Chapter Two
“WHAT ARE YOU DOING here?” it—he—growled.
“Maxim?” she repeated stupidly. The apparition before her looked so much like Maxim…if Maxim had grown to a man, developed an abundance of muscle and four inches of height. It couldn’t be Maxim…but if it were an apparition, why would he appear grown? When last she’d seen him, he’d been fifteen and skinny as a reed, not much taller than she. It couldn’t be him.
Lightning lit the room once more. His shirt was loose about his thighs, the ties undone and the neck gaping open, his breeches smudged with dirt. All was well tailored and untattered. Surely, if he were a ghost, his raiments should be tattered?
The same chestnut hair fell over his brow, too long and ragged, while his face had broadened and hardened, his eyes were the same, chocolate brown under dark brows. He’d grown to a man, broad shoulders and ropy muscle apparent behind the scant clothes he wore, his breeches stretched over powerful thighs and strong calves, his large feet shod in well-worn leather boots.
He was supposed to be dead. Eleven years ago, he had abruptly left Eton and set sail on one of the Roxwaithe ships, bound for America. She’d been so confused at the time, and he’d refused to tell her why. Six months later, they had received word the ship had been lost at sea. None had survived.
With startling clarity, she remembered that day. Her father’s face, careworn and concerned, as he’d told her. Her mother’s worried eyes. The pain in her chest, frozen at first, until she’d excused herself, blindly making her way to her chamber only to stand in its centre, confusion filling her until she’d happened to glance upon his cricket ball, the one he’d given her the last time she’d seen him, three days before he’d left when he’d refused to tell her why he was leaving, and once she’d returned home she’d thrown it onto her dressing table, angry beyond belief at him, that he was going away, and then, then a great gaping hole had cracked open inside her and she’d slid to the floor, pain and grief and devastation growing inside her until it had encompassed all, it had encompassed everything and it hadn’t stopped, it hadn’t stopped, it—
It was eleven years ago. The pain had faded, but had never truly left. She’d thought she’d learned to live with it. But now…now he was here?
A thunderous scowl on his face, he made a noise of impatience. “I do not have the inclination for this, girl. Tell me why you have come.”
His voice crashed over her. That, too, had deepened with age, but it was him. It was him.
“It is you.” Joy filled her, so big it felt her skin couldn’t contain it. Throwing herself at him, she enveloped him in a hug.
He stiffened.
Embarrassment coursed through her. What was she thinking? Immediately, she untangled herself from him. “I beg your pardon,” she stammered. Always before they’d been exuberant in their affections. They’d always found ways to touch one another, even though that last summer, the one before he’d gone away, she’d begun to feel...more....
Clasping her hands before her, she brought herself to the present. Much had changed, now they were grown and he, apparently, had not died.
Maxim had not died.
A wave of emotion swept her, a mix of relief, joy, incredulity…. It buckled her knees and burned her eyes. He was alive. Maxim was alive.
“When did you return? Do your brothers know?” she asked, steadying herself as she swiped at the wetness on her cheeks. “The earl is lately in London, but I’m certain he would return should he know. My father will be so pleased to see, as will my mother. George and Harry will be beside themselves, and Lydia and Michael too, though they were so young when—” She cut herself off, barely able to say the word died. “We mourned you, Maxim.”
He came closer. He’d grown so tall. When last she’d seen him, barely an inch had separated them but now he was at least two hands taller. Faint lines fanned from his eyes, the tanned skin shocking in the cold English weather. Wherever he’d been, it had been sunburned.
“I ask again,” he said. “Why have you come?”
Confusion drew her brows. “Maxim? Don’t you remember me?”
Starting at the blonde hair piled limply on her head thanks to the rain, he ran his gaze over her. He traced her face, her throat, travelled over her chest, her stomach, swept her legs. A tingling began within her, gathering low. She was suddenly aware of how her breasts pushed against the fabric of her chemise with every breath, of a pulse between her legs that beat slow, steady….
He raised his gaze to hers. Silence filled the space between them before, succinctly, “No.”
It was like a punch to her belly. “It’s me. Alexandra.”
No reaction.
Oh. Oh, this hurt.
Lifting her chin, she managed, “I am Lady Alexandra Torrence, daughter of your neighbour, the Marquis of Strand. We grew up together.”
His expression did not change.
“Your father, the previous earl, and mine were like brothers.”
He stared at her. “Previous earl?” he finally asked.
“Yes,” she said. “Your father passed away some years ago. Your eldest brother is now earl.”
Again, no change in expression. Did he not care his father had died? But what did she know of this new Maxim? Less than an hour ago, she had not known he was alive.
He continued to stare at her. She fought the urge to shift under that flat gaze. “Why are you here?” he repeated, his tone harsh and impatient.
“I was—” Her voice cracked. Cursing her nerves, she cleared her throat. “I am investigating. The villagers spoke of a ghostly presence, lights and wails, and I….” She trailed off. Lord, it made her sound so odd. He’d always teased her about that oddness, and always with affection. She didn’t know what this new Maxim would do.
