The Resident Evil at Blackthorn Manor

By

Catherine Coulter

The Resident Evil at Blackthorn Manor

All Rights Reserved © 2016 by Catherine Coulter

eBooks are not transferable. They cannot be sold, shared or given away as it is an infringement on the copyright of this work. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher.

This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.

Published by Catherine Coulter

CONTENTS

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Epilogue

About the Author

CHAPTER ONE

Somewhere Else

1841

Grayson Sherbrooke awoke to stabbing pain in his head. He didn’t want to open his eyes, he knew it would make the pain worse. He lay still in the absolute silence until he heard scratching close by. His eyes flew open. He saw only blackness. He felt a moment of terror. No, he wasn’t blind; he saw a shadowy gray light coming through a high slit window cut into a stone wall about twelve feet from where he lay. Stone wall? Where was he? He heard the scratching again, came up on his elbows, and saw a rat sitting a foot in front of him, chewing on what looked like a bone, studying him. He realized the rat didn’t look like any rat he’d ever seen. Its size was right, but it had long, curling whiskers and a large head. He shook his head. A peculiar rat, but still only a rat.

He pulled himself to a sitting position and didn’t move until the pain in his head stopped its mad drumbeat. He breathed in ancient smells he didn’t recognize and the stench of mold growing in the shadowed corners.

The morning sun speared a stream of light through the window, and he saw now he was sitting against a stone wall in a circular room. A dungeon? But how could he be in a dungeon? And where was he? He felt another slash of pain and dropped his head into his hands until the pain slowly eased.

Where? Some castle of bygone days? Why didn’t he know? He felt panic. He leaned his head back against the cold wall, calmed, and thought. He clearly remembered leaving Edinburgh to ride to Vere Castle on the Fife Peninsula to visit Aunt Sinjun and Uncle Colin after he’d received her letter asking him to come. There was trouble at Vere Castle and they needed him. He hadn’t wanted to leave his young son, Pip, or beautiful Miranda, so new to his life, but there’d been no choice. If Aunt Sinjun was right about trouble, that meant he couldn’t take Pip with him, despite all his wailing and whining. He remembered he’d left Pip at Wolffe Hall to be spoiled rotten by all the denizens.

Obviously Grayson hadn’t made it to Vere Castle. He clearly remembered leaving the Ashburnham townhouse in Edinburgh that morning, the weather blustery and bone-cold. At least it hadn’t been raining, and both he and his horse Astor had taken that as an excellent portent. He’d booked passage on the barge from Edinburgh over the Firth of Forth to the Fife Peninsula. Yes, he remembered more now—how before he’d left, Pip was doing a daily countdown to his fifth birthday when he would be grown up enough to write ghost novels with terrifying mysteries, just like his papa. And Miranda—ah yes, he remembered the night before he’d left for Edinburgh, he’d been kissing her, his hands gliding down her back, feeling the long line of the buttons he was desperate to unfasten—and Grayson remembered he was jerked back from his pleasant memories at the sound of a carriage horn. He’d guided Astor off the rutted path to let it pass. But the carriage hadn’t continued on the road. The driver had pulled the two horses to a stop directly across from him. A face appeared in the window, covered by a silver veil, and a young voice called to him in English, but he couldn’t make out her words. The coachman never looked at him, remained staring straight ahead.

Grayson clearly remembered walking to the old ornate carriage, like a French nobleman’s carriage from the last century, pulled by two pure-white geldings, now tossing their beautiful heads, blowing, turning to look at him. The driver still didn’t move. Grayson dismounted and walked to the carriage. As he neared, he became aware of a strong violet scent. It perfumed the air, filled his nostrils, and he breathed in. A woman extended her hand through the window, a beautiful white hand with long, tapering fingers, and he saw himself stretching out his own hand, touching her fingers—then there was nothing.

Try as he might, Grayson couldn’t remember anything more. Until now, waking up with a splitting head in a dungeon with a rat that wasn’t really a rat sitting across the stone floor from him, still eyeing him, ready to attack if the two-legged rodent tried to steal his bone.

Grayson got slowly to his feet, stretched, and looked around. No, he wasn’t in a dungeon, rather, it was like a circular tower room, only it wasn’t perfectly round, it was tilted a bit to one side even though the floor stayed even. Looking closely made him dizzy. He saw a small table in the middle of the room, two chairs pulled up to it, an unlit candle on its scarred surface, a box of lucifers beside it.

He saw a chamber pot propped up against the wall, an elaborate affair painted deep blue with tiny white flowers. Nothing else except that strange rat staring at him.

Grayson rubbed his hands up and down his arms for warmth. He moved to stand in the shaft of light and began to feel better. He saw an old wooden door, a slit opening at eye level. Why hadn’t he noticed that door before now? The door—like the room—seemed slightly slanted to the left. He felt a moment of nausea. He looked through the slit. A stone wall was facing him, maybe three feet away, nothing else. He pulled on the iron handle shaped like a sharp-pointed hook. It didn’t turn. The door was locked. Still, he shook that strange hook handle, pushed against the door, stepped back, and sent his foot next to the hook handle. No give. He called out. Nothing. He stood back and considered. Could he be dreaming? He drew in several deep breaths, slowly let them out. No, this was real—crooked room, crooked door, and the peculiar rat.

He was a prisoner in a circular tower room. Why didn’t he remember how he’d gotten here?

He heard footsteps and quickly eased to the side of the door, readied himself. A key turned in the lock, and the door slowly pushed inward. A girl’s voice—nearly a whisper. “Sir, are you awake?”

He grabbed her arm and jerked her inside and against him. She was strong and fought him until finally he clamped her arms to her sides and brought her back hard against his chest. She had no leverage now. She was tall, coming nearly to his nose. He whispered against her ear, “Where am I? Who are you?”

“I am Queen Maeve.”

She smelled like violets. It was the same smell—was she the young lady in the carriage? “I have never heard of you.”

“How could you? You have never been here before.”

“Queen of what?”

“I am the hereditary queen of Border. You are hurting me, Mr. Sherbrooke. I beg you, loosen your hold on me.”

He did, and she immediately kicked back, her toe connecting with his shin. The lick of pain was greater than the pain in his head. Well, that hadn’t been very smart of him. He jerked her hard back against him again, said against her ear, “That was rude, Queen Maeve. You do that again and I will make you very sorry. What is Border? Better yet, where is this Border? And how do you know my name?”

“Well, I suppose you could try to make me sorry. You are in my castle, Mr. Sherbrooke, filled with people to protect me and so many soldiers, more than I can count. However, you are not my prisoner. I am here to save you so you may continue on your journey to Vere Castle in the land of Scotland.” Her voice fell to a whisper. “But she is so very strong, and she sees everything. We must hurry.”

She’d spoken with no Scottish lilt, but rather clipped, very fine English. She knew the name of his Aunt Sinjun’s castle near Loch Leven. He felt another bolt of pain in his head, nearly knocking him off his feet, then it passed. What was going on here? Where was here? “Why do you need to save me? And who is ‘she’?”

“Belzaria took you and brought you here. Usually she is content to play her games with our local folk—she calls them her dollies—but I know she likes to visit your land, more so than others. I don’t know why. What happens is never good.”

She became stock-still when they heard a woman’s voice. “Where are you, Maeve? Come out immediately. Do you hear me, you wicked girl?”

“You must let me go, you must. If she finds me here, she’ll know I was trying to rescue you.”

“Is that Belzaria? She is responsible for bringing me here?”

“Yes, yes, let me go, you must, or—” She began jerking against him.

“Does she smell like violets?”

She stopped. “What? Violets? No, she smells like roses, always roses.” She began jerking and heaving against him. “Please, please, let me go, you must.”

“Then you were the one in the carriage, not Belzaria.”

The door opened, pushed by a strong hand. He saw those white fingers coming around the door. Grayson felt a wicked hot pain tear through his head and saw a light so bright it blinded him.

“No,” he whispered, and then he was falling, falling, and he heard her voice calling to him. He didn’t know if it was Maeve or Belzaria, but he was no longer there to answer her.

CHAPTER TWO

Day One

Fife Peninsula, Scotland

Vere Castle

August 1841

Grayson whistled as he rode Astor along the rutted road circling the southern side of Loch Leven, a magical place he’d always believed, with its sweet heather-scented air and billowing white clouds racing across a stark blue sky. And he remembered the boy who loved to lie on his back in a field of white heather and look up at those clouds, not to find dragons but to find hovering ghosts up to no good.

