Chapter Six

 

 

THE WORDS ON THE page swam before him. Frowning, Maxim concentrated on making them still but they, stubborn bastards, changed order and shape, becoming nonsense. Most days, he could muddle through, but tonight he was tired and irritable, and that always made it worse.

Exhaling, he rubbed his eyes. He loved reading, he truly did, but it was always a struggle. What took others a moment took him four, and he knew it made him bothersome and slow. The pile of books on the table beside him was a challenge, but he would read every single one, even though he remembered his father sighing and directing him to more physical pursuits, even though his masters in America had cuffed him across the head whenever he’d had trouble reading their missives. He wore the scars of those displeased with his doltishness on his skin and on his soul.

Now, though, he had a whole library of books and no one to pester him. Well, no one but Alexandra. She sat in the chair opposite, her legs drawn up beneath her, frowning at her notebook as she pressed her pencil against her lips.

A flash of memory hit him, a younger Alexandra doing the same as they contemplated how best to explain to their respective parents the landslide wasn’t really their fault and there was no way anyone could have a) predicted it and b) prevented it.

The shaft of the pencil dug deeper into the fullness of her bottom lip. He drew in his breath, his body hardening as he thought of other things he could press against those soft lips.

Damnation. Closing his eyes, he rubbed his brow. He shouldn’t think such things, and especially not about her. He was a pent up mess of emotions, too cowardly to leave this hall and face his family. She deserved better than him.

Exhaling, he grabbed the cricket ball he’d placed on the table. He’d spied it in the nursery and something about it called to him, so he’d stolen it. It had felt familiar in his hand, the hard, shiny surface a comfort, his forefinger rubbing the raised seams. With a flick of his wrist, he flipped the ball in the air, caught it, flipped again. And again. And again.

Across the room, Alexandra’s frown increased.

She’d always been studious. When they were younger, she’d carried around notebooks, jotting down thoughts and observations. He’d stolen the notebooks, but the words had swum before him and so he’d drawn in them, little scribbles to make her smile. It had always awed him, that she was so clever.

All day they’d traipsed through the upper reaches of the house, she cataloguing and he holding her equipment. It should have been tedious, but he was beginning to believe nothing could be tedious with her. His life since he’d woken in America had been work—first as a servant in his rescuer’s home and then as longshoreman and, finally, as a sailor. He’d had little of ease and contentment, and he’d had no time to pursue an interest simply because one was interested, and certainly not one as strange as ghost hunting.

She’d always been odd, but he admired that about her. She was unconcerned with the expectation of others, and her parents had loved her, her siblings had looked up to her, and he…he’d loved her too. She’d been his best friend, his partner in crime, the person he turned to when he’d needed comfort.

Maxim flicked his wrist. The ball spun in the air, flipping over itself, and he knew if he threw it, the ball would spin wildly and take the batsman unaware…. A memory, clear as day, of his brother stood at the crease, swinging wildly at the ball hurtling to him. Spinning around, Stephen had landed on his arse and Maxim had doubled over with laughter while Stephen used every curse they’d ever heard the groundskeepers use.

The ball made a dull smack as it landed in his palm. This place drew memories from him, and if he were honest with himself, so did she. Alexandra. It was as if a piece of him had been missing, and she fitted him perfectly. He was content in her presence, calmer, the ragged pieces of him soothed. God damn, but he lo—

He threw the ball above him. Hard. He hadn’t thought that. Hadn’t even considered it. Almost two nights she’d been here, and it was beginning to be that he couldn’t imagine a time when he was not, but he didn’t—he couldn’t— He was too broken, too dull-witted.

He’d misstepped, badly, when he’d kissed her. In some mangled part of his brain, he’d thought the warning warranted but it wasn’t until he’d had her under him, his arm about her waist and her soft lips on his, that he’d realised how horribly mistaken he’d been. It had never been about a lesson.

Sighing, she stretched her neck. He almost dropped the ball. Would that same look would be on her face as he traced the cord of her neck with his tongue, his hand covering her breast as she squirmed and moaned….

Viciously, he flipped the ball, catching it as it careened wildly back to him, flipped, caught, flipped, caught, and he willed his body to behave.

Focussing again on the notebook, Alexandra wrote down something.

Snatching the ball, he rolled it between his hands. “Surely now would be a good time to investigate?”

“Hmm?” Alexandra said, still regarding her notebook.

“Now would be a good time to investigate.” He waved a hand at the window. “It is dark, after all.”

She glanced up distractedly. “I have not yet finished with my preliminary investigations and those must be completed first.”

“Why?” Restlessness beat at him. He wanted to be away from this room, wanted to be occupied, so he wasn’t staring at her and imagining the taste of her against his tongue.

“Because my findings will be tainted if I do not. Stop interrupting me.” She frowned at the page. “I’ve written the same thing three times.”

Pushing himself to his feet, he said, “Maybe I will investigate on my own.”

“You will taint my results,” she said, still looking at her notebook.

“No, I won’t. I’ll be helping.”

“You really won’t.”

He made to take a step. “I’m going now.”

Before he’d realised what had happened, she’d propelled herself from her chair and shoved him, right in the centre of his chest. Surprised, he fell, landing hard on his arse as she clambered over him, pushing his shoulders to the floor.

Then, she sat on his chest.

“You’re sitting on me,” he said incredulously.

“You’re not going anywhere,” she stated, the familiar stubborn cast to her chin.

“You’re sitting on me. I’m twice the size of you.”

Hands bearing down on his shoulders, she said, “It always stopped you before.”

