Chapter Two

Three weeks later, the haunting figure of William Reid, Fifth Earl of Thornhallow, raced along the road leading to the accursed house he’d sworn never to set foot in again. Had anyone been about to witness such an unexpected sight they might have sworn it was in fact his ghost, returning home to keep company with the others of its ilk who dwelled there.

The sun had set nearly four hours ago, but still Liam drove on. Even if the full moon had not shone so brightly, transforming the landscape into something from a dream, he would have known the way. Time and distance had done nothing to diminish his memories of this place. Of this land—his land.

It felt as if he’d only left yesterday. So familiar were the rise and fall of the dales and fells against the starry expanse before him, so familiar was the fresh, clean scent of heather and wild thyme on the warning icy night wind, that Liam was instantly returned to that fateful night ten years ago, when he had ridden this same road.

Only, then he’d been running from Thornhallow Hall and all the terrible things that had happened there. From the memory of all that had been taken from him.

Now he was returning to the bedevilled house which he had tried for so long to banish from his thoughts and heart. To the people whom he might have called his own had he not forsaken them as he had forsaken himself. Returning for a while to take up his proper place and responsibilities in the vain hope that he might be free of them. For neither time nor distance had lessened Thornhallow’s hold on him.

Yet he would be free. He swore it to himself now, with every heartbeat and every breath. He would find a way.

During his stay in London this past week he’d told Leonards as much, and the old man had nearly had a fainting fit. Though the shock of having the Disappeared Earl himself waltz into his office without a word of warning one fateful Tuesday afternoon probably hadn’t helped. Liam had felt for the old solicitor, flapping about wordlessly, chalky white, and for a moment he might have believed himself a wraith in truth, had anyone accused him of it.

After three glasses of the cognac Liam had brought as a gift, Leonards had finally regained his composure—only to lose it again as Liam uttered the words he’d been holding in his heart for so long.

‘I do not wish to be Earl. I will not be any longer. Find a way to rid me of the title. Let it go to my cousin or to Beelzebub. I care not. Just free me, Leonards.’

Another glass of cognac and then the solicitor had begun listing all the reasons why Liam’s plans were fanciful, impossible and downright mad. Why the man had been surprised that should be the case, when Leonards had used exactly the same words each time he’d written in response to this or that meagre order concerning the estate, was a mystery.

‘It is your decision, my lord,’ he had finally conceded hours later, seeing that Liam would not be swayed. ‘I will do what I can to find a way.’

If no way could be found—well, Liam wasn’t entirely sure what he would do. But he had no time to dwell on that eventuality.

The last stretch. Not long now...

Turning up the lane, he felt his stomach drop and his heart flutter. Beneath the dread lay excitement. Thornhallow Hall had been his childhood home. Despite the sorrow, the grief, there had been happy times there.

Not that he could remember them anymore. Only screams echoing in the night. Frozen figures in the water. Blood on the steps. Images from his memory and born of his nightmares. The laughter, the joy—those he could not recall. Only pain. He had sought to forget it all, to lose himself in the unknown, and so he had for a time. Until he’d been cursed with more grief. More suffering. More sorrow. And more ghosts.

All no more than he deserved, he knew.

He would have given his life for her. He would give anything to bring her back. To change her fate.

My sweet Hal... Sweet sister mine...

Hell and Heaven knew he would have given his life for any of them. If only to lessen his own agony by the sacrifice. If only to change his own fate as well as theirs.

Tugging the reins, Liam drew the gig to a halt before the wrought-iron gates.

The gates of hell... My own, personal hell...full of demons waiting for me...

Liam sat there, transfixed by the sight of his home, spectral in the moonlight, unable to move for a very long time. He could hear it calling him to it across the void, welcoming him to its unforgiving and damning embrace. He could see her there, waiting at the window.

Hal...

He should have stayed in London. Sorted it all out from there. He should have stayed far away, across the world. But he hadn’t, and now here he was.

Orpheus whinnied and struck his hooves in protest against the frozen ground.

I know precisely how you feel, old boy.

Sighing, unable to delay the inevitable any longer, Liam hopped down from the gig and went to the gate. He took out the key Leonards had given him, slid it into the lock, and with surprising ease, but a resounding creak, opened the gates to his kingdom.

He led Orpheus through, shut the gates tightly, then made his way up the drive.

‘Mind you don’t move, stranger,’ said a gruff voice, before the familiar click of a rifle sounded loudly in the night as Liam moved to lead Orpheus through the stable doors. ‘You best be going back where you come from, mister, or there’ll be trouble now.’

‘Steady now, Tim.’ Liam chuckled, turning slowly, arms raised. ‘It’s only me.’

‘M-my lord,’ Tim stuttered, confused, hurriedly lowering the gun. Apparently the sounds of intrusion had torn him from slumber; his open coat revealed a nightshirt. ‘I... That is, we wasn’t expecting you. I’ll find Thom—Mr Brown—’

‘You shall rouse no one,’ Liam said, waving the groom back as he moved to rush away and handing him the reins. ‘It is late, and as you say, I was not expected. You may tell Thomas I have arrived in the morning, but for the moment, if you could attend to the gig—and Orpheus, here—I shall simply find my way to bed.’

‘But, my lord—’

‘Tim, I am quite capable of taking care of myself, and have done so for quite some time. Tomorrow I shall be my lord the Earl, but for this evening I wish to be solely myself.’

‘Yes, my lord.’ Tim nodded, unconvinced, but unwilling to disobey.

‘Thank you. It is good to see you.’ Liam smiled, grabbing his bag from the gig. ‘You haven’t changed. A little more grey, and I daresay Cook has been feeding you well.’

‘Aye, my lord. She has. It is good to see you home again, master,’ Tim added as Liam stepped back into the night. ‘You’ve been missed at Thornhallow.’

With a nod, Liam left the man to his duties and made his way to the house.

If he was lucky, he might be able to steal some bread and cheese from the kitchens without alerting anyone to his presence. He did, after all, have a key to the tradesman’s entrance among the set Leonards had given him.

Tonight he only wanted to be Liam, while he still could. Not the damned Earl of Thornhallow. Not the master—just a man. Tomorrow he would face them all. Face the enquiring looks, the pity, the responsibilities. Tonight he had plenty to deal with simply being here. He’d been lucky enough to be discovered only by Tim and he was not about to waste his good fortune. He would pilfer some food, then drink himself to sleep in the library.

Venturing any further—well, that was something he was not quite ready for.

A fire had been lit in the library. Even though only a dim glow emanated from the now dying embers in the hearth to illuminate the room, Liam was glad he would be able to enjoy his favourite refuge without having to lay the fire himself. It seemed his orders had been thoroughly obeyed. Not that he had doubted Leonards, nor Thomas. Indeed, he would not have entrusted his home—well, his inheritance—to them for so many years if he had.

Or so he told himself.

Liam strode to the fireplace and stoked the embers, letting the warmth penetrate his sore and frozen limbs for a long moment before tossing more logs onto the growing flames. The bread and cheese he had pinched from the kitchens had restored him somewhat, though he’d been tempted to make his presence known, if only for a bowl of hot stew or soup.

Mrs Murray’s mutton stew...

A low groan and quiet rustle from behind sent him whirling around, poker in hand, alert and at the ready for any attack coming his way. Standing stock-still, a statue to anyone who might have seen him, he let his eyes scan the darkness. But there was nothing there. No shadows. No masked rogues or bandits.

And no ghosts.

Only the faint outlines of the furniture and oddities his father and ancestors had collected over the centuries. Was he dreaming? Or was his mind conjuring up whispers, as it was sometimes wont to do? He was certainly near enough exhaustion for it to be a possibility. Since the crossing, his nightmares had been getting worse... It was no wonder he was ready to fall down, sleep for weeks in this very spot. He couldn’t remember the last full night’s rest he’d had.

Sighing, he slid the poker back into its stand and leaned against the mantelpiece, rubbing his eyes. What on earth indeed had he been thinking, returning here? If there was anywhere in the world more likely to worsen his already restless and tormented mind, it was Thornhallow Hall.

How I wish I could burn it to the ground...

Another tiny rustling. There was no mistaking it this time. This was not something he had conjured. There was someone, or something, in this room.

Whirling around, his heart pounding, he scanned the darkness again. He was about to call out when his eyes rested on the sofa nearest the fire and found a sleeping woman.

What the Devil...?

Liam rubbed his eyes again, certain his mind was playing tricks on him. But, no, he realised, studying the figure lying before him. He had missed her when he’d first looked, but now the fire had grown he saw her clearly. Cautiously, he took a few steps towards her, intent on discovering who she was, and why the Devil she was presuming to sleep in his library.

Why he wasn’t simply striding over there, shaking her to consciousness and demanding answers, he couldn’t really say. The truth was, in that moment she looked so peaceful, so at home, as if she more than he belonged here now, that Liam could not find it within himself to rouse her.

There was something about her that was ethereal or unworldly. Spellbinding. Bewitching. He couldn’t take his eyes off her. She wasn’t conventionally beautiful, and yet she was arresting. Long tresses of rich, dark auburn hair fell around her like waves, a pillow of satin gleaming in the firelight. Her face was rather square, strong and bold, but her cheeks and nose were neatly rounded, and countered the otherwise harsh lines. He wondered what colour her eyes were beneath the long dark lashes.

And her mouth...

Thin, and yet generous, the bottom lip rounded beautifully beneath the shapely, almost perfect Cupid’s bow which aligned with the tiny cleft in her chin. Contradictions, he thought. In every part of her. Her lips were parted in her repose, inviting, and for a moment he pictured himself bending over to caress them, stealing a kiss like a prince in a fairy story.

God, what was the matter with him?

Shaking his head, he sighed heavily.

Tired. Exhausted. Too long without a woman. There. That is all there is to it.

Yes, that was all there was to it—even though he didn’t believe half of what he told himself.

Slightly reassured, nonetheless, he returned to his examination of the stranger. She was tall, for her head was propped against one arm of the sofa, while her legs were perched over the other, her stocking-clad feet peeking out from beneath her skirts.

At least she was respectful enough to remove her shoes—no, boots.

Sturdy leather, worn, tattered old things, they stood neatly beside the sofa. Definitely not a lady’s shoe. And her dress—it would have made any woman of quality shriek in terror. Drab, faded black wool, with a high collar and devoid of any adornments. Yet it was a dress that somehow seemed to suit this creature perfectly, in no way distracting from her natural grace and the shape of her body.

Voluptuous. Strong. Restrained.

Briefly, he longed to tear it from her and liberate all that awaited him beneath it.

Drat.

He needed to focus.

Liam glanced at her hands. One rested delicately across her waist and the other hung over the side of the sofa, above a fallen book that now lay open on the floor. He approached a little closer and examined them carefully. Small, sturdy little fingers—again, a contrast to the long, graceful limbs.

And no wedding ring...

Torn, callused, bleeding. Nails worn down to their barest edge. What had she been doing to achieve such a gruesome result? Scrubbing?

And then it hit him. There was only one possibility.

The new housekeeper. But surely not?

This woman before him—well, the dress might suggest such a position, but her age? She couldn’t be far from thirty on either side. Housekeepers were old, and dreary, and respectable. Not... Well, not everything she was. And yet it was the only rational explanation.

Mrs Hardwicke. Yes, that was the name.

He should definitely rouse her. She would want to know the master had returned, and he should want an explanation as to why she had presumed to make use of his library. Still, he could not.

And what is it you were reading then, Mrs Hardwicke?

Bending down, he picked up the book. He was close now, too close not to see the rise and fall of her breasts with every breath. Not to smell her, the rich, intoxicating blend of lavender polish, soap, lemon...and something darker that reminded him of the land. Something he knew was her.

Liam knew he desperately needed rest, and a bed, and not to be here, in the library, in this moment, in the warm, heady cloud that surrounded his new employee.

Glancing down, he found that the woman was reading Frankenstein. He chuckled softly to himself, setting the book down on the table beside her.

Light reading, then, Mrs Hardwicke.

How this woman had the countenance to read such gothic tales in this forsaken place, he knew not. No matter. What the woman wished to read was none of his business. Any insights into her character, her personality, her dreams, pleasures or desire, were categorically none of his business.

And so, with renewed fortitude and energy, Liam laid a blanket on her, then left her to her peace and slumber, making for his own chambers despite his earlier reluctance to do so, pushing away the odd feeling of longing that gnawed at him.

The cool, crisp sheets of his bed would be the perfect remedy for his weary body, and the perfect thing to cool the unwelcome stirrings of his ardour. And tomorrow, the incident would be nothing more than another unwelcome dream.

Damn this house.