Unlike the crags and barren hills to the west in the Highlands, this protected tongue of land resembled, to Grayson’s mind, the gently rolling green hills and magnificent forests in southern England.

He and Astor had taken the Backoxer ferry from Edinburgh across the narrowest point of the Firth of Forth to Queensferry Narrows on the Fife Peninsula. Astor had been none too happy about sharing his space with valises, boxes, and packages of all sizes stacked together with people and animals, but thankfully, he’d not raised a ruckus, only pressed his nose in Grayson’s armpit and let himself be stroked and reassured and fed three apples.

They’d ridden north from Queensferry Narrows to Loch Leven, the sun remaining bright overhead, a light breeze ruffling his hair. He pulled up when he saw Vere Castle in the distance, half medieval castle with turrets and crenellated walls, and half stolid Tudor. Then he turned Astor toward the castle, on a road well maintained by his aunt and uncle so there were no ruts that could trip up his horse, and he’d swear Astor’s steps were lighter.

As a child he’d never tired of hearing about the marriage of the impoverished Earl of Ashburnham to Grayson’s heiress aunt, Sinjun Sherbrooke, and how their union had brought about the expected prosperity, since the new earl wasn’t a nitwit and had pledged to both restore his lands and treat his heiress wife like a queen. In short order the crofts were in excellent repair, and were kept that way, the crofters working their barley and potato fields, just as they were today, and all had flourished. And the earl, according to his parents, indeed treated his wife like a queen, and had thus remained golden.

He remembered the boy again, how he’d always felt like he was riding into a magical kingdom—the castle out of a medieval storybook and the shimmering loch lying before it.

It wasn’t Border.

Border? What border? Where had that come from? It sounded like a name. Grayson felt a sharp pain over his right temple, then it was gone.

He decided to blame it on the haggis he’d had for lunch at the Plucked Goose in Cowdenbeath, a village at the base of the black basalt hills. Those same hills had inspired a very young Grayson to terrify his cousins with a tale of the murdering highwayman who’d seen the glitter of gems against the black basalt rock and pressed against it, only to be thrown through a hidden door into the basalt hill itself. He’d been doomed to spend the remainder of his days wandering the thick black basalt corridors, always seeing the glitter of gems just ahead.

Grayson smiled as he leaned forward to pat Astor’s neck. He thought about writing a book set in a place like this, but not in the present, no, a book set long ago with powerful bearded men in heavy shining helmets, wearing colorful kilts and wielding claymores. He heard their laughter, their jests, saw their bare butts when they lifted their kilts, and then he saw flitting above them the shadow of an evil magician. Did the evil magician want to steal the magic from this magnificent land? Grayson’s writer’s brain began to work. What if the magician wasn’t a man? What if the magician was an evil sorceress, a beautiful woman who lusted after her brother’s crown, a plain gold circlet that pulsed with magic once set upon his head, and he did amazing things, like making corn grow from barren rock. The sorceress sister made her plans to destroy her brother and claim his gold circlet. What was her name?

Belzaria.

Why had that name popped into his head? He felt no shock of pain this time. He’d never heard that name before, he was sure of it. He fancied he saw a stout wooden door in his mind, saw it slam shut in his face. He shook his head. It had to be the haggis.

When the land began to rise as they neared the castle, the bright sunlight fell into shadows cast by the thick oak branches nearly meeting overhead, in full summer plumage. He once again thought of that strange name: Belzaria.

Forget the name Belzaria—it meant nothing. He thought instead of seeing Dahling, Uncle Colin’s daughter by his first marriage, now married to the future MacPherson laird, sworn enemies of the Kinross clan until Aunt Sinjun had intervened many years before. And Philip, his uncle’s heir, who traveled the world mapping remote areas, one of the leading cartographers in England. Philip’s wife, Elise, claimed he was only home sufficient periods of time to beget a boy and a girl child. Last Grayson had heard, Philip was off mapping the Bulgar plains.

He looked up to see his aunt Sinjun waving at him from the eastern turret. She yelled something he couldn’t understand, then disappeared. He pictured her picking up her skirts, racing down the ancient stone steps and into the old main hall, and throwing open the thick oak doors to dance out onto the ancient stone steps to welcome him.

On such a beautiful, peaceful day, what trouble could there possibly be at Vere Castle? That’s what Sinjun had called it in her letter to him. Trouble.

CHAPTER THREE

Vere Castle

Home of the Earl and Countess of Ashburnham

Monday evening, at dinner

The moment the three of them were seated at the massive mahogany dining table, Sinjun said, “I don’t wish to speak of what is troubling us over our delicious salmon because it involves Pearlin’ Jane. My dearest Colin would sneer and roll his eyes, and I would be compelled to throw the bowl of peas at him. No, we will have peace at the dinner table. Tell us about your trip here, Grayson, and why you were late. We expected you yesterday.”

Grayson frowned as he drank a sip of the light white wine. “Yesterday? But I left Edinburgh this morning, early, as I told you I would. I rode here immediately.” He looked blankly between his aunt and uncle, felt the pull of blackness in his mind, shook his head, and there it was, the slight hit of pain. He said slowly, “What day is it?”

Colin said, “Monday.”

“Monday? But how is that possible? I didn’t even take the time to visit Major McHugh at Edinburgh Castle. I spent the night at Kinross House, then first thing this morning, Astor and I were on the ferry across the Firth of Forth. I rode directly here.”

His aunt and uncle exchanged looks. Sinjun said, her voice bright, “Did you meet up with some villains on your way here to put in a future novel?”

“Or a pretty young lass?”

“Nothing happened. No villains, no lasses.” But somehow he knew it wasn’t true. He saw a young girl in his mind—tall, thick hair the color of rich honey spilling about a face that wasn’t beautiful, exactly, but very riveting, a dimple beside her mouth. He felt a lick of pain, and her face was gone and with it the memory of what she looked like. He said, “Maeve. Queen Maeve.”

“Queen Maeve? Who is she, Grayson?”

Grayson stared at his aunt, saw her Sherbrooke blue eyes were filled with questions and growing alarm. She reached over and closed her hand over his. “What happened, my dear?”

He continued to look at her lovely face, at her thick blond hair, lighter than his, now laced with strands of gray, woven in braids atop her head. He realized she and Uncle Colin were getting older, the age of his own parents, and that made him realize how very precious time was, How fleeting, how uncertain, and unexpected things could happen. He smiled at both of them. “Forget Queen Maeve. I have no idea who she is—her name simply popped out of my mouth. Maybe she’s the character in a new book.”

Like Belzaria.

“It is so good to see both of you. It reminds me I haven’t visited my parents in nearly six months. Too long. You both look splendid.”

Sinjun laughed. “Thank you. It’s all the haggis Colin forces down my gullet. My innards have to stay strong to digest that horr—ah—that is to say that most special of Scottish dishes. Haggis. The very word rolls off your tongue,” and she gave her husband a fat smile. Colin grinned back at her, and Grayson was struck at how the earl was dark as a pirate, and had the look of one—tall and lean, like Grayson’s uncle Douglas, the head of the far-flung Sherbrooke family and the Earl of Northcliffe. Like Aunt Sinjun, there were strands of silver threaded through Colin’s dark hair, and Grayson said aloud, “Time is a very strange thing, don’t you think?”

Sinjun cocked her head at him. “I never used to think of time, but now I’ve come to realize time is no longer a constant, to be depended upon to behave in a rational manner. I believe time has become fickle—it races faster and faster the older I become. Do you agree, Colin?”

He looked thoughtful as he took a sip of his wine. “There have been moments in my life when I believed my time had run out, that it was all over for me, and I would swear time slowed to a crawl, maybe to give me time to figure a way out of my difficulties or to ask forgiveness for all the sins I’ve committed. Then when you and I are dallying pleasantly in the afternoon, sweet Sinjun, time flies out the window. Ah, perhaps we’d best speak of that at another time.”

“You are wicked, sir,” his wife said.

And Grayson imagined he was indeed. Colin turned to Grayson, leaned toward him. “Grayson, we are not jesting. You are missing a day. Twenty-four hours. What happened? Who is Queen Maeve?”

Grayson slowly shook his head. “I don’t know. Really, I don’t know.” He tried to shrug it off, but couldn’t. “I saw a flash of her a moment ago—her face. I remember thinking she was scared. Then a pain sliced through my head and her face was gone and with it the memory of what she looked like.” He fanned his hands out in front of him. “I’m not exaggerating. All I know is that I’m missing a day.”