Finally there was expression on his face. She wished it had remained stony. “Ghosts? You have invaded my home for ghosts?”
The disgust in his voice made her cringe. “To be fair, I didn’t know you were here. No one did.”
Expression still disdainful, he didn’t reply.
Irritation pushed aside devastation. How could he not remember her? “This is not your home.”
His brows shot up. “That is your argument?”
He sounded so much like her Maxim. They’d argued often, and the number of times he’d said those exact words, in that exact tone…. She shook herself. “Yes. It is.”
“A fallacy. You argue a fallacy.”
“It is not a fallacy. It is objectively true. Waithe Hall is the ancestral seat of the Earls of Roxwaithe. You are not the Earl of Roxwaithe, ergo, it is not your home.” Knowing it was childish, she tossed her hair and glared.
Crossing his arms, he scowled. “I know you are somewhere you don’t belong.”
“So are you,” she pointed out.
“This is my family home.”
“It’s your brother’s,” she said. “You’re being deliberately obtuse.”
“And you’re being obstinate.”
“I’m being obstinate? Me?” This was such a ridiculous argument, and yet it was familiar. They’d argued like this all the time, and he was reacting exactly as her Maxim would react, and—
Stepping forward, he deliberately loomed over her. “I come into my library to find a trespasser, poking around in my things.”
“Waithe Hall is shut. Roxwaithe hasn’t been here in years. No one is supposed to be here. You aren’t even supposed to be alive. How are you even feeding yourself?”
Pinching the bridge of his nose, he shook his head. “Why am I arguing with you? You’re a trespasser I don’t know.”
Rage, such as she’d never experienced before, exploded. How dare he? How dare he pretend not to know her? Her fingers curled into fists and she told herself she could not punch him. She was a lady, and he was a clodpole. “Don’t be stupid.”
He stilled, and something flickered in his dark eyes. “You will leave the way you came.”
“With pleasure,” she snapped. Pushing past him, she stalked from the library, through the entrance hall, and wrenched the door open. Rain pelted her, almost horizontal as the wind howled and lightning crashed across the sky. She plunged into it, anger propelling her even as she was drenched in moments.
She’d not gotten more than two strides before a large hand grabbed her shoulder and hauled her back to Waithe Hall. Maxim slammed the door shut and shook himself, water falling to the marble floor . “Do you have any brains?” he demanded.
“You told me to go. I have no desire to say here with you.”
“You wouldn’t get half a mile before you’d catch your death. You’ll stay here.”
“It would not be proper,” she said stiffly.
He laughed harshly. “Hunting a ghost is not proper, either. You will stay here.”
Mutinously, she glared at him. Damnation. She could not even argue that point. Belatedly, she realised the rain had plastered his shirt to his body, clinging to hard muscle and broad shoulders.
Mouth abruptly dry, her breath locked in her chest.
He didn’t seem to notice her distraction. “Come,” he said, holding aloft a lamp he’d magically produced, before turning on his heel to stride down the corridor. Hesitantly, she followed.
They wound through the Hall, climbing the grand stairs and making their way to the family apartments, the corridors she remembered from her—their—childhood. Wrapping her arms about herself, she cursed herself at the soaked fabric. She’d only brought two gowns, and now both were wet.
He halted before a door. “You may stay here,” he said, pushing it open.
Passing him, she entered a bedchamber, again with most of the furniture covered. The bed, though, was not, holding a mattress along with pillows and sheets.
Surprise filled her. “Is this where you sleep?”
He placed the lamp on the dresser. “Goodnight.”
“Good—?” He was gone before she finished the word.
Wrapping her arms about her torso, she stopped herself from rushing after him. She wanted to assure herself she hadn’t imagined him, that he was real, that he was alive…and she needed to get her bag, she had a nightgown and a change of underclothes, and—Maxim was alive.
She collapsed onto the bed. The bed he had slept in, unmade with the sheets rucked to the foot of the bed. A faint scent wound about her, woodsy and indistinct, but she knew it was his, knew it was Maxim’s. A harsh sob broke from her, and another, eleven years of emotion exploding. Sliding from the bed, she pulled herself into a ball, hot forehead against her updrawn knees, her cheeks wet, her chest hurting.
The wind howled, rain pelting the window. They’d all thought him dead. She’d thought him dead. Her dearest companion, her best friend. Maxim.
Slowly, her sobs subsided. She couldn’t stay here. She couldn’t take his bed from him, and she...she wanted to know. She wanted to know everything. Why was he here? Why hadn’t he gone to his brothers? Why was he lurking in Waithe Hall alone? When had he returned?
Did he really not remember her?
Taking a shuddering breath, she wiped at her cheeks. She needed to know and surely he would tell her. Even if he didn’t remember her.
Rising to her feet, she squared her shoulders. Well, she would make him remember her...and then she would make him let her hug him.