THE LEGEND OF NIMWAY HALL: 1794 - CHARLOTTE

  Marco could hear the man’s laughter all the way across the stable yard. What in the hell is that about?

  He examined the statues. It was true, the figures were lusher than any he’d just carved, fuller in bosom and hip, but that didn’t mean anything. He was sure he’d envisioned them this way from the beginning. He never veered once the muse arrived.

  Never. Marco was certain that these were the figures he’d seen. That fool Pietro doesn’t remember what I sketched.

  Scowling. Marco went to his workbench and found his folio. He slipped the papers out and glanced through them. Good God. He’s right. The sketch had two graceful figures, similar, but not the same. They were slender and winsome, fairylike in contour. But the woman he’d carved wasn’t anything like the sketches. Her body was more curvaceous, her hips and breasts fuller, her thigh more rounded, more like—

  His eyes widened and then he was laughing every bit as hard as Pietro. “Oh Charlotte, what have I done?”

  Chapter 13

  The light would not go away.

  Charlotte, pulled from a deep dream where Marco was sailing her away in a lovely boat on a sparkling still sea, fought waking up as if her life depended upon it. She didn’t want to wake up, she wanted to stay on the boat with Marco and—

  The light pulsed, and she threw up her hand, but the light persistently glared. Muttering to herself, she peeked through her fingers, ready to banish whoever was holding the bloody thing to the devil. But it wasn’t a lantern at all. Instead, the mace head sat in her window, the moonstone reflecting the full moon that filled the night sky.

  She’d never seen it burn so brightly. Rubbing her eyes, she threw her feet over the edge of the bed and went to where it sat, astonished at the brightness. Who in the world had put this here? She’d have a word with Simmons in the morning. It was too late now, for the house was silent, everyone asleep.

  She carried the mace head to her dresser where it couldn’t channel the moonlight, and then turned to go back to bed. As she passed by the window, something outside caught her eye.

  Another light, but this one small, almost tiny.

  Unlike the moonstone, this light didn’t sit quietly, but swooped and hopped, and then twinkled as it danced across the lawn.

  “What is that?” Charlotte leaned closer to the window, her breath fogging the glass as she watched the light flickered in and out of sight, moving toward the woods. That’s the oddest thing. If it wasn’t so cold outside, I would go and see –

  The light flickered into the woods where a bridal path disappeared beside an old oak. With a final shimmer, it disappeared out of sight.

  Charlotte stared at the path, her mind racing.

  She was now a Guardian of Nimway Hall.

  It was night time.

  A strange light had beckoned her into the wood.

  Is this what sent Caroline into Balesboro in the middle of the night?

  Charlotte’s heart thudded against her collarbone. That had to be it. She reached back and touched the mark on her shoulder, the spot oddly warm under her fingers. She was the Guardian now. If anyone was responsible for following mysterious lights, it was her.

  She whirled from the window and hurried to her wardrobe. Moments later, she was dressed and hurrying across the damp lawn, a lantern in her hand.

  Marco stepped back from the figures. They were done. True, they didn’t look like his original sketches. No, he decided. They looked better for they’d been inspired by a hot-blooded woman with a passion that burned so bright, he could feel it even when they were not in the same room. He traced the delicate collarbone and the peaked breasts, the rounded hips and the long legs.

  He knew that body because he’d touched it. Knew that neck because he’d kissed it. Without thinking, he’d carved each figure with one leg slightly bent, which hid the curve of her back. God, he’d loved kissing her back where he skin was so silky soft, feeling her shivers under his mouth as he—

  Stop that. You still have an entire night without her to get through. He picked up some dust covers and tossed them over the figures. Tomorrow, he and Pietro would install them in the house, and then then the real work would begin when he and Charlotte began their life together as—

  He frowned. Good God, he hadn’t asked her to marry him. He’d just assumed, in all their discussions, that they were going to be. That wouldn’t do at all. Distracted, he went to shut the door, his mind twirling around plans involving rings and surprises when a movement in the window beyond caught his eye.

