw Carla step slowly away from the man. She glanced at him, then nodded imperceptibly at Oliver. She apparently thought she could knock him off balance, distract him so Bret could get to him. Bret shook his head quickly. Oliver still had the gun and he’d already proven he was fast. They couldn’t take the chance. Oliver tossed a small metal flashlight to Bret. “How am I supposed to get the gold back up to you?” Bret asked. “Do you have any idea how much is down there? It’s heavy, you know.” Oliver gave a derisive sneer. “When you find it, call out and I’ll lower a sling. We’ll haul it up a few bars at a time.” He smirked, grabbing Carla’s arm again. “Your girlfriend here looks like she has a strong back.” Bret remembered the splash he’d heard at the bottom. “And what if the gold is under water?” Oliver shrugged. “Then I guess you’ll have to dive for it. Getting it up here is your problem. If you want your fiancée alive when you get back, you’ll just have to work it out. Now get down there and stop wasting my time.” Bret climbed onto the edge of the well and let his feet dangle down the shaft. The stone and mortar felt solid enough under him, but would it support his dead weight dangling from the rope? He’d find out soon enough, he thought. He placed his foot on the first rung and swung around to face the inside wall. Oliver had moved closer, pulling Carla against him. Bret decided to try one last time to reason with him. “Let her go, Oliver. I’m bringing you the gold. You don’t need her.” “Oh, but I’ve decided I do, Professor.” Oliver’s voice sounded calmly rational. “If I let her go, do you really think she’ll just go up to bed and leave us to our work?” He sniffed contemptuously. “The first thing she’ll do is call the police. And I’m afraid I can’t have that. No, she’ll keep me company and ensure your good behavior. Now go!” Bret stepped downward, feeling with his foot for the next rung. A couple more steps and Oliver and Carla were no longer visible. He plunged down into darkness.

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Chapter Thirty Heavy, dank air closed around Bret as he descended into the depths of the well shaft. Moisture beaded on his forehead and ran, stinging, into his eyes, refusing to evaporate in the already-saturated atmosphere. Once again that night, he found himself in palpable blackness. He looked up to see the bright circle that was the mouth of the well, vividly midnight-blue compared to the darkness around and below him. How deep did they dig wells back then? he wondered. Fifty feet? A hundred? More? It couldn’t be this wide all the way to the bottom, he was sure. But the rope ladder had fallen, apparently unhindered, as far as the level of the water. That offered some indication of how far down he could go. He paused and wrapped an arm through the ropes at chest level, then pulled Oliver’s flashlight from his pocket and aimed it downward. No reflection came back to him. The bottom was, at least for now, beyond the range of the beam. He still had a long way to go. He stuffed the light in his pocket, then reached forward and placed a hand against the wall. It felt cool, slick, and strangely soft, no doubt coated with a couple hundred years’ growth of mold and algae. He pulled his hand back and rubbed it briskly against his jeans. No wonder it smells like a swamp down here. He grasped the ladder with both hands once more. Already it, too, felt moist and slippery to his touch. He continued his descent. Carla stared at the top of the well where she’d last seen Bret. It felt as though hours had passed since he’d started down, but she knew it was only minutes ago. Oliver had released her arm, but stayed close to her, watching the well and shifting from one foot to the other. The gun, however, remained pointed in her direction. “May I sit down, Oliver?” she asked. They were going to be here a while. She might as well try to get comfortable. And sitting down, she provided a smaller target. Oliver nodded. “Don’t try anything, though. Or I’ll shoot him the minute he gets back up here.” She shook her head, hoping to look as if trying anything was the furthest thought from her mind. She sank down on the cool grass and struggled to sort out her thoughts. Was there anyone around who could help them? Where had Harry and Yolanda gone? If only someone would look out the back window.

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She glanced at Oliver, now wearing a path back and forth through the thick grass with his pacing. He was far too agitated for her comfort. He kept darting glances across the lawn and over his shoulder toward the garden. Paranoid, she thought. Paranoid and armed. Not a healthy combination. She pulled her knees up close and rested her chin on them. Oliver heard her movement and spun to face her, weapon at the ready. She forced herself to ignore him, but, watching out of the corner of her eye, saw him relax as he realized her motion was no threat. She weighed her options. Obviously, she hadn’t a hope of overpowering him. He was solidly built and strong. Her arm still hurt from the wrenching grip with which he’d pulled her away from Bret. She wasn’t tiny, but it would take far more than any element of surprise she could muster in this situation to get the drop on him. Not to mention the fact that he had the gun. So what now, she wondered, wait around for someone to come along and rescue them? She drummed her fingers anxiously against her folded legs. What if no one came along? How likely was this fruitcake to let them survive once he had what he wanted? She looked at Oliver again. He was staring at the spot on the path where Bret had stopped short just before they’d been captured. She replayed the event in her mind. He’d come to a halt, looking alarmed, then intent, as though listening. If she believed in such things, she’d have thought Bret had some sudden premonition that Oliver was lying in wait for them. A premonition… Or a warning. She clenched her fists. Why hadn’t she thought of it before? Jessamyn must have warned him, but not soon enough. She turned and gazed at the spot that held Oliver’s attention, seeing nothing out of the ordinary. She looked back at Oliver. His eyes were narrowed, and he seemed to be searching for something. Could Jessamyn still be there? Might he have seen her? Carla recalled something Yolanda had said about Oliver being scared out of the house. What had happened that day? He’d come back afterward, Yolanda had said regretfully. In fact, Carla hadn’t noticed that he seemed at all uncomfortable about working in the house, so he must have convinced himself that it didn’t really happen. Convinced himself, or perhaps taken steps to prevent it from happening again. The exorcism! Bret had told her about Carrie Hall’s visit on the day she arrived. It must have been Oliver who had contacted the parapsychologist, not Paul Grady. Perhaps Oliver didn’t know that the exorcism had been interrupted. If Jessamyn no longer bothered him, at Bret’s insistence, he might think the ghost had been eliminated. So what did he think was lurking out there in the shadows? What was he afraid of? Maybe she could use his fear to throw him off balance. Like he’s balanced now. The idea was risky, but she had to try something or go nuts waiting ‘til he got around to killing them both. “Oliver,” she began softly. “What do you want?” His tone was wary. 212