“If you had a flash of this girl’s face and her name, then it will come back, don’t you think?”

“I don’t know if I want it to, Uncle Colin, I really don’t know.”

His aunt and uncle said nothing more.

For the remainder of his first evening at Vere Castle, they spoke of Grayson’s son, Pip, and Grayson’s cousins and their families.

CHAPTER FOUR

They were treating him gently, Grayson realized with something of a shock as he climbed the stairs to his bedchamber, a lit candle guiding him, like a man who’d been wounded. He appreciated it.

“Grayson, do you have a moment?”

He turned to see Aunt Sinjun, her own candle lit and held high. He wasn’t at all surprised to see her. He opened his bedchamber door and waved her in. The room was lit with soft candlelight and a glowing fire in the fireplace. It was warm and cozy, welcoming and familiar. It had always been his room since he’d been a boy.

He set down their two candles on the table beside the sofa. “Please sit down, Aunt Sinjun, and tell me about this trouble. I gather Uncle Colin believes you’re making too much of whatever is going on with Pearlin’ Jane?”

Sinjun sat on a schoolboy’s desk chair, smoothed her skirts. “You know Colin. He’s just like your uncle Douglas with the Virgin Bride.”

“I am not,” came Colin’s voice from the doorway. He strode into the bedchamber. “Listen, I am not stubborn like Douglas. I am a reasonable man in all things. But Pearlin’ Jane in a dither, my dear? Really?”

She jumped up. “Colin! I thought you were going to your tower room to read romantic poetry to Andrew.”

He gave her a crooked grin, said to Grayson, “Andrew is one of the cats. I knew you wanted to speak to Grayson about the trouble Pearlin’ Jane communicated to you. I want to hear this myself, but without the drama, if you please.”

“Drama!” Sinjun looked ready to explode, but she managed to calm herself as she turned to Grayson. “This is why I don’t speak to him about Pearlin’ Jane. He knows she and I are close, just as the Virgin Bride at Northcliffe is the protector of all the ladies in the house. As for Douglas, I know he has communicated with the Virgin Bride over the years, but naturally he won’t admit it, calls it female hysteria. If you can’t see it, touch it, eat a lovely meal with it, then it doesn’t exist. He’s just like my precious husband here, despite his claim to reasonableness. You, not stubborn, Colin? You’re stubborn as a stoat.

“You know Pearlin’ Jane is alive and happy—I should say she’s dead and happy—and she resides here at Vere Castle.” She said to Grayson, “She saved Vere Castle for Colin—” She broke off, shook her head at herself. “No, forget that. But she’s with me and we are close.”

Colin said, “What do you mean she saved Vere Castle for me?”

“It was a slip of the tongue. If you love me, Colin, you will never bring it up again, all right? As I said, you know very well she’s here, yet you refuse to accept it.”

He frowned at her, opened his mouth.

“I mean it, Colin.”

Grayson could tell his uncle didn’t believe she would be able to hold out against him, but Grayson had the feeling it was something she would never speak about, ever. As for the Virgin Bride, a young lady who’d died in the sixteenth century, supposedly before her groom could visit her on their wedding night, he said matter-of-factly, “Since my youngest years, whenever I visit Northcliffe Hall, the Virgin Bride comes for a visit. She simply appears at the foot of my bed and sort of floats there. Sometimes I speak to her of the book I’m currently writing. She looks interested even though her face doesn’t change. Sometimes I swear she’s able to communicate with me when I tell her about a problem I’m having with a plot. She doesn’t speak, but I hear her clearly in my mind. I can also tell you she’s very young, not more than fifteen.” He paused. “Once I asked her if she was at last with her new husband. I’d swear she paled. You’d think that would be impossible since you can practically see through her, but then she told me he didn’t make it to where she was, and she was glad about that. The question obviously upset her, and she was gone in the next instant. When I saw her again, I asked her about the afterlife.”

“What did she tell you?” Sinjun was sitting so close to the edge of the chair, Grayson was afraid she might fall off onto her face.

Colin looked the picture of a tolerant parent, the model of patience, with two feeble-brained children. A dark eyebrow went up. “Ah, the afterlife. Did she assure you she was at peace and surrounded by light? Was she surrounded by her loved ones and her pets and everyone was deliriously happy?”

“Actually, no,” Grayson said before Sinjun could turn her cannon on her husband. “She told me she missed almond candies, her mother, and her doll named Bess, after the queen. Evidently her mother wasn’t where she was either. She said everything smelled like ragweed and she wanted to sneeze all the time, but she couldn’t because she had no body. She didn’t say any more about where she was.”

“You made that up, Grayson Sherbrooke.”

“No, that’s exactly what happened, Aunt Sinjun. I’d hardly forget.”

Colin said, “I’ve read your books, Grayson. You have an incredible imagination and you’re clever. It’s obvious you’re always thinking of all sorts of otherworldly things, including ghosts.”

Grayson was well used to hearing ghosts couldn’t exist in this modern world. He should introduce them to Alphonse at Wolffe Hall back home. He smiled at his handsome uncle. “I remember one visit to Northcliffe Hall I woke up to see the Virgin Bride floating at the end of my bed. I told her I’d heard about a Spanish treasure ship that had wrecked off the Cornish coast in 1588 in the violent storm that also sent dozens of ships in the Spanish Armada to the bottom of the Channel or crashing into the coastline. I asked her if it was true, and if it was true, then where was the ship.”

Now Colin was sitting forward, his eyes locked on Grayson’s face. “What did she say?”

This from Colin, the unbeliever, now fairly bristling with interest.

“She disappeared, but only for a moment or two. Then she came back and I’d swear she was smiling as she thought to me that the Spanish ship was the Santo Christo De Costello from the sixteen-strong Squadron of Castile. She told me the ship sank in Mullion Cove and its sailors’ bones lay in amongst the gold bars.”

Colin sat back, crossed his arms over his chest. “You draw people into a world you yourself have fashioned and make them believe what you put in front of them. Admit it, Grayson, you made that up.”

Grayson shook his head. “I wrote to my cousin, Leo, who, as you know, lives in Cornwall, in Fowey. He mounted a salvage operation. They found the wreck in thirty feet of water at the edge of Mullion Cove.”

“And the gold?”

“They found bones and gold. They managed to recover three bars before the ship fell into a deep canyon they couldn’t reach.”

Sinjun said, “I never heard a word of it, never. When did this happen?”

“Three years ago,” Grayson said.

“I didn’t hear anything about it either,” Colin said, “and you know I would have.”

“After they were duly authenticated, Leo loaned the three bars to the British Museum. He asked they keep it and not give him the credit because he was afraid treasure hunters would invade Fowey. The museum directors weren’t about to attribute the find to a ghost named the Virgin Bride, so they gave the credit to ‘Anonymous,’ a decision Leo hated but understood. A pity we don’t know the Virgin Bride’s real name. She could have gotten the credit.” He paused. “I’ve asked her many times what her name is—was—but she’s never told me.”

“Somehow she communicates with Pearlin’ Jane,” Sinjun said. “I’ll see if Pearlin’ Jane knows what her name is.”

This was Colin’s cue. He rolled his eyes. “Tell me, Sinjun, do they perhaps meet for the yearly ghost holiday in the Hebrides? Or maybe the two of them visit a tea shop on Bond Street in London during the ghost Season on All Hallows’ Eve?” Colin topped it off with a snort, but to Grayson’s ears the snort sounded halfhearted.

Grayson said easily, “Yes, ask her, Aunt Sinjun. It would be nice to call the Virgin Bride by her Christian name. Now, don’t you think it is time to tell me about the trouble Pearlin’ Jane warned you was coming?”

Sinjun sent a look to her husband that promised retribution if he opened his mouth. “I didn’t want to worry you overly, so that’s why I wrote trouble, and such a tepid word that is. When Pearlin’ Jane warned me she didn’t say trouble was coming—she said evil was coming.”

Colin remained silent. He didn’t roll his eyes this time. Maybe he was thinking about those three bars of gold.

Grayson said, “The last time I visited you, Pearlin’ Jane woke me up. She was whistling, a very old song. Like the Virgin Bride, she didn’t actually speak, but I heard her voice clearly in my mind. She’s a flirt, that one, and that pearl necklace looped six times around her neck, it’s amazing. It’s got to weigh more than she does—did. But that’s not important. What’s going on, Aunt Sinjun?”