  A heavily cloaked figured was carrying a lantern across the lawn. Marcus knew from the tell-tale limp knew who it was. Where are you going at this time of the night?

  Before he knew it, he was striding across the stable yard, his gaze glued to the bobbing light. Please don’t go into the woods. Of the places I don’t want to be at night, these woods would top the list.

  But as usual, she didn’t listen. She took the main pathway into the forest. Marco, muttering under his breath about women who wouldn’t listen and crazed owls and the deadly danger of uneven pathways, followed. That Wood would be the death of him. What had the groom told him? Ah yes. Evil fairies. Who doesn’t enjoy the company of evil fairies?

  Damn that woman! Well, wherever she was going, she was about to have a companion, whether she wanted one or not. Scowling, he found the path she’d taken and went into the woods.

  When he found that troublemaker, he’d have more than words to share with her. Far more.

  The lights sprinkled, shimmered, and danced, just far enough ahead to keep her hurrying, almost running. Panting, she hopped across a fallen branch, holding her skirts higher so they wouldn’t drag in the damp grass.

  Her half boots thudded in the soft forest floor, crunching on sticks as she went, branches grabbing at her skirts, her lantern swinging wildly. The scent of crushed grass and damp night air wafted through the air as she hurried on. In the back of her mind, she could almost see Caroline doing the same thing – hurrying after the light, following it into the wood . . . Was this what happened?

  No, Caroline had been on a horse. Perhaps she thought she’d be safer? Or maybe she knew the light was moving too fast to catch on foot? It was certainly beginning to feel like it.

  The light danced way ahead, seeming to balance on the end of leaves and on the tips of blades of grass before diving in a twinkle to the base of a tree. Charlotte hurried on, following the twisting path until, at a turn near a gnarled oak, the lights disappeared as suddenly as they appeared.

  “Oh, no, you don’t!” She whisked around the path, and came to a halt so fast, her skirts swung forward. Charlotte had traveled through Balesboro Wood since she was a child. She’d ridden the paths, danced through the trees, picked flowers and chased butterflies, but in those thousand and one visits, she’d never seen this particular glen. It was beautiful, a small round clearing in the middle of gentle swaying trees, the bright moon shining down on a moss-covered grass that led to a small silvered pool surrounded by cattails. And in one corner, almost hidden from view, was a thatched crofter’s hut. Inside the windows, lights sparkled and then disappeared, only to sparkle again.

  She walked toward the hut, her boots crackling on fallen twigs. What could be in the—

  “What in the hell are you doing?”

  “Ack!” She dropped the lantern, extinguishing it as, heart in her throat, she threw her hands held up for protection.

  Marco stood at the edge of the clearing, glowering as if he’d caught her stealing. His dark hair was mussed, his shirt torn at one elbow, a vivid scratch glistened on his forearm.

  She frowned. “What are you doing here?”

  “I came to keep you from being injured.”

  Even now, she could see where the scratch on his arm was dripping a slow line of blood onto his torn sleeve. “You should wrap your arm.”

  He gave it a cursory glance. “It’s nothing.”

  She huffed. “It is, too.” She fished in her pocket for her ke
rchief and tugged it free. “Here.” She walked toward him.

  His eyes, darker than ever in the moonlight, were locked on her. “I can do that.”

  “Really? You can tie it up yourself with just one hand? That, I must see.” She held out the kerchief.

  He took it and then ripped his torn sleeve off, tossing it to the ground. He twisted the kerchief, clamped it under his hurt arm, and then, using one hand, tied it about his arm, tugging the knot tight with his teeth.

  She had to laugh. “That didn’t cover the entire scratch, but you did well. I’m impressed.”

  “You cannot work with a hammer and chisel without needing to know the basics of bandages. I—”

  A rustle in the trees made them both wheel about.