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“You’ve been here a few weeks, right?” She waited for his curt nod and continued, conversationally. “Have you noticed anything strange about the house?” She thought quickly. What would be typical symptoms of a haunting? She hadn’t noticed any signs, even though everyone told her there was a ghost. “You know, noises. Cold places. Odd smells?” Well, that might be reaching, but anything was worth a try. He stepped closer, peering down at her. “Yeah. I took care of it, though.” “What did you notice?” she asked, hoping she sounded worried. She certainly felt worried. “Cold.” He shuddered suddenly at the memory. “And books in the library…moved. By themselves.” She widened her eyes. “By themselves?” Careful, don’t overdo it. “Not since I called that Professor Hall, though. Since then, everything’s been perfectly normal.” He glanced back at the well, then looked down at her again, his gaze raking her appraisingly before settling on her chest. “You know, I’ve been watching you. What’s a hottie like you doing with someone like Tyler?” He licked his lips. Carla fought down a wave of disgust. She’d definitely noticed him watching her, and this wasn’t the direction she’d intended to take the conversation. She returned to the earlier subject. “Professor Hall. Isn’t she the parapsychologist Bret threw out of the house?” “Threw out of the house?” He stared at her. “When did that happen?” “Just before I arrived.” Good, she thought, relieved that she’d gotten him back on track. “She was performing some kind of ritual in the house. Bret kicked her out before she finished.” Oliver muttered something under his breath and darted his glance across the yard. “I beg your pardon?” Carla said casually. “He cursed them.” He looked at her, then past her to the garden. “Damn.” She must have looked confused, because he continued, “Holt, that mulatto sorcerer who tutored the Radcliffe brats. They said he cursed the Crosses when they hanged him.” He stared into the distance and his words sounded like a quote from a much-told tale. “Before he strangled to death on the rope, he told them with his dying breath, ‘No member of this family shall know peace, but shall be tormented by the restless spirits of their victims until the last of them meets his end’.” His voice dropped to a whisper, “I’m the last member of the family, the last descendant of Alexander Crosse. My mother was a Crosse. I adopted the family name to keep it and the legend alive, and took the name Delacroix, ‘of the cross’ in French, to carry out our vengeance.” Carla caught her breath as the pistol wavered in his hand. Damn, what was I thinking? This was worse than before.

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“If the exorcism wasn’t performed, the spirit is still here.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “Waiting for me.” He took a deep breath, then walked to the well and called over the edge, “Have you reached the bottom yet?” Carla couldn’t make out Bret’s reply, muffled as it was by distance and the stones of the well. “Hurry it up. We haven’t got all night.” He turned back to Carla and glared, but didn’t speak. After a moment, he resumed his pacing. “What do you know about the ghost?” he asked finally. “Is it James Radcliffe?” Carla shook her head, “His sister. Jessamyn.” And I wish she’d oblige us with an appearance about now. He looked absurdly relieved. “Then she’s not a victim of the Crosse’s revenge. She has no reason to haunt me. She fell down the stairs and broke her neck, didn’t she?” “That’s the story. But it does relate to the gold, you know?” “How?” he asked warily. “The stair she tripped on was the one with the clues to the treasure. James installed it on the staircase. The tread was uneven or something, I don’t know. Anyway, she fell and James blamed himself for her death. That’s why he left.” Oliver frowned again. No doubt contemplating the intricacies of supernatural justice, Carla thought. He looked up. “Have you seen her?” “No,” she replied honestly. “But Harry and Yolanda both told me the house was haunted. And Bret’s seen her.” “The professor? Really?” He leaned closer. “Is she…frightening?” “I suppose if you’re not expecting her she is, but in general, I don’t think so.” Bret probably wouldn’t have fallen for a horrifying specter. “In fact, if she looks like her portrait, she’s very beautiful.” He stared off into the distance again. Carla glanced at her watch. Nearly an hour had passed since they’d returned to Bonnie Doon. She wondered how Bret was. Had he found anything yet? She thought about their conversation on the way home. She’d been so worried about Jessamyn hurting Bret and now, here was his assistant, holding them at gunpoint. The irony wasn’t lost on her. Couldn’t the ghost do something to help them? She stifled a laugh at the thought. Only hours ago, she’d dismissed the very existence of the ghost of Jessamyn Radcliffe. Now she was hoping the spirit would come to their aid. Bret dangled just above the water level at the bottom of the well. The rope ladder disappeared into the murky liquid. Even with the light, he had no feel for how deep the

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water was. The rope might be coiled on the bottom two feet below him. Or it might be hanging just below the surface of a bottomless pool. There was only one way to find out. He continued downward. Tepid, greasy-looking water soaked his feet and ankles. It drenched his pant legs to the knees. For once, no lines of dialog from Gone with the Wind sprang annoyingly to mind. No, this situation was more in keeping with the Indiana Jones films. Maybe the scene where Jones descended into the Egyptian burial chamber. The scene with the snakes. Oh, hell. Bret stopped his descent abruptly. Why did he have to think of that particular film? He tried to force it out of his mind, but it wouldn’t budge. The presence of snakes down here was all too likely. Like an automated encyclopedia, his mind enumerated the variety and toxicity of Lowcountry reptiles. Copperheads, cottonmouths, rattlers, at least a couple of them were often found in water. He stared at the dark pool for any signs of movement. Nothing rippled the shiny surface. He took another cautious step downward, the rope slippery in his hands. Beneath the water, something touched his shoe. He jumped. The rope ladder slipped out of his hands and he fell backward. He grabbed frantically and missed. One foot slid through its rope rung and tangled in the woven nylon. Dropping backward, Bret’s head and shoulders struck the opposite side of the well. Moss and fungus absorbed the impact. He slid down the gooey surface toward the water, rear end first. He flailed his arms, grasping for a rough spot, a stone outcrop, anything to break his fall. But the inside of the well was like a wall of glass. He broke the surface of the warm water and thought, oddly, that he’d never be able to get the smell out of his clothes. The water rose, as if in slow motion, over his hips, up his thighs and chest, up to his shoulders. His rear struck something hard and stopped him before he could submerge further. He stretched forward and untangled his foot from the rope ladder. He was sitting on the bottom of the well, in water up to his chin, his last step on the ladder only about six inches above him. If he’d just stepped backward when his foot got caught, he’d have touched bottom and saved himself a soaking. Something hard and lumpy pressed against his rear. He reached down and grasped the object, then stood up, fumbling for the flashlight in his pocket. Hopefully it still worked. He flicked the switch and the light came on. Waterproof. Crazy or not, Oliver had been prepared for any emergency. He directed the beam at the object in his hand and suppressed a shudder. After so many years in the warm, damp well, mold and decay had taken their toll. Little of the original color remained, visible here and there through the black and brown mottling. In some places, bits of matted gray fiber clung to it. The remains of a wool uniform coat, Bret guessed. A sleeve that, like the skin and tissue now long gone, had once covered 215

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the human arm bone in his hand. A humerus, he recalled from his college biology classes. He moved one foot carefully around the well floor. Yes, there were other bones down there. They shifted easily with the pressure of his foot. He had no way of knowing for sure, not at least until everything was brought up and examined, but Bret felt positive he had found James Radcliffe at last. His squeamishness disappeared. He felt no discomfort at the thought of standing in the well with a dead body. Heck, James was practically family. Bret chuckled tensely, the sound echoing up the hollow shaft. Well, he wasn’t down here to recover bodies, he thought. He’d better start looking for the gold. There was little area to search, with the well only a few feet in diameter. He felt around with his feet, hoping he’d recognize gold bullion if he kicked it. All he found were bones. “Anything yet?” Oliver’s voice sounded around him like a megaphone blast. “No, there’s nothing here,” he called back. “Don’t be an idiot. It has to be there. Keep looking. I’ll throw down the sling.” Holding the small flashlight in his teeth, Bret bent over to feel under the water with his hands. He moved the bones to one side, reverently, he hoped, and formed a neat pile. His search would be easier once he eliminated all of James from the puzzle. How many bones did the human body have? Over two hundred? His fingers closed on a rounded object. He knew what it was before he pulled it out of the water. He stood up and something dropped from above to slap him in the head. “Ow.” It was the heavy, nylon sling bag for loading the gold. “Watch it,” he yelled up the well. Bret looked at the skull in his hand. It grinned eyelessly at him. He grinned back, patted its domed top, and tucked it into the bag. Then he reached into the water and loaded all the rest of the bones into the expandable sack. There was no gold down here, of that he was certain. But he could probably dig up something for Oliver. He tugged the sling rope and started up the ladder, his soggy clothes clinging and slimy. The bag hesitated a moment, then began to rise beside him. Bret climbed faster. He wanted to be at the top when Oliver opened the sack. The ascent went far more quickly than the climb down. He even thought his eyes were becoming accustomed to the darkness. Some of the moss had a natural phosphorescence that drew his eye and provided some relief from the all-encompassing blackness. He looked up to see someone’s head blotting out a segment of moonlit sky. Oliver. “Did you find it?” he asked. “Why are you coming up already? You can’t have loaded it all so soon.”

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“I told you, there’s nothing down there,” he called upward, his legs beginning to ache from the climb and the damp. “Impossible. It has to be there. All the evidence points to this well.” He waved his gun over the opening. “Go back down and look again.” Bret breathed hard and reached down with one hand to massage his cramping leg. He’d had enough. “Forget it. If you want to look, you go. The gold is gone, if it was ever there to begin with.” “That can’t be,” Oliver wailed. “We’d have heard if someone had found it. It’s too much treasure to keep secret.” He disappeared from the top of the well, only to return a moment later. A second head peered down at him. Carla. “Carla, are you all right?” Bret asked. “Fine,” her voice quivered. “Are you sure there’s no gold in the well? I’d rather not take any chances here.” He stopped, gasping for breath, and dangled on the ladder, gazing up at them. “I’m positive. The space is too small. Any amount of gold would be easy to find. If it were here. It isn’t.” He resumed his climb. At the top, he leaned over the edge, hanging on and gulping huge breaths of the fresh night air. Oliver stood a few steps away holding Carla against him, his gun aimed at Bret’s head. Bret spared him a brief glance, then started to climb over the stone wall. “Where is the gold?” Oliver demanded. Bret dropped to his knees on the grass and shook his head, knowing the question was general and not directed at him specifically. “I haven’t the faintest idea. We thought it was here, too.” He looked back at the well. “Oh, that reminds me. Pull up the bag. I did find something interesting down there.” Oliver’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “You pull it up.” Bret shook his head. What did Oliver think, that he’d rigged a bomb while he was down there? He rose on rubbery legs, leaned over the edge of the well, and tugged the nylon sack up the side. When the bag reached the top, Oliver stepped forward. Curiosity or greed had overcome his suspicion. Bret unhooked the bag from its rope and handed it to Oliver. The younger man moved a few feet away across the grass and bent over the sack. He grasped the broad zipper pull and started to open it. What happened next, Bret couldn’t say for sure. He heard the zipper open. At the same time, a blinding flash of white light exploded from the bag. For a split second, he thought maybe there was a bomb in it. Oliver screamed. A gale roared through the yard, battering trees, grass and people like a compact hurricane. Bret squinted at the light and caught sight of Carla silhouetted against it. He struggled to her side against the blast of the wind and clutched her to him. “James!”

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Across the lawn, he heard Jessamyn’s scream, saw her press against the invisible barrier of the garden, then, unbelievably, break free and run toward them. Oliver turned at her approach and threw up his arms, as if to ward off a blow. Bret saw his chance. He pressed Carla down into the lee of the well and raced for Oliver. Another figure rushed out of the darkness from the side of the house, apparently with the same intent. Bret struck Oliver first and the two of them fell, rolling and struggling, to the ground. The new arrival stumbled over them, dropping to the grass on the other side. Bret grabbed for Oliver’s gun hand, catching his wrist. A pair of shots sounded above the wind’s furor. Then the weapon was in Bret’s hand. The gale stopped with a suddenness that tore the breath from his throat. He blinked and sat up, maintaining a death grip on whomever it was he held. He was no longer certain. He looked down. Oliver lay partly beneath him, still, his eyes closed. On the other side of Oliver, Paul Grady gazed up at him, a bloody cut on his cheek. A few feet away, Jessamyn knelt beside the canvas bag, next to the well that had been her gift. The well she had been unable to approach until the spirit of her brother was freed from its depths.

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Chapter Thirty-One “What the hell’s going on out here?” Bret looked up from his tumbled position to see Harry Osborne appear from around the corner of the house. Yolanda, right behind him, stopped at the well to help Carla, who still crouched motionless against the rough bricks. “Were those gunshots?” Harry surveyed the scene, his face grim. “Is anyone hurt?” “Just Oliver,” Paul Grady spoke up as he disengaged himself from Oliver’s limp body. “He’s had a bit of a shock. I think he’s passed out.” Harry peered at him narrowly. “So you came back. Or did you ever leave?” Paul gingerly touched the gash on his cheek, then looked at his bloodstained fingers with mild interest. He glanced up at Harry and shrugged. “Well, to tell you the truth, Harry, I never left.” He turned to Bret. “Sorry, Professor, but I had some unfinished business with Oliver here.” “I can’t say I’m sorry you showed up,” Bret said. “But I’m about ready for some explanations.” He clambered to his feet and wavered a moment on shaky legs before offering a hand to Paul. Oliver remained sprawled on the grass. Paul ran a hand through his short hair. “I owe you that, at the very least. My name really is Paul Grady, and I am a veteran. I just returned from a tour in Iraq. As for being homeless, well that’s just since Delacroix or Crosse, or whatever his name is, burned my parents’ house down. The Barton family house, that is.” “You’re a descendant of Andrew Barton?” Bret asked. Was everyone in Charleston related to the Raiders? Paul shook his head. “No, I’m from California. My folks came by the Barton place the same way you did Bonnie Doon. It was being sold out of the family. My parents had just retired and thought they’d like to run a bed-and-breakfast, so they bought the Barton house and restored it. “Oliver showed up looking for information about the Raiders and the treasure.” The look he shot the unconscious man was murderous. “He made reservations and stayed at the house, like any normal guest. Then he started poking around and asking a lot of questions. Mom and Dad tried to be helpful at first, but they got suspicious. Eventually, Oliver decided to search the house himself. He did some damage and, to cover his trail, set the place on fire. My father was nearly killed.” He paused and looked away, his jaw clenched. After a moment, he continued. “I was recalled to the States because of the emergency and when I found out about Oliver, I started tracking him down. I expected he’d come here. I read up on the subject and found out the Radcliffes had been involved

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with the Raiders, so I kept an eye on the place, and on you, Professor. When he showed up here as your assistant, I thought it best to make an arrangement with Harry and hope Oliver would do something to give himself away.” Bret shot a glance at Harry. “You knew about this all along?” If so, he and Harry had a few things to straighten out, too. “No.” Harry shook his head emphatically. “He didn’t tell me the details, just that he thought you might be in trouble. I thought I was just helping out one of our boys, ya’ might say.” “Oliver told me he staged the attack on himself, but you’re the one who broke into his room, aren’t you?” Bret asked. “I was looking for letters that were taken from my parents’ house. I thought if Oliver had them, they’d link him to the fire.” Paul turned to Harry. “I didn’t mean to keep you in the dark. I was afraid if I threw suspicion on Oliver he’d run. As long as he stayed here, I figured I’d catch him eventually.” “Did you find the letters?” Bret asked. Paul nodded. “Along with a lot of material from here. He had quite a research project going.” “Well, I hope he has a lot more reading to catch up on.” Yolanda approached with Carla, her arm around Carla’s shoulders, “Because he’s going to have plenty of time for it.” She handed Carla over to Bret. “Take care of her. She nearly got shot over there. And excuse me while I go phone the police.” Carla watched her go. “You weren’t kidding about being ‘taken in hand’ by Yolanda, were you?” Despite her smile, she looked pale and more than a little shaken. “Are you okay?” Bret asked. Then he remembered the gunshots. Oliver had fired toward the well. He pulled Carla close and held her. “I’m fine.” Her voice was muffled against his damp shirt. “How are you, other than seriously in need of a shower?” Relieved, Bret grinned and admitted he was all right as well. Carla stayed close, but turned toward Paul. “You might have let us know a little sooner that you were out here.” “If I’d done that,” Paul said, “he’d have had us all. Anyway, you were doing just fine without me.” He looked at Bret. “By the way, what exactly was in that bag? Or do I want to know?” Bret glanced toward the well. Jessamyn met his gaze over the mortal remains of James Radcliffe. The words of Granny Antigone’s prophecy came to him. “Two spirits freed.” “How much do you know about ghosts, Paul?” he asked. Paul grimaced and shook his head. “I guess I don’t really want to know, after all, thanks. It obviously wasn’t the gold though, was it?”

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Bret frowned. “No, there was no gold in that well. And I’m sure we had the clues right, too. I don’t know where it is.” Still sheltered in Bret’s arms, Carla spoke up. “I can tell you that.” “Where?” Bret, Paul and Harry asked in unison. She extricated herself from Bret’s arms and crossed to the well. The men followed. So did Jessamyn. “We actually did have the clues right,” Carla said, resting her hand lightly on the moldy bricks. “We were just interpreting them wrong. Jumping to conclusions.” She crouched down beside the structure. “Bret shoved me down here for cover when…whatever that was…started. He attacked Oliver, then Paul jumped on both of them and, suddenly, it came to me. Like a flash, you might say. Or, actually, like a shot. Oliver’s gun went off and one of the bullets missed my head by just inches. I raised up to look and…” she ran her hand along the bricks a few inches from her head, “I found this.” She moved her hand and uncovered a jagged hole and a long crack in the brick. Bret bent down and shined his flashlight at the broken area. The hole gleamed back. Bret dug at the shattered clay with his fingers and a large chunk came away. A narrow, smooth rectangle of gold became visible. Oliver’s bullet was imbedded in the soft metal, a small dark crater in the gleaming surface. Bret looked at Carla and grinned. She smiled back. The gold wasn’t in the old well. It was the well. The raiders had built the stolen gold into the bricks of the wishing well they'd fashioned for Jessamyn. “Jeffrey Holt would have appreciated this,” Carla said. “Turning lead into gold was every alchemist’s dream.” Behind Carla, Jessamyn smiled warmly. In the distance, a siren wailed. Oliver moaned on the grass behind them. A few minutes later, Yolanda escorted a police officer into the backyard. Once roused, a trembling Oliver seemed only too willing to accompany the officer. Handcuffed and seated on the porch step, he darted nervous glances around the darkened yard while the policeman took statements. Then he was led away. Harry stepped up to Paul. “You’re welcome to stay at the cottage ‘til you get settled. That is, if the professor has no objections.” “None at all.” Bret shook his head. “I was wondering, though,” he asked Paul, “how did you find out about the passage into Oliver’s room? No one in the house knew about it.” “Have you ever been to Barton Place, Professor?” “No.” “Barton Place and Bonnie Doon are mirror images of each other. They were designed and built by the same architect, almost simultaneously. Both families secretly supported the American side in the Revolution. The passages and tunnels provided shelter for Francis Marion’s guerrillas. They stored supplies down there, made

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weapons, even melted pewter dinner plates to make bullets.” Paul shrugged. “I didn’t know for sure if Bonnie Doon had a tunnel like Barton Place did, but I took the chance and looked for one. And I found it.” Bret turned to Harry. “And where were you while all this was going on? We kept hoping you’d look out the back window and see us.” Harry smiled sheepishly and looked at the ground. Yolanda came up beside him and twined her arm through his. He gave an initial “hrumph” of embarrassment, which, at a glance from Yolanda, gave way to an expression of docile serenity Bret would have never believed possible. “Harry wanted me to see the caretaker’s cottage,” Yolanda said. “We walked over there shortly after you and Carla left. We didn’t know you’d come back, or that anything had happened, until we heard the gunshots.” “So you’ve settled everything then?” Bret lifted an eyebrow meaningfully. “Not everything,” Yolanda said, arching a brow in response. “But we have an understanding.” Harry put his arm around her. “We’re going to try and pick up where we left off. That little boy needs a father. Besides, it’s our life and if we want to spend it together, it’s our business and no one else’s.” “We don’t expect it to be easy, Professor.” Yolanda cast a fond and tolerant glance at Harry. “But it’s a decision we should have had the courage to make years ago. I should have had the courage. For Joseph’s sake, if not for ours.” “We’d both like to stay on here, too, Professor, Carla,” Harry added. “If you folks’ll have us.” “Of course you’ll stay,” Carla said. “You’re part of the family.” Bret nodded agreement. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.” “Good.” Harry took Yolanda’s hand. “Now if you don’t mind, we’re going to go over to May’s house. I have a son there I need to meet.” “Of course. Certainly. Go.” Bret waved them away. They walked hand in hand back toward the cottage where Harry’s truck waited. Paul stepped forward and offered his hand to Bret. “Thanks for everything. I have a room in town. I’ll stay there tonight and check back in the morning. By tomorrow, Harry may have someone else to share the cottage with.” His blue eyes crinkled with his smile. “I’m happy for him. He’s a terrific guy.” “He is,” Bret agreed. “And don’t worry. We have plenty of room and you’ll always be welcome. Besides, you have a claim to the gold, too.” “Thanks, but I don’t really need it.” Paul started off across the lawn. “Not even to rebuild Barton Place?” Bret stopped him. “You deserve that much, after what Oliver did.”

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“I hadn’t thought about that. I know my parents would appreciate it. Thank you, Professor Tyler.” He gave a quick nod, looking genuinely touched, then turned to go. “Paul, wait,” Bret said. “Why are you going that way?” The tall blond man looked embarrassed. “Well, my car is parked just outside the north boundary of your property.” Bret frowned, remembering the car he’d seen around the area. “That wouldn’t be a blue Toyota sedan by any chance?” “Um, I’m afraid so.” He winked. “Just keeping an eye on things.” “Thanks,” Bret said. “I owe you for that.” Paul smiled and waved a dismissive hand, then continued on his way. Bret turned back to the house. Carla was sitting on the top step of the porch. He held out his hand. She took it and together they went inside. To Carla, the house felt just as welcoming as it always had. The kitchen, with its soft yellow paint and gleaming oak cabinets, was as warm and inviting as ever. Funny, she thought, that she should still feel as though she belonged here. Now, of course, she knew she didn’t. She couldn’t stay. She had no choice. Until tonight, she’d only half-believed all the business about ghosts and treasure. She’d released Bret from their engagement out of fear of what he might do under Jessamyn’s influence. But she had still truly doubted there was a Jessamyn. She’d hoped he would come to his senses. That he’d tell her it was all a mistake. There was no mistake. What she’d experienced tonight made that clear. The light, the gale and finally, Jessamyn’s scream as she called her dead brother’s name, left her with no doubts about the ghost’s existence. Her logic and rationality, her pragmatism, everything she’d prided herself on, were meaningless now. She had no place at Bonnie Doon. She brushed a stray hair off her forehead and sighed. How could she compete with a ghost? The answer was simple. She couldn’t. She would be a fool to try. Bret had made his decision and there was nothing more for her here. She’d pack and leave tonight. “Carla?” She glanced up. Bret was staring at her, his dark eyes clouded with worry. “Are you all right? You weren’t hurt out there were you?” She shook her head, not trusting herself to speak. Tears sprang to her eyes. She turned quickly and left the room. Bret followed. “Carla, talk to me. What’s wrong?” She ignored him and climbed the stairs to the master bedroom. Bret stood in the doorway, his face twisted with pain. She tossed her suitcase on the bed and opened it.

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“You’re leaving? Tonight?” He stepped forward and laid a hand on her arm. “Carla, this isn’t necessary.” She whirled to face him. “What do you mean, not necessary? Do you really expect me to stay here?” Bret looked taken aback. “Well, not permanently, I guess. I…I don’t know. But why leave tonight? Why now?” She gently pulled free of his hold. “Because she’s real, Bret. I know that now. I saw what happened out there. I heard her scream. She’s real and she loves you and you love her.” She blinked hard, managing to hold the tears at bay. “I guess I just can’t handle that. I care about you and I can’t stay here and watch you do this to yourself. I have to leave. Now.” She reached into the dresser drawer and pulled out a handful of clothes, which she dropped unceremoniously into the suitcase. Bret caught her wrist. “Watch me do what to myself? What do you think is going to happen? Yes, I love Jessamyn. Why should anything else matter?” Carla stared at him. Love for him warred with anger and pity. She shook her head. “You’re so obsessed you can’t see how impossible this is. It just won’t work.” “I’m a rational man, Carla. Explain it to me.” “Bret, Jessamyn is a ghost. She’s not a woman and never will be. You’re a living man. What you have may be special, but it can never be a normal relationship.” “No.” He shook his head. “The difference between us isn’t that significant. It’s a purely superficial, physical variation. Like skin color. Harry and Yolanda are different from each other. That’s no real barrier to them. Why should it be to Jessamyn and me?” Carla clenched her fists. How could he not see the truth? “The difference between black and white skin is significant, Bret. Why do you think Harry and Yolanda avoided each other for ten years? But skin color is nothing compared to the difference between alive and dead. Harry and Yolanda are living people. Their color is the only difference between them and it is nothing compared to the things they have in common. But you are alive. Jessamyn is dead. Life and death is a barrier you can’t overcome just by deciding it doesn’t matter.” She put her hands on his shoulders and gazed up into his face. This was her last chance to make him understand. It was his last chance. “Jessamyn can’t leave Bonnie Doon, Bret. She’ll never age, but you’ll grow old here alone with her. She can never be a woman to you. Never a wife.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “She can never be the mother of your children.” He stared at her, then looked away. Something in his face told her he hadn’t changed his mind. She let him go and turned away to finish packing. Jessamyn stood trembling in the doorway. It was true, all of it. The realization struck at her very heart. Carla was right. Why had she not seen it before? She’d followed them upstairs, her emotions in turmoil. She’d won, she knew, and she was happy. Bret had made his choice. He was hers.

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But Carla had lost him. Jessamyn had grown to respect Carla. She cared for her, almost as much as she cared for Bret, she realized. The conflicting emotions confused her. She was almost sorry she’d won. Then she’d stood there watching the other woman’s surrender. She’d listened to Carla’s argument with Bret and the truth had come to her, blinding and painful. She loved Bret. More than anything or anyone she’d ever known. But he couldn’t be hers. Not really. Not ever. Carla was right. Death was a barrier they could never overcome. She held back a shuddering sob. She could never be a real woman. It wasn’t fair. She’d died too young to know real love and now, when she’d finally found it, it was too late. But it wouldn’t be fair to him either, she thought. She could never give him what he needed. She could never bear his children. He would be trapped here. Jessamyn loved him too much to doom him to an existence that in time he would find unbearable. She knew what she had to do. If she truly loved him, she had to let him go. A wrenching pain surged through her body. She forced herself out into the hallway and leaned against the balcony rail for support. Weakness suffused her and she found she could barely summon the strength to move. She glanced down. Her white gown faded in and out of her vision, until it looked almost misty. The sound of a million jingling bells rang in her ears and warm, white light bathed the balcony. What was happening to her? She felt so insubstantial, as though she were fading out of existence. It must be this terrible sadness, she thought, observing the changes with an odd detachment. Strong emotion had weakened her in the past, but it was always a temporary effect. This felt different, but somehow, she wasn’t frightened. Just sadder still at the thought of leaving Bret. Carla came out of the bedroom. As if through a fog, Jessamyn watched her pass. She held one suitcase in her hand and a large satchel was slung over her shoulder. Bret followed her. “Wait,” he called. “At least stay ‘til morning. Then I’ll take you to your parents’ or to the airport. Anywhere you want.” Carla stopped and turned to look at him. Jessamyn saw tears on her cheeks. She touched her own face and was shocked to feel dampness under her fingertips. “No,” Carla’s voice was firm. “I’m going now. I’ll call a cab.” She swung away from him. “Let me take your bags, then,” Bret said. Carla shook her head briskly and started down the stairs, blinking against her tears. Bret stood on the balcony and watched her go. Carla balanced the heavy luggage and stepped down one stair at a time. Out of long habit, Jessamyn leaned forward, watching as though through a veil.

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Carla stepped onto the fourth stair. She balanced herself and lifted her foot for the next step. Her hard heel slipped against the smooth wood surface. She struggled for equilibrium, seemed to regain it. Then the strap of her bag dropped off her shoulder. The weight of the satchel pulled her forward. She cried out and let go of the suitcase, grabbing for the railing. She missed. Bret shouted and lunged forward, but he was too far away. Carla started to fall. Jessamyn flung herself toward the falling woman. She had to save Carla. For Bret. She wrapped her arms around Carla, forcing all other thoughts aside. Something was wrong. She couldn’t hold the living woman. She was too far gone herself, mere mist with no substance. Carla slipped through her fingers as though she were the ghost and not Jessamyn. She screamed once and tumbled, striking her head on the step below, then spun limply, end over end, down the long flight and came to rest on the cold marble floor below. Jessamyn heard Bret’s anguished cry, but she could no longer see him. Brilliant white light surrounded her. Its source, she could tell, was somewhere ahead of her. From within it, voices called. Familiar voices. She walked toward them.

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Chapter Thirty-Two Dark pressed in on Carla from all sides. Gusts of icy wind blasted her, snatching her breath away and chilling her to her very soul. She had a sense of rapid movement, despite the fact that her feet were firmly planted on the ground beneath her. Wherever that ground was. She glanced down, seeing her bare feet beneath her, bare legs above them, the reason for her chill now clear. She was completely nude. But why? She squeezed her eyes tight, then opened them. Nothing changed. She still stood alone, naked, in the cold, roiling darkness. Where was she? What had happened to Bonnie Doon? To Bret? She inhaled deeply, then released the breath slowly, willing herself to relax, trying to collect her thoughts. The last few moments—hours? days?—were a blank. How had she gotten here? Wherever here was. She concentrated, searching backward moment by moment. Surely she must have some memory of what had happened. Arms around her. She remembered someone holding her, or catching her. But they couldn’t hang on. She remembered the scream that mingled with her own as she fell. That was it, she realized. She’d fallen. On the stairs at Bonnie Doon. She was leaving Bret. Yes, it was coming back to her. So why wasn’t she at Bonnie Doon now? The darkness and the mist that swirled like spindrift around her bare feet reminded her of the night she’d chased the light through the woods. But she knew she wasn’t outside on the plantation. The smell of the air was different, for one thing. Fragrant, yes, but not with the perfume of wisteria and roses. The scent was vaguely familiar, but one she couldn’t place. And she couldn’t see anything. It wasn’t an all-consuming blackness like the underground tunnel where they’d followed Paul Grady. It was more like an emptiness. Nothingness. Her eyes struggled vainly for a point of focus. There was simply nothing to see. Suddenly, ahead of her, far away in the distance, a light shimmered. She thought incongruously of approaching trains, but no noise or vibration accompanied the beam. Maybe it was a way out. Instinctively she moved toward it. Funny, she thought, she felt no pain. After that fall, something should hurt. And she was walking normally, without a limp. Even the lingering, dull throb in her ankle had stopped. No pain, no anxiety. Just mild curiosity and slight disorientation. This was wrong, she thought. Something should hurt. She distinctly recalled hitting her head on the stair. You don’t just get up and walk away from that kind of fall. 227

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But then, she didn’t remember getting up. In fact, she didn’t remember anything after hitting her head. Oh, my God! The exclamation formed itself in her mind and she immediately banished it, self-conscious. Was it possible? No, she couldn’t believe it. She’d read about it, of course. Who hadn’t? But like everything else, she’d taken the stories of near-death experiences with a grain of salt. Yet now here she was. In a dark tunnel, moving toward a light. Wasn’t that how it was always described? After all the hype, the reality of it seemed a little anticlimactic, if what she was experiencing had anything to do with reality. She flexed her formerly sore ankle again. No pain. No sensation of any kind. No sense of panic gripped her, no sudden realization that she was dead. She felt calm and accepting. I’m on the road to the afterlife. It sounded like a Hope and Crosby film. Ahead of her, the light was growing larger. She didn’t think she had come so far, but apparently, distances were hard to judge up here. Was it “up”? She hoped so. Ahead of her on the “road”, a figure moved, silhouetted against the light, approaching it as she was. A person. The thought of company appealed to her. She hurried to catch up. “Wait,” she called. “Wait for me, I’ll walk with you.” She hoped the person spoke English. On the other hand, maybe everyone here could understand everyone else. The person, a woman, petite and delicate with a tiny waist and sensuously curved hips, slowed and turned toward her. Like Carla, she was naked. Jessamyn. Carla recognized her from the portrait. Without a word, Jessamyn ran to her, wrapping Carla in a fervent embrace. Her full, round breasts pressed against the taller woman’s belly, the pink buds of her nipples hard and erect, indenting her skin. Carla glanced down at her own bare breasts, now resting atop Jessamyn’s, and was surprised to see her own darker nipples rise in response as unexpected heat suffused her. Reflexively she wrapped her own arms around the little blonde, drawing her close. Jessamyn felt warm, solid and as human as Carla, which Carla thought made sense considering they now apparently shared the same condition. “I’m so sorry,” Jessamyn whispered over and over. “I tried to catch you, but I was too weak. I wouldn’t have let you fall if I could have stopped it.” “I know. I know.” Carla smoothed the girl’s silky blonde hair from her face and somehow, she did know.

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Jessamyn looked up at her, her blue eyes bright. “You can go back to him. You have to.” “What? How?” “Just turn around and walk away from the light. I did it before, the first time, but I’m too weak to do it again. You’re stronger. You can return to him.” Carla shook her head. “The first time, you didn’t get all the way back,” she pointed out. “You were trapped between this world and ours.” “I know, but you have to try.” She stepped back and took Carla’s hands in hers. “Don’t leave him alone. He needs you, Carla. He loves you.” “No.” Carla tried to turn away, but Jessamyn’s pleading gaze held her fast. “You’re the one he loves. He cares for me, I know that. But he never loved anyone like he loved you.” Jessamyn’s eyes were misty. “We’re so different, Carla. Opposites really. Before you came to Bonnie Doon, I swore I would hate you. But I didn’t. I actually liked you and I didn’t know why. But I do now.” Unable to speak, Carla waited for her to continue. “You loved Bret so much,” Jessamyn finished. “You said you’d give him up yourself if it was best for him. You tried to convince me to do that. Not because you wanted him yourself, but because you wanted to protect him.” She gazed up at Carla with an expression older than her eighteen earthly years. “Until you showed me what love really was, until we loved Bret together, I couldn’t have done that. I put my own wishes ahead of the one I loved. You showed me that I was wrong.” She squeezed Carla’s hands, her delicate brow wrinkling above the brilliant blue eyes. “I was giving him up, Carla. I knew it wasn’t fair to keep him. I was…dying…when you fell. That’s why you have to go back to him,” her voice pleaded. “He wasn’t meant to lose both of us. It wouldn’t be right.” Jessamyn was right. Carla knew it. She’d never been one to believe in things like destiny, but somehow the thought of Bret alone felt wrong. Jessamyn had given him up once. Now she was giving him back to Carla. All Carla could do in return was honor that gift. “What do I have to do?” Jessamyn’s anxious features softened with relief. “The last time, all I did was turn away from the light and walk back the way I’d come. It wasn’t easy,” she warned. “It was like walking into a hurricane.” “Okay.” Impulsively, Carla clasped the blonde girl to her again. Then she released her and turned around sharply. She took a step. Her feet felt as if they were held in place with rubber cement. Another step and the wind that had subsided to a gentle breeze at her back became a roaring maelstrom. It seemed to blow from all directions at once, whipping her hair violently into her eyes while at the same time forcing her back toward the spot where Jessamyn stood watching.

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She moved another foot forward and the gust blew her back three. “I can’t do it,” she screamed over the howling gale. “I don’t have the strength.” She faced into the wind, bent nearly double against its blast. “Jessamyn!” Suddenly, a warm hand filled hers and a tingle like electricity flowed through her. She glanced to her right, eyes tearing and half-blinded by the force of the wind, and saw Jessamyn there. The blonde girl smiled and Carla nodded her understanding, opening her arms. Jessamyn stepped into her embrace, then, unexpectedly, reached up to pull Carla’s mouth down to hers. Jessamyn’s hot, moist lips parted beneath hers, incredibly, unbelievably soft and yielding, sending a surge of fire through Carla’s veins. Suddenly she realized what Jessamyn had meant when she said they’d loved Bret together. Jessamyn had been there as she and Bret made love. She had been one with Carla then, as she had the previous night when Carla had pleasured herself. Somehow Jessamyn had become part of her, sharing her body, experiencing every touch, every sensation that Carla experienced, driving her to a higher level of ecstasy than she’d ever felt on her own. She wasn’t angry. How could she be? Jessamyn’s exuberance, her unrestrained enthusiasm for the pleasures she was discovering, had been a gift to Carla. A gift Carla hoped to continue to share with Bret. And with Jessamyn. She raised her head and took Jessamyn’s hand. There was no more need for words between them. As one, they pressed into the gale. For the second time that night, sirens shattered the silence of Bonnie Doon. Bret knew it was hopeless. Carla was dead even before she’d hit the floor, but he’d called the ambulance anyway. He knelt beside her broken body, brushing tangled strands of hair off her face and sobbing unashamedly. He’d lost them both. He saw Jessamyn lunge for Carla as she fell. Saw her fade to oblivion. The ghost had sacrificed her last vestiges of strength to save the woman he’d rejected. He knew she was gone as surely as he knew Carla was dead at his feet. She must have heard them arguing. Heard them and decided Carla was right. Just as he had known she was right, but was too obsessed with Jessamyn to care. Obsessed and arrogant, he’d been so sure they could work everything out. He lifted Carla’s limp body and cradled her gently against him. He’d lost them through his own stupidity. Both of them had known what was right and he’d been too blind to see it. Both of them had given everything out of love for him. The sirens blared up the driveway toward the house. He only had a few more moments. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I loved you so much.” He glanced up at the balcony, barren and unattended now. “Both of you.” Nearby, someone sighed.

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Bret looked down at the woman in his arms. No, he thought, it must be his imagination. He watched a moment. There! Her chest rose, almost imperceptibly. Suddenly, she shuddered and took a gasping breath. Then another. Her eyes flickered open and she gazed up at him. “Carla?” Her name was a ragged whisper on his lips. She blinked. He wasn’t imagining! She was alive. Her lips moved and he bent closer to hear. “Two spirits one,” she murmured and laughed softly. “I didn’t know it was a number.” She’s delirious, Bret thought. Then someone was pounding on the door. It opened and the paramedics rushed in, easing him aside and surrounding her. Moments later, treated and IV’d, secured to a gurney, she was wheeled outside to the waiting ambulance. Bret walked alongside, clutching her hand and gazing into her vivid blue-green eyes. Blue-green? She whispered something. Bret leaned over the gurney to catch her words. “Darling, save us a waltz.”

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About the author Catriona MacGregor can’t remember a time when she wasn’t writing, starting with science fiction and monster stories in elementary school, a testament to her early love of paranormal fiction, which continues to this day. She readily admits to an addiction to science thrillers, bad sci-fi films and B-movie monsters, as well as happy endings. Catriona makes her home in the Pacific Northwest with her husband of 25 years— her real-life hero—and a variable number of cats. Catriona welcomes mail from readers. You can write to her c/o Ellora’s Cave Publishing at 1337 Commerce Drive, #13, Stow, OH 44224.

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