“I’m twice the size of you.” This may have worked when they were fourteen and fifteen, but he’d grown a foot and had muscle to match. It was a simple matter to flip her over. She squawked, struggling to rise as he straddled her and pinned her arms to the ground.

“Get off me,” she demanded

“Things are different now,” he crowed.

“Maxim, get off!”

“No.” He grinned down at her.

Scowling, she tried to buck him off, but he easily subdued such pitiful efforts. Giving up, she glared at him, her chest heaving.

Her hips were trapped between his thighs. Her fingers curled, brushing the back of his hands that held her wrists. She was so soft beneath him.

Breathing suddenly became difficult and he tensed, his body hardening as he stared down at her, his gaze drifting to her mouth. She watched him with big eyes, her lips parted as she drew quick breath, her tongue flicking out to leave wetness behind. Stifling a groan, he shifted to hold himself from her and hoped like hell she couldn’t feel his hard length against her.

Letting her go, he backed away from her. “I’m twice the size of you,” he said, voice full of gravel.

Slowly, she rose to a seated position, her gaze never leaving him.

His groin ached, his skin felt too small for his body, and he wanted so badly to kiss her. “Stop staring at me,” he growled.

She didn’t.

“Alexandra!”

She blinked. Desire melted from her expression. “That is the first time you’ve used my name.”

That couldn’t be right. “Really?”

She nodded and then, averting her eyes, she sniffed.

“You’re not going to cry, are you?” he asked suspiciously.

Biting her lip, she shook her head.

“Don’t be a girl.” Her chin wobbled. “Alexandra.” Tears spilled over. “Ah, hell.” Awkwardly, he enfolded her in his arms.

Her head nestled into his shoulder. It felt…right. Resting his cheek against her hair, he closed his eyes. Was it only two days ago she’d appeared back in his life?

Against him, she took a deep breath. “There’s nothing wrong with being a girl.” The words were muffled against his chest.

“Beg yours?”

She pushed away. Wet hazel eyes regarded him steadily. “There’s nothing wrong with being a girl. You said it like it was an insult. It’s not an insult, Maxim.”

“I—No. Sorry.”

Nodding, she moved away from him. He wanted to haul her back to him, to feel her breath against his skin, her softness against him.

Abruptly, memories crashed upon him. Harsh shouting. A closed fist against his cheek. A hard hand cuffing the back of his head. The bite of a whip.

“Maxim?”

He didn’t look up. If he did, she would read his every thought.

Gentle fingers stroked his forearm. “Maxim?”

Her hand. Small, but so capable. When she wrote, the letters she formed were precise and graceful, a work of art on the page. Nothing like the mess he made. He saw again the face of the bosun, the spittle flying as he screamed. “Tell me of your ghost.”

Her fingers stilled. “Where did you go?”

Shaking his head, he said, “It doesn’t matter.”

“Maxim—”

“It doesn’t. Tell me a ghost story, Alexandra.”

Just when he thought he was going to have to press her again, she sighed softly. “Which one?”

“The one you think currently haunts Waithe Hall.”

“There are many stories.”

“But only one has captured your interest.”

Settling beside him, she folded her hands in her lap. “Margaret Howard. She was the housekeeper here in the early 1700s.”

“Margaret Howard.” He turned the name over in her mind. “I don’t remember her tale.”

Lips quirking, she raised her brows.

He smiled ruefully. “Ha ha, yes, I know. I don’t remember much, et cetera and so forth.”

Still smirking, she continued. “The earl at the time sympathised with the Jacobite rebellion and opened his home to the rebels, hiding them from crown forces. Margaret Howard liked her cups too well and one night, she liked them with the wrong people. She was free with her words, and the local garrison learned of the earl’s leanings.”

“I gather they weren’t words the earl wanted the garrison to hear.”

“Far from it. They stormed Waithe Hall, but they found nothing.”

“Nothing? Ah. The secret passages.”

She nodded. “But Margaret Howard had been careless. When it came time to lock the house, she could not find her keys. At the time she thought little of it, certain they would return when she least expected it.

“One night, the garrison stole into Waithe Hall and slaughtered the rebels. There was no sign of forced entry, and whispers began that Margaret Howard sympathised with the crown, that she’d opened the door for them, that she’d given them her keys.”

Drawing her knees up, she said, “She protested her innocence, but none believed her. She searched and searched, but she could not find them. She became frantic. She had failed the earl once. She could not fail him again. One night, she searched on the parapet, and....” She paused dramatically. “She slipped. The next morning, they found her body. She was given a pauper’s funeral, but it wasn’t long before odd happenings began. It could be the wind, or the glow of the moon, but some...some say she searches still.”

A smile tugged at him. Alexandra glowed, her passion obvious. “I remember that story. I didn’t know it was about Margaret Howard, though.”

“It was always the best one,” she said. “Do you remember Timmons used to tell them to us, and you were always scared?”

“I was never scared,” he said. “I was simply impatient to start riding. Timmons was our groom.”

“You were scared.”

“Maybe I was nervous.”

“No, you were scared. I—Ah!” He tickled her and she dissolved into giggles, half-heartedly fending off his attack. A grin tugged at his lips, and the strangeness of carefree joy rushed through him.

Eventually, they calmed, lying on their sides next to each other. He studied her face so close to his. The shape of her brow, the colour of her eyes, the curve of her jaw, the way she tucked her hand beneath her chin. He committed all to his memory, such that he would never forget her again.

Her eyes drifted shut, and he, content to be by her side, fell asleep as well.