  Heart pounding, she stared into the shrubs, but no other noise followed. She gave an unsteady laugh. “I love this Wood, but I’ll agree that it’s a bit less friendly at night.”

  “Unfriendly? It’s dangerous,” he said stiffly.

  “As my sister discovered.”

  “Ah, yes. Caroline.” He sighed, raking a hand through his hair. “Is this where the accident happened?”

  “I don’t know. I never asked. To be honest, I didn’t want to know.”

  “That’s understandable.”

  She sent him a curious look. “How did you know I’d be here?”

  “I saw the light from your lantern from my door, and I worried you might come to some harm. What are you thinking, running into the woods at this time of the night?”

  “I saw lights. Dancing lights. Like . . . fairies, or—” She shook her head. “I don’t know what they were, but they crossed the lawn and came this way.”

  He looked around. “Do you see them now?”

  “No, but they were in the crofter’s hut when I arrived.”

  He bent to pick up her lantern. He peered at it and then set it back on the ground. “I was hoping we could relight it, but the wick is bent.” He eyed the cottage. “Maybe these dancing lights will stay long enough to show you what they want you to see.”

  She looked at him, surprised. “You believe me?”

  “Of course.”

  Her heart warmed, and she slipped her hand in his. Together, they walked to the cottage.

  Marco wished the little building wasn’t tucked into the corner of the glen, out of the natural spill of light. He glanced at the trees where they waved overhead, noting that several branches looked at if they might drop at any minute. He sent them a significant glare. Don’t even think about it, he told them.

  He suddenly realized she was watching him, a smile curving her mouth. “What?”

  “You’re afraid of the wood.”

  “I am not.”

  She pursed her lips, still looking far too amused.

  He scowled in mock outrage. “This wood will not best me. I—”

  An owl hooted and he whirled toward the sound, searching the dark branches overhead.

  Her chuckle brought him up short. Slowly, he turned back to face her. “I won’t do anything to you here, in this dangerous situation. But once we are safely home, you will pay for every laugh and every giggle.”

  Her lips curved intro a smile, and he admired the way the moonlight danced over her long hair. She hadn’t taken the time to put it up, and it hung about her face in loose waves, making her look far younger than she was.

  “In a way, you are encouraging me to mock you,” she pointed out.

  “I would never do anything so obvious,” he scoffed, and won a quick smile in return.

  They reached the crofter’s hut and Marco was irked to see that it was far more ramshackle than it had looked. The shutters hung at drunken angles from their hinges, two of them were missing. The front door was cracked as if someone had kicked it in, and gaping holes showed in the thatched roof. “Are you sure you want to go in there?”

  “I have to.”

  “Why do you have to? I missed that part.”

  “I’m the Guardian now. And I think those lights may be what drew Caroline into the woods.”

  “I see.” That explained so much.

  “But . . .” Charlotte frowned. “I can’t see her following lights the way I did. She was like you, she didn’t trust Balesboro. It never attacked her the way it did you, but she was never comfortable here.” In the distance, crickets chirped and toads sang, but it was quiet here in the glen.

  “You can’t imagine her coming her alone.”

  “She was afraid of the dark. If she decided to venture into the wood at night – which she would never do – she would have stopped by my room first. Our rooms were right beside each other because sometimes at night, she’d wake up and—” Her voice faltered.

  “She’d come to you.”

  Charlotte nodded, the moonlight rippling over her loose hair. “She was the pretty one, but to her, I was the brave one. She believed I did everything she couldn’t – wouldn’t do.”

  “Like ride horses.”

  “Which is yet another thing that makes no sense.”

  “Do you know what I hear?”

  Her eyed lifted to his face, almost black in the moonlight.

  “You have a lot of good reasons to investigate the crofter’s hut, but you won’t find answers in the middle of the night. Come. I’ll walk you back to the house.” Marco slid his arm about her shoulders and tugged her closer.

  “I suppose so.”

  He turned, but she didn’t move.

  He stopped and looked down at her. “Charlotte?”

  “I’m not the brave one.” The words were whispered, but he heard them as clearly as if she’d yelled them.

  He was so surprised that he couldn’t speak. She was many things – sharp witted (painfully so), independent, frustrating, and unequivocally brave. “Ah, my love, you are indeed brave. You just don’t know it.” He pulled her closer.

  He hadn’t planned on kissing her. He’d just thought to ease the emotion he saw darkening her expression. But when he pulled her into his arms, she looked up at him.

  He could do many things, but resisting her eyes wasn’t one of them. Not if he tried a thousand times over. She looked so damn appealing, so sensual, and he bent to place his lips over hers—

  Bam! The sole hinge holding the door to the hut broke and sent the broken wood tumbling.

  For a long moment, they just stared at it.

  Charlotte straightened her shoulder and wiped her hands on her skirt. “I’ll be right back.”

  “But—”

  She was gone. In two quick hops, she’d leapt over the broken door and disappeared inside the hut.

  Cursing, he started after her, but before he could take more than a step, she was standing in the doorway of the hut, her hands crossed over her chest. At first, he’d thought she’d injured herself, but as she came closer, he realized she held a small book to her, cupping it as if it were a baby animal.

  When she reached him, she held it out, the moonlight shimmering on the gilded letters on the leather tome. leather tome. With hands that trembled, she hugged it to her, her eyes shiny with tears. “It’s Caroline’s,” Charlotte said, her voice quavering with tears. “We’ve found her diary.”

  Chapter 14

  A short time later, Charlotte and Marco slipped into Nimway Hall through the terrace door and made their way through the silent hall to the sitting room.

  Marco closed the door, watching Charlotte with a concerned gaze. She’d said very little after finding her sister’s diary. Her face pale, she perched on the edge of the settee, the book on her knees.

  He waited, wondering if she would read it now, but instead she stroked it slowly, her eyes filled with tears.

  Marco stirred the fire back to life, and added some wood, careful not to let the poker clang too loudly when he returned it to its hook. When he turned back, Charlotte was hugging the book as if it were a child, rocking slowly back and forth, tears streaming down her face.

  He thought of his own sisters and how protecti
ve he’d felt of them and how his own heart would break if something happened to them. Never had he felt so helpless.

  A sob broke from her and he hurried back to the settee and gathered her to him.

  Holding the book to her, she burrowed against him and wept. She wept until his shirt was soaked with her tears, until she could cry no more, until she’d broken his heart with her own.

  Her cries subsided into shuddering sighs and, finally, into soft sniffles. Marco didn’t know how to comfort her, so he rubbed his cheek against her hair, and whispered to her of his own family, of his sisters and brothers, of the funny stories, and the painful ones. It worked. She listened to him, even giving a watery giggle at one point.

  It was the sweetest sound he’d ever heard.

  Finally, much later, his stories done, he began to yawn. She pulled away and placed her hand on his cheek. “I think I’m going to read this now.”

  “Very well. I’ll—”

  “No. I need to read it alone.” She kissed him tenderly. “Please.”

  “Of course. But I’m not leaving your side.”

  She nodded.

  He piled pillows in one corner of the settee, and sat down, tucking her against him. And then he slept while she read.

  “Good God!”

  Marco opened his eyes, aware of three things at once.

  First, Charlotte was in his arms, her warm bottom was pressed comfortably against him. What a lovely way to wake up in the morning.

  Second, someone had thrown open all of the curtains and the sitting room was now flooded with light, which made it hard to see the third thing.

  Which were the four pairs of eyes now staring down at him over the back of the settee.

  He squinted in the morning light, trying to make out the faces above him.

  One was a distinguished gentleman with graying auburn hair, and a pair of suspiciously familiar dark blue eyes. The man looked alarmingly ready to kill someone. Mr. Harrington.