Sinjun said, “Actually, Pearlin’ Jane hasn’t spoken to me for two weeks now. I know she’s hiding.”

“Why?”

“Two weeks ago I was walking in the apple orchard, and I again asked her to come to me. She didn’t, but she did send two names to me: yours, over and over again, and I knew she believed you were the only one to help, and then another name, something like Belatrix or Bellazana. I don’t know—it simply wasn’t clear. I questioned her, but then she told me over and over, Evil is coming, Grayson, get Grayson. She felt such panic, Grayson, and then she was simply gone, and I haven’t heard from her since. Two weeks now.”

Belzaria. Yet again it was crystal clear in Grayson’s mind.

CHAPTER FIVE

Grayson lay on his back, staring up at the beautiful beamed ceiling, lit by the wavering light of a single candle nearly gutted now. A notebook filled with pages of his new novel lay open on the table beside the bed. He felt fatigue pull at him, but he didn’t want to fall asleep just yet. First, he wanted to see Pearlin’ Jane.

She came like a thief in the night, slowly, quietly, as if she didn’t really want him to see her. As if she was too afraid the other would catch her. Belzaria?

“Jane,” he said very quietly. “It will be all right. I’m here. Tell me what is happening.”

The air became warmer than it had been the minute before, but still she didn’t show herself.

“Jane, whatever evil is coming, I will deal with it. I swear to you.” And wasn’t that a tall order, given he’d lost an entire day on his way to Vere Castle?

He felt a slight movement in the air, as if a gentle breeze had wafted through the open window.

“The evil you warned Sinjun about—is her name Belzaria?”

The air turned icy cold.

“All right, you’re frightened, but you have to pull yourself together. If I’m to help, you must tell me what to expect. It isn’t fair to leave me helpless.”

He waited.

“I lost a day, Jane, an entire day. I have no memory of what happened to me. Three names have popped into my head—Queen Maeve, Belzaria, and Border. I think Border is a place. Is that right?”

Silence and still air.

“Who is Belzaria, Jane? That’s the name you told Sinjun, only she didn’t hear you clearly. She’s the one you’re scared of? Tell me why you’re frightened of her.” He smiled into the empty space at the bottom of his bed. “You could choke her with all those pearls looped around your neck.”

The air shimmered.

“Aunt Sinjun told me how you showed imagination and determination when you got your revenge on your murdering husband. You won. I saw the victory in your face in your portrait downstairs in the salon. So why are you afraid of this Belzaria? You believe she is stronger than you?”

A slash of lightning speared through the window. And there she was, her pearls showing first, so many, at least a hundred, he guessed, pure-white pearls, all perfectly matched. And there was her face, like her portrait, but not really. It was as if there were veils, and they were shimmering along with the rest of her. She’d been pretty in life, and young, and her life had ended so badly.

He heard her voice in his mind, surprisingly strong and deep, and he heard the slick of fear.

Belzaria is coming, and she will destroy my painting because she knows what I am and that I live here and I protect Sinjun. She is filled with ill will. She is a malicious evil.

She was filled with hatred and malice? “Who is Queen Maeve?”

I think she is a young lassie, more a prisoner, doweless, a pawn. She is ruled by Belzaria. She would look bonnie wearing some of my pearls. But I could be wrong about her.

“What does doweless mean?”

The air shivered with impatience. Jane looked ready to throw some pearls at him. She’s daftie laddie—she canna do anythin’. Belzaria holds her by her snotterbox.

Helpless, Grayson thought, doweless meant she was helpless. And snotterbox? Her nose, Grayson realized

“Jane, where is Border?”

Only a slight shudder in the air, then Jane’s voice, low, frightened. Border is a place beyond this place. It is a place outside of our time, a place beyond what a mortal can see or imagine or ken. It churns and heaves, but withal, all are doweless. Belzaria holds the power, and she is coorse—cruel. There is sometimes hope, but it wanes quickly.

“It is a kingdom?”

A kingdom? Mayhap. It is ruled by monstrous evil.

“And she is here, in Scotland? Is Belzaria a demon escaped from this Border into our time?”

The shimmering air seemed to freeze, and the bedchamber plunged into bone-shattering cold. He wouldn’t be surprised to see icicles hanging off the posts of his bed. All he saw were the loops and loops of luminescent pearls. They seemed to encircle the air itself. Jane wasn’t there.

His candle went out, as if the flickering flame was pinched between two fingers.

He lay in the darkness, feeling the air slowly warm again. He knew Jane wouldn’t come back, not tonight. But Grayson was optimistic. He said into the still darkness, “Sleep well, Jane. Don’t be afraid. Together, you and I will deal with Belzaria.”

Did ghosts sleep? He’d never thought about it before. Since there was no corporeal self that needed rest, surely there was no need. Grayson’s corporeal self was soon asleep. He fell into a place where acres of grass grew tall and thick, and there were paths through the grass, covered with beautifully cut black stones. The sky was blue, but it wasn’t a blue he’d ever seen before. One moment it was turbulent and dark, and then it shifted to a pale blue. Thick billowing white clouds filled the sky. Then, oddly, as he watched, the clouds seemed to move quickly across the sky and disappear. As he watched, the same clouds reappeared on the opposite horizon and began their journey again. How could that be possible? The sky was filled with light, but he saw no sun. There were strange animals milling about in the tall grass, some like unicorns with horns in their foreheads but their faces were long and pointed. Others were like sheep, with thick shaggy hair that grew longer than their legs. In the distance, beneath those journeying clouds, he saw a large city, like London, but not really like London, not exactly. The buildings were taller, and if his eyes weren’t deceiving him, they weren’t straight. Some were curved, others leaned one way or another, but they all glistened in the bright light that came from where he knew not. He saw a flash of a circular stone circle chamber and saw how those walls leaned in a bit. Then the vision was gone. He walked toward the city on the immaculate stone roads, blacker than a sinner’s dreams, and as he drew nearer, he saw stone walkways connected the buildings. The most spectacular building looked a bit like Warwick Castle with its massive walls and its huge stone towers, only he would swear this building was taller, its walls thicker. He saw Saint Paul’s Cathedral, only the round dome was elongated and a glittering silver, not marble.

As he stood just outside the city, staring at something he couldn’t have imagined, something a mortal couldn’t imagine, he realized he was utterly alone. There were no people hurrying about, no carriages or wagons, no horses or drays, only himself. As if all the people had simply left.

He heard a woman’s laugh, deep and rich and terrifying because he knew the laugh wasn’t really a laugh, it was a promise of great violence and death and pleasure. He heard screams, and they were coming closer, and he knew, deep down, that soon he would be screaming too.

Grayson fell off the walkway onto his back in the thick tall grass. The grass rose above him, like waving arms all around him. He breathed in and began to choke. He couldn’t breathe, yet he tried and tried to suck in air. He was dying.

CHAPTER SIX

“Grayson! Wake up! You’re having a nightmare. Wake up! Grayson!”

He was gasping, choking. Was that Sinjun’s voice? She was shaking him, but still he couldn’t breathe. His chest was on fire, and he knew he was dying.

Sinjun slapped his face. “Grayson, open your eyes! Look at me. Can you understand me?”

Dying, dying, he was dying.

She slapped his face again, hard. He grabbed her wrist, pulled it down. He managed to open his eyes, blink up at her. He saw Colin running toward the bed, a scared maid behind him.

He thought his heart would pound right out of his chest. He whispered, his chest heaving, “I couldn’t breathe. I don’t know why, but I knew I was dying. My throat hurts.”

She immediately placed her palm on his forehead. “Are you ill?”

“No, no, it was something in the grass, I think, something that is poison to mortals.” He stopped cold, stared up at her.

Sinjun sat beside him and handed him a glass of water from the carafe. At first it hurt his throat to drink, and then it felt like he was being given life. When he handed back the empty glass, Sinjun took his hand between her two warm ones. Colin stood at her shoulder, looking down at him. “Your dream took you to a strange place?”

Grayson realized Colin had chosen his words very carefully. He nodded. “It was Border.” He realized it was early morning.

Colin said, “Alene said you were moaning and screaming, that she couldn’t awaken you.”

Grayson looked beyond Colin to the very young Alene, the daughter of the Kinross cook, and said simply, “Thank you.”

“Border?” Sinjun leaned closer. “Tell us about Border.”

Grayson told them about Pearlin’ Jane’s visit, her fear of Belzaria—yes, that was her name. Was she a demon escaped from this other realm, both in time and in place? He didn’t know. Jane had left him in a panic, leaving, oddly, her pearls hanging looped in the air. And then, in his dreams, he’d been whisked to Border. “I saw a city, like London, only it wasn’t.” He told them how the buildings were huge, that they leaned or curved oddly, described the animals he’d seen, and the tall grass. “And I heard her laughing from the tallest point of a castle that looked something like Warwick, but it wasn’t a laugh, Sinjun, it was a promise of violence and destruction.”

Sinjun said, “Do you think Jane brought you the dream?”

“I don’t think so. The woman laughing, I think it was Belzaria.”

“You never saw her?”

“No. You know what was truly terrifying? There were no people. This huge city with its massive buildings, but I saw no people.”

Colin said, “Do you remember anything more about your lost day?”

“Not yet.”

Colin didn’t like this otherworldly talk, didn’t like the gooseflesh raised on his arms, didn’t like the thought of curving buildings and no people, and a demon bent on no good. Pearlin’ Jane—surely she didn’t really exist, surely it was Sinjun’s imagination. And yet. He sighed, not knowing what to do, and the feeling of impotence drove him mad. He wanted to kick something.

He chanced to look down, and his heart seized. He stared, not wanting to believe what he saw, but there it was, sitting in the middle of the Aubusson carpet—a single large white pearl. His breathing hitched. He picked up the pearl and silently handed it to Sinjun.

Sinjun held the pearl in her palm, very real, that pearl, not a ghostly pearl with no substance, and it was warm. And where was the sense in that? She looked from Grayson to Colin. “This pearl must belong to Jane, but it’s a real pearl. How can a ghost wear a real pearl? Jane has never before lost one of her pearls. She’s very proud of each and every one of them. She told me once there were one hundred and eight pearls and she wore them all the time and thought of her revenge on that murdering wastrel.”

Grayson smiled. “A fitting revenge, forcing him to give her pearls to make her stop tormenting him.”

Colin said, “Supposedly he ran her over with his carriage nearly a hundred years ago. She should move along with her life—or her death—don’t you think?”

Grayson said, “Perhaps, but the Virgin Bride hasn’t moved along either. I asked her once why she stayed at Northcliffe Hall, but she had no answer, only shook her head. I don’t think she knew, only that she was meant to be there. I’ve researched it, and there are no records of her in our family history. So why is Pearlin’ Jane here? You told me records show that she was murdered near Inverness, yet Vere Castle is her home.”

“Yes, but whenever I’ve asked her in the past, she’d toss her head and tell me about the mischief Rory was causing at Oxford or how tightly Dahling pulls her corset.”

Sinjun gently laid the pearl atop one of Grayson’s handkerchiefs on the bedside table. “You know she will come for it. I hope she will see it here.”

And you expect this ghost to pick it up and restring it? But Colin didn’t say it aloud. Pearlin’ Jane couldn’t exist, she couldn’t, yet his heart was still pounding. That wretched pearl—where had it come from? He knew Sinjun didn’t own any pearls like that one. He’d held that pearl in his hand, felt its pulsing warmth. He looked from his wife to her nephew. They both treated this entire ghost business so matter-of-factly. It was enough to drive a sane, eminently reasonable, and intelligent man, daft.

Yet Grayson had believed he was choking to death, dying? Naught but a dream, he thought, naught but a powerful dream.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Day Two

To Grayson, breakfast in Scotland at Vere Castle meant a huge bowl of porridge with berries and the special heather honey from Sinjun’s bees, with a big knob of rich butter and a basket of scones set in the middle of the table, covered with a heavy linen napkin to keep them warm. He wasn’t disappointed.

He was spooning down his porridge, listening to his uncle Colin tell him about the new bell tower in the local church. He saw Sinjun was tapping her fingers. When Colin paused to take a bit of his own porridge, Sinjun said quickly, “I shan’t ask you again how you are feeling, Grayson—I do not wish you to throw your tea at me.”

He was grateful. The dream was still vivid in his mind, and when he swallowed, it still occasionally hurt.

She said, “I received a note a few minutes ago from our new neighbor, Lady Felicity Blackthorn. The MacNab boy, dressed in gold-and-dark-blue livery—her colors, he proudly told me—delivered it.” She added to Grayson, “She has purchased the MacKellar property, which is of great interest hereabouts since it is said to be cursed or haunted or both. Everyone has avoided the ruined manor house until she suddenly appeared on the scene and bought it.

“Colin, you were raised on tales of the MacKellars. Tell Grayson what supposedly happened there.”

Colin forked down a bite of haddock, grilled just the way he liked it. “Ah yes, a tale to keep children on a righteous path. It goes back much farther than even Pearlin’ Jane. Donnan MacKeller, a Campbell, built MacKellar Manor in 1720. But he ran out of money and was forced to wed a Macleod clan heiress.

“Donnan and his heiress wife had eight boys and two girls. Seven of the eight boys were killed in the rebellion in 1746, three of them at Culloden. As you know, the English retaliation under Cumberland was brutal. Entire families were butchered, people starved, crofts were razed, and the chieftains were all killed, their castles, if not destroyed, given over to King George II. It was a grim time all over Scotland.

“I tell you this because, oddly enough, the English army didn’t touch the MacKeller property. Nor was the property turned over to the English throne. It was kept in the MacKeller family. No one could call Donnan MacKeller a traitor when seven of his sons had lost their lives to the English. And so it remained a mystery.

“Calum MacKeller, the eldest and only surviving son, succeeded to the property ten years later when Donnan passed to the hereafter. He wedded well and prospered. One fateful night his young son fell off a balcony to his death. The wife blamed the husband for not making the appropriate repairs, though it was said that no repairs were needed. Calum was found dead one morning, stabbed twelve times. The wife disappeared, never to be seen again.

“The property was inherited by the eldest daughter, who never married. She sold the property some twenty years later. The new owners remained only a year. The children, three boys, were found dead at the base of the same second-floor balcony. It appeared all of them had simply climbed over the stone railing and jumped. There was no explanation, though people like to speculate that the ghost of the MacKeller son had lured them over the balcony to their deaths. The parents, devastated, simply left the manor, never to return.

“The manor was sold a decade later to an Englishman, a Colonel Farland. He and his wife had five strapping boys. All was well for five years. Then one morning, all five sons were found at the base of the balcony, dead, again, as if they’d all simply climbed over the stone railing and jumped. And the haunting curse went wild—all the dead children’s ghosts luring these five sons out to join them. The Farlands left, never to return. They did not sell the house.”

Grayson said, “Why did Farland ever buy the property? Surely he knew about the other children’s deaths, the rumors of the dead children drawing the living children to jump and join them?”

“It is said he laughed, called it nonsense. In any case, after the Farlands left, the house stood vacant for nearly thirty years, falling into ruin.

“A Lady Blackthorn bought the place seven months ago, and every available man in the district has been working to rebuild the manor to its former glory. Old Clyde, our local smithy, told me the cost could feed every crofter family for a year.”

Grayson said, “Perhaps she doesn’t know the tales about the house.”

Colin shook his head. “That would be the very first thing she’d hear, believe me. Everyone in these parts has dined out on MacKeller tales for years. Parents still threaten their boy children with a good hiding if they go anywhere near the manor house.”

Sinjun set down her teacup and leaned forward. “Lady Blackthorn has no children, nor is she married. So she must feel she is safe. I met her only once, two months ago, in Kinross. She’s not in her first youth, but she is still quite beautiful and ever so stylish, all the latest London fashions, incredible diamonds and rubies at her neck and ears. When I asked her why she’d come to Loch Leven, she laughed, said she fell in love with a painting of a manor house she’d seen in the Royal Academy in London and was told it was the MacKeller property here at Loch Leven. Then something rather strange happened.” Sinjun, a master of storytelling, paused, making both Colin and Grayson forget their porridge and lean toward her. “Our vicar, Charles Gordon, waved to me from across the main street at the draper’s shop. He was halfway across the road when out of nowhere came a carriage, going very fast. I nearly expired on the spot when Colin suddenly raced to him and managed to jerk him out of the way at the last minute. It was very frightening. Screams, yells, people running to help. I turned to see Lady Blackthorn staring at you, Colin.

“She nodded to me and said in a very pleasant voice, ‘Well, it was a close thing, but he managed it,’ and then she smiled and walked away to her own carriage. Colin, the look she sent you—if I’m not mistaken, and I never am about things like that—there was lust in her eyes. I didn’t realize that until later since I was too frightened for you at the time.”

Colin was shaking his head. “Forget that, Sinjun, she couldn’t have seen me clearly enough to even consider lust. Poor Vicar Gordon, he was stuttering he was so distressed. It was a very close thing, she was right about that. Thankfully, I did make it in time. As for the carriage, young Thomas Lamont was driving. He was babbling that he didn’t know what happened, the horses simply bolted and there was nothing he could do about it. No one believed him. His father, I believe, took a strap to him.”

“‘Well, it was a close thing, but he managed it,’” Grayson repeated. “Aunt Sinjun, Lady Blackthorn said that exactly?”

“Yes indeed,” Sinjun said, then looked thoughtful. “Looking back on it, I don’t think Lady Blackthorn was at all concerned. I know it sounds strange, but I would swear she looked like it was some sort of test.”

Colin waved his coffee cup at her. “Test? My dear, you really want to believe that Lady Blackthorn somehow whipped those horses up to run down the vicar? To see what would happen? To see if I would try to save the vicar? Come now, you always want to explain the simplest things as magical intervention.”

Sinjun wanted to tell him magic was all around them, but she only smiled. “I think she did it to see what you would do, Colin, to see if you were a hero.”

Grayson said, “Uncle Colin, how was it that you were close enough to the vicar to pull him out of the way of the horses?”

Colin frowned, drummed his long fingers on the white tablecloth. “I saw those horses, knew they’d crush the vicar, and I moved faster than I have in my life. Looking back on it, I’m surprised I got to him in time. For a moment, it didn’t seem possible.”

“But you managed it, didn’t you?” And you could have died, she thought, but she didn’t say it. Sinjun waved the letter. “The lady in question has invited us to a party tonight—to celebrate the rejuvenation of the MacKeller property, now to be known as Blackthorn Manor, so she writes to me. Tonight! And she is sending out her invitations this late? It’s very odd.” Sinjun shrugged. “Of course we must go. I imagine everyone in the neighborhood will be mad to go as well.”

Grayson said, “Blackthorn. I’ve never heard of any Blackthorn. I wonder who her antecedents are.”

Colin said, “Well, there was the prelate, name of Blackthorn. He founded Aberdeen University back in the fifteenth century. Maybe she hails from that Blackthorn. But the title? I don’t know. Why didn’t you tell me about Lady Blackthorn before?”

“I didn’t tell you, Colin, because I knew you’d laugh at me, but you must believe me.” She drew a deep breath. “There is something else. I remember you were staring back at her, just before the horses came around the corner.”

Colin looked at her blankly, then threw up his hands. “Come now, Sinjun, I never even noticed her. I have never met her. I have only seen her from a distance in Kinross.”

Sinjun and Grayson exchanged a look. She said, “Well, she certainly appears to remember you, my dear. In her very nice invitation, she specifically asks you to be present. It’s as if I’m invited only because I have to be, as your wife.”

Grayson took a final bite of his porridge and carefully laid his spoon beside the bowl. “Aunt Sinjun, when you reply, please tell her your nephew is visiting and would like to attend as well.”

“Oh, she mentions you are to come too, Grayson. She even wrote your name. She begs the honor of receiving a renowned author, namely yourself.”

Colin said, “It appears word travels very fast hereabouts.”

“Something travels very fast indeed,” Grayson said.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Late morning

Colin and Grayson were in Colin’s estate room, Colin telling him about the success of the new farming implements now used by his crofters, when they leaped to their feet at Sinjun’s shout. They ran to the drawing room to see Sinjun standing stock-still in the middle of the Aubusson carpet staring at the fireplace.

Colin was at her side in a moment, nearly stepping on the wreckage. “The portrait—what happened, Sinjun?”

Grayson couldn’t believe it. From his youngest years, he’d looked up at Pearlin’ Jane’s portrait hung above the grand fireplace in the salon. Now it lay on the floor, three huge tears in it, as if ripped by an animal’s claws. Pearlin’ Jane had told him the previous night that Belzaria would destroy her portrait.

Sinjun was shaking. “I hung that portrait there when I was eighteen, newly married to you. To thank Jane. That was what she wanted, to have her portrait hung next to her husband’s, that horrible man who’d murdered her. He’d taken her portrait down when he remarried. She said she wanted him to know she was back in her rightful place.”

Colin took her hands in his. “I thought you were in the lady’s parlor writing our acceptance to Lady Blackthorn.”

“I was,” Sinjun said. She stopped, shook her head. “I needed something from the marquetry table and—” She stopped cold, said in a whisper, “I can’t remember what it was, only that I needed it urgently, so I came in here to fetch whatever it was, and saw that.”

They watched in stunned silence as the portrait of Jane’s erstwhile murdering husband toppled to the floor to land on top of Jane’s.

Grayson said, matter-of-factly, “It appears Jane’s concerns weren’t imaginary. Is this Belzaria’s work, do you think?”

Colin stared down at the portraits, shaking his head. “Listen, there has to be a logical, reasoned explanation. There is no fiend named Belzaria. The plaster was probably loose—the pictures have hung there for decades. Maybe an animal got in here and tore the portrait after it fell, then escaped.” He turned to Sinjun, gave her a brooding look. “And that brings up a question I’ve asked you over the years that you always refuse to answer. Why did you insist that Pearlin’ Jane’s portrait be hung here next to the husband who murdered her? I never wanted either of them here. You told me once, when I got you tipsy, that you owed it to her for what she’d done. But you refused to tell me what it was. Tell me now, Sinjun.”

She lightly laid her fingers against his cheek. “She asked me not to, Colin. It was important to her, and so I never shall. There’s nothing more.”

He knew there was a lot more, knew she was an excellent liar, something he admired. “Will you tell me once we’re in the afterlife, looking down at Philip and Rory and Dahling and all our grandchildren?”

“I might tell you when we’re looking down on our great-grandchildren,” she said.

Colin gave her a quick kiss and sighed. “I’ll commission an artist in Edinburgh to come and paint another portrait of Jane, all right? As for this idiot husband of hers, we’ll throw his portrait in the dustbin. Finally.”

“You’re a splendid husband,” she said, and leaned up to kiss him again. “I don’t think Jane will mind.”

Grayson wondered, watching them, if his wife Lorelei had lived and they survived together thirty years like Uncle Colin and Aunt Sinjun had, if there would still be such love between them. And secrets too, at least on Aunt Sinjun’s side. What had Pearlin’ Jane done for her that she couldn’t or wouldn’t tell Colin? He looked down at the ripped portrait. He fully expected Pearlin’ Jane to pay him another visit that night.

But Pearlin’ Jane didn’t wait that long.

Mrs. Flood, the Kinross housekeeper of twenty-two years, planted herself in the doorway, looking both scared and determined. Mrs. Flood was solid, unimaginative, and believed her mistress daft when she spoke of their resident doolie—ghost—as if she were a member of the household, though naturally she never said anything. She looked down at the two portraits on the floor and cleared her throat. “Mr. Hobbs refused to tell ye, my lady, he said I was all aboot in my upper works. A right feardie he is. Mrs. Hobbs tells me if it weren’t for the six lovely bairns he gave her, she’d be right sorry she married him thirty years ago.”

“What is the problem, Mrs. Flood?”

“My lady, Pearlin’ Jane is causing a ruckus in the kitchie, even though I know she canna be—any devout Christian would know it’s impossible for a doolie to do much of anything except flitter aboot. Please, ye must hurry.”

As they all ran down the long corridor to the nether regions, they heard screams and yells. When Grayson stepped into the vast Kinross kitchen, it was to see flour raining down, turning the air white, apples rolling out of a big bowl on the wooden table across the floor, and the door on the new Cumberside oven slamming shut, opening, then slamming shut again.

Sinjun put her hands on her hips and yelled, “Jane, that is quite enough! You have made a mess. Stop it. Tell me what you want, and I will do my best to get it done.”

The oven door continued its banging.

“I’m having your portrait painted anew,” Colin said.

The oven door snapped shut one final time.

There was immediate blessed silence except for the crying hiccups from Brenda, the scullery maid, and the occasional whimper from Teddy, the nine-year-old castle errand boy.

Jane evidently didn’t want to speak to Sinjun. She wanted Grayson. Come to the apple orchard, NOW.

Grayson said quietly, “Please, no more dramatics, Jane. I’m coming.”

The cook, Mrs. Keith, smoothed down her apron, tucked back in a strand of stone-gray hair, and curtsied to Colin. “Thank ye, my lord. Ye stopped the hurricane. I have never afore experienced a hurricane in my kitchie, but I suppose it could happen, what wi’ the planets hoppin’ aboot so close to each either this month.” She turned to her terrified staff and clapped her hands. “Let’s get back to work here. What a guddle, wi’ all the flour swirlin’ aboot, making the air white. Teddy, I will vreet ye a note, and ye will go to Mr. Gunn and buy us more flour.”

Mrs. Keith gave a small curtsy to Sinjun and Colin, then turned back to begin picking up the scattered apples on the flagstone floor.

Sinjun said, “Mrs. Flood, would you please ask Elspeth and Ina to come and assist Mrs. Keith?”

She turned on her husband. “Why ever is she thanking you? You did nothing except stand there and look lordly and in charge.” She said to Grayson, “It is too bad—she has always treated him like a god. And now this—Jane talked to you, didn’t she? Not me, to you, Grayson.”

Colin took his wife’s arm and led her out of the kitchen. He said over his shoulder, “So she wants you, does she, Grayson?”

“Yes,” Grayson said, “in the apple orchard, now.”

CHAPTER NINE

As Grayson made his way through the wildly colorful gardens, he clearly remembered one summer playing here with his cousins, James and Jason, climbing the trees, swinging from the thicker branches, throwing apples at each other, taking archery lessons from Aunt Sinjun, getting yelled at by their parents when Jason accidently shot an arrow that narrowly missed Hobbs the butler, come to give them sweet buns from Mrs. Keith.

So many years had passed. Now his cousins were married and there was a new batch of cousins playing here. He prayed it would continue far into the future. He smiled. No cousins to throw apples at today. Now he was an adult, thirty-one years old, and he was meeting with a ghost. Fancy that. He wondered if Jane liked being called a hurricane.

Life, he’d thought many times, was strange and infinitely interesting. He thought of the last time he and Pip had visited. Pip had loved the apple orchard as well, had spoken endlessly about the adventures he’d shared with his cousins here the year before.

Without pause, Grayson walked directly to the oldest apple tree, King Fergus he and his cousins had always called it. The tree stood in isolated splendor, baby apples thick on its leaved branches. He stood beside the tree and waited.

Silence, then the air around him began to churn and quiver. “Calm down, Jane, no more drama. I had a hard night with strange dreams Belzaria sent me.”

Everything stilled, quieted. It was as if all the animals, all the birds and insects, knew there was something here that didn’t belong in their world, and they wanted no part of it.

They were smart. Grayson said, “Jane, all you had to do was come talk to me or to Sinjun. You didn’t have to destroy Mrs. Keith’s kitchen. Why did you do that?”

The air heaved and twisted around him.

“I know you’re frightened of Belzaria. You need to calm yourself and tell me about her.”

I lost one of my pearls!

“No, no, it’s beside my bed. Colin saw it lying on the rug in my bedchamber.” He thought a minute. “Why didn’t you know where the pearl was, Jane? You seem to know about everything else.”

He’d swear her thoughts to him sounded defensive. I did ken, I did. Canna ye see I’m all pit aboot, my brains jibblin’ outta my heid? Did ye see what she did to my painting? An’ then she pulled down the bastart’s pitur an’ made it cover mine. She kens she has to kill me afore she can take Colin—she kens I’d protect him with my dyin’ breath.

You’re already dead, Jane, but it’s a nice thought. He said aloud, “Why on earth would she want to take Colin? Where would she take him?”

She wants him, powerful bad. Colin has counted many human years, but to a demon it only makes him more desirable. She would change him.

“And he would be doweless?”

Aye, that’s it, he wouldna be his own man. He’d be helpless—he’d be her slave.

Grayson remembered Sinjun telling him about the new Lady Blackthorn eyeing Colin. He’d believed she was jealous, nothing more. Was it possible Lady Blackthorn was Belzaria, or was his imagination running amok? Something he had to admit occasionally happened. Then it came right out of his mouth. “Is Lady Blackthorn the demon Belzaria, Jane?”

The air shimmered, and the temperature plummeted.

“Why aren’t you showing yourself to me?”

I dinna have all my pearls! How can I be aboot without all my pearls?

“It’s only one pearl you don’t have, Jane. No one would notice. I see, you’re afraid to show yourself, aren’t you? You’re afraid Belzaria will see you? But what could she do even if she did see you? Run you through with a sword? Be reasonable, Jane. You have no corporeal body to be run through. So what could she do to you?”

She could curse me an’ make me explode! She could throw me into Border, aye, and make me watch what she does to Colin. I ken she wants to sneck all my pearls, kinch ’em around her own scrawny neck.

Explode? Now that would be a sight. “No, she can’t do any of those things. I wouldn’t let her. She did slash your portrait, but Colin told you he is bringing an artist from Edinburgh to paint a new one, an exact copy. Jane, is Belzaria a demon? Is she from Border? Is she Lady Blackthorn?”

Och, aye, I think she is. My world shudders with tales aboot her and how she’s taken human form, somethin’ not many demons like to do because they believe we’re all misshapen and ugly. I must tell ye, Grayson, I canna see her when she is in demon form—I canna ken what she is aboot. So I canna tell ye what a demon looks like, what it thinks, or what it will do, but I can feel her. She came once here to Vere Castle as a demon. I felt her, brimming with evil and ill will. And that’s when she saw Colin.

“You felt her. How did she feel?”

Silence, then Jane thought to him: Like a blackness sooking out all the air, and when she crept like black smoke into the castle, it was to see me, to find my weaknesses, to terrifee me, to make me flee my home. Behold what she did to my poor portrait. Aye, she is a demon, but what does it matter? There are all sorts of creatures from the pits in hell or other places like Border and Black Friar’s Hole who sometimes break through to wreak havoc on us.

Black Friar’s Hole?

The air whipped up around him, making the bushes rustle, and a scrawny little apple fall from King Fergus’s lower branch. Then it was quiet again.

“Don’t go, Jane. You wanted to speak to me, so that’s what you have to do. Now, tell me what you know about where she comes from—this Border.”

It isna really a land, not like my beautiful Scotland. It is more a creation by forces even I dinna ken. It is beyond, it is other, it was never meant to come here, into our world. I already told ye much of that last night. Did ye not attend me?

“She sent me a strange dream last night, but I’m not sure if she was showing me Border, or if she was weaving a fantasy to terrify me. I remember breathing in the grass—it seemed poisonous to me.”

What did ye see?

CHAPTER TEN

Grayson told Jane about the thick green grass, the blades so tall they waved like arms, the animals that weren’t quite like earth animals, the sky that shone brightly without a sun, and the large city that perhaps was meant to look like modern London, but whoever constructed it was seeing London through fractured glass, and thus its buildings leaned this way and that, the roads and walkways sometimes twisted back on themselves. He told her how he knew he was choking to death, how Sinjun had awakened him. “Jane, do you believe she wanted to show me where she lives?”

He would swear he heard her cursing, very colorful, most words he did not understand, then, She wants to terrifee ye, to make ye leave, like me. She doesna want ye here to protect Colin. A pause, then, I think she’s afeart of ye.

Afraid of him? He said, “Why didn’t you want to speak to Sinjun? Why only me?”

The air quivered a bit, then her voice, soft and somehow regretful. Sinjun is my wee bairn, so young she was when she first came to Vere Castle. She was sent for me, an’ I kent I had to protect her, an’ that meant protectin’ Colin as well, since she loves him beyond reason. He is a braw mon, but withal all men are worthless offal. An’ if Sinjun learns this demon wants Colin, she will fly into a gang gyte—

“You mean fly into a rage?”

Aye, ’tis what I said, isna it? An’ she’d do something daft. She would try to bargain with this demon—her life for Colin’s—which is what the demon wants. But Sinjun wouldn’t understand that. She would ken only that she had to save him from the demon. Of course, the demon would agree because it wants Sinjun deid. Demons have no honor—they lie. They are very good at it from what I have been told.

“Who told you demons have no honor and are good at lying?”

Ye are too inquisitive, lad. Yer brain jumps from hither to yon. A kelpie told me. His name is Barrie, and he lives in Loch Ness. Kelpies are nearly as wicked as demons, but kelpies hate demons—why, I dinna ken. They jeedge them—

“Jeedge? You mean they curse them?”

Aye, and that’s what I said, isna it? Ye must listen to me, lad. An’ demons lie wi’ great relish. We were lazing aboot one afternoon when Barrie told me demons were evil and vicious and liars of the first order.

“You have traveled to Loch Ness?”

Aye, the first time when I was very young, before I met the bastard and married him and he murdered me. The loch was very cold, an’ the water was nearly black, filled with peat I was told. I didna want to stick my toes in that black water, much less my precious self, but I did, and Barrie pulled on me toes and I yalled like a banshee. He told me what’d he done after I died.

Barrie visited me once, told me tales of the frightening monster in Loch Ness, how she lurks beneath the waters, waitin’ for fishermen to tip over their boats, fresh meat for her bairns.

Then he was called back to Loch Ness. I haven’t seen him in a very long time, but that is what he said.

Grayson’s head was swimming. He wondered if Sinjun knew all this, if she and Jane had spent afternoons together speaking about Jane’s afterlife world. He wondered how he would make contact with the demon Belzaria.

And she said to him without hesitation, Go to that absurd celebration pairtie. Look at her eyes, Grayson, and because ye are who ye are, ye’ll see shiny mirrors starin’ back at ye because she has no real self. And the occasional flame—a demon canna keep the flames hidden. An’ ye’ll see and ye’ll ken who she is.

Can ye imagine spending so many groats on Donnan MacKeller’s ruin of a house?

“Where did she get all the money?”

A demon can make money by skelpin’ its hands. Ah, and what an idiot old Donnan MacKeller was—rutted all the time, produced so many sons, and the Sassenach killed all of them except the worst o’ the lot, his firstborn. His poor wife—all her work an’ she had naught left but a wastrel bairn who bargained wi’ the demon for his life, an’ two lassies so silly the demon let them live.

“Jane, if Donnan did make a bargain with Belzaria to keep his children and his lands safe, did his one surviving son, Calum, break the bargain? And that is why both he and his son died? And she killed all the children who ever came to live in that house?”

The air shivered around him. He felt it to his bones—Jane was afraid.

“Jane, do demons exist forever?”

I dinna ken.

So she didn’t know. He started to ask if she would live forever, but instead, he said, “Jane, what is Sinjun’s secret she won’t tell Colin?”

He heard a huff of breath, then, Unlike the demons, I have honor. I willna break faith wi’ my sweet bairn. It is important to her that Colin doesna ken. She’s afeart of what he would do, what he would think of himself. He would be powerful hurt, even now.

“Did you know Colin saved the vicar’s life in the village?”

Och, aye, it is much talked of. I believe the demon wanted to show the world that Colin was a hero. He proved himself, didna he? Now everyone hereabouts believes him to be above other men, so calm an’ fast and so dismissive of praise.

Ye must stop her, Grayson. Ye must save my bairn. And Colin. The demon would take him to Border, and he would be her slave.

“How could she take him to a place that isn’t really a place but rather a construction?”

Dinna mince wirds with me, sirrah! She took ye there in yer mind, didna she? And it was quite real—ye didna know that it wasn’t.

“Yes, she did, my apologies, Jane.”

A mon and his apologies, they flow out of yer mouth like Sinjun’s smooth honey. Listen, Grayson, when Sinjun dies, as all mortals are required to do sooner or later, then I am gone as well. Philip is his father’s heir. Both he an’ his wifie will move into Vere Castle. His wifie is blind to me. I will have no reason to go on—I will cease to exist. I will wait and molder and wait some more. Mayhap forever.

Grayson would swear he heard her crying.

“Jane, buck up. All is not lost. Now, first things first. We must get rid of the demon, and then I will see about Philip’s wife, all right? You will continue. Now, how can I defeat a demon?”

The air shimmered. A whisper. I dinna ken.

“Ask Barrie, and others in your realm. If I am to defeat the demon, I must know its weaknesses.”

He saw her faint outline in front of him, saw her reach out her hand, lightly touch his face, but naturally he didn’t feel anything.

I will try to find out.

He felt a touch of warmth on his cheek, imagined she’d kissed him, and he’d swear he felt her breath against his face.

Yer a good mon, Grayson. Mayhap even Barrie would like ye, not lay into ye wi’ his claymore.

“All will be well, Jane.” He added in thick Scottish, “Haste ye back.”

He heard a nightingale singing, heard the rustling of an animal in the bushes. Jane was gone, and the creatures were coming back again. At least now he knew where to begin.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Blackthorn Manor

That evening

“We are all magnificent specimens,” Sinjun said, looking back and forth from Colin to Grayson when Colin assisted her from the Kinross coach.

Actually, Colin believed Sinjun grew more beautiful by the year. Tall, slender, her Sherbrooke hair so rich in all its colors. He leaned down, but not that far, and kissed her. “Yes, I promise I will take care around Lady Blackthorn. Dinna fash, lassie.”

Of course she would worry—she always worried when something threatened him. He’d occasionally think in odd moments how blessed he’d been when she’d chanced to see him in a crowded theater lobby in her first season and told him she was an heiress and he should marry her. He smiled. So many years, so many adventures, and blessed be, the joys outweighed the sadness that life invariable dished out, no rhyme or reason.

A new adventure, and he had to admit his blood was racing in his veins, his eyes seeing more than they usually saw. He couldn’t wait to meet the demon, this Belzaria. Demon? He was actually thinking a demon could possibly exist? And she wanted him, Grayson had said.

“Grayson,” Sinjun said to her nephew, “I must say I hadn’t realized you and Colin were of a size.”

“Thankfully,” Grayson said.

They turned to see a gray-haired man of noble stature standing at the head of the newly constructed marble steps to Blackthorn Manor. Sinjun and Colin didn’t recognize him.

Was he a demon? Grayson did as Jane had said. He looked at the man straight in the eyes, but all he saw was a hint of boredom, swiftly followed by a hint of pleasure at the sight of Sinjun. No demon, then? He bowed low, said in a rich deep voice, “Welcome to Blackthorn Manor, my lord, my lady, Mr. Sherbrooke. I am Beaufort, the Blackthorn butler. Her ladyship desires you be brought directly to her. Follow me, if you please.”

Beaufort had spoken in clipped, clear English. Yet, somehow, Grayson knew he wasn’t English. Where was he from, then? Grayson looked at his straight back as they followed him into the manor.

The ceiling of the magnificent entry hall as well as the high ceiling over the immense staircase were painted stark white with dozens of gold-painted plaster cherubs hanging off the molding, staring down at them. If he touched that stark white wall, he wondered, would he feel cold? He felt his heart begin to pound fast deep strokes when he looked up to see Lady Blackthorn gracefully making her way down the stairs toward them. He had not a single doubt it was her. She was gowned like a queen in yard upon yard of pure-white brocade and silk. From a distance, she looked older, a matron, but as she moved nearer, she became young and younger still, until she didn’t look above twenty-five when she stopped in front of them. Her gown was exquisitely cut, showing her small waist and her delightfully full bosom. She wore long white gloves and diamonds in her ears, around her throat, in her hair, and on her wrists and fingers. Too many diamonds, as if she had a bottomless cask filled with them and loaded on as many as she could.

She dipped a beautiful curtsy to Colin but gave only a cursory nod to Sinjun. She said in a beautiful, deep, smooth voice, “Welcome to my home, my lord. I am delighted you could join all our neighbors.” Like her butler Beaufort, Grayson knew Lady Blackthorn wasn’t English.

All her attention remained now on Colin. She held out her hand to him. Colin took her gloved her hand and bowed over it, but he didn’t kiss it.

Only then did she turn to Grayson. She was no longer twenty-five—she was at least twenty years older, and she looked like the matron he’d first seen coming down the stairs. What was going on here? He looked into her dark eyes, as Pearlin’ Jane had told him to do, searching, and he saw something flicker, shine. Mirrors, he thought, mirrors flashing, and there was something more that shouldn’t be there, something that smoldered hot and deadly, but it was quickly gone. He was left staring at an older woman who was staring back at him, a dark eyebrow raised in question. She was a demon. Was she Belzaria? He felt a punch of fear. At least now he was certain what this creature was, but he didn’t know how powerful she was. What was he facing? He was but a man, a mere mortal man.

Like Colin, he bowed low, but he couldn’t bring himself to touch her hand, its hand. She raised her hand and lightly tapped his cheek. “Ah, Mr. Sherbrooke, soon you will join my forty other guests in the dancing.” She nodded toward the drawing room. “You do have the look of your father, Mr. Ryder Sherbrooke, and, of course, your aunt, Lady Ashburnham. The famous Sherbrooke blue eyes.”

How could she possibly know that? Grayson looked toward the drawing room, saw the glitter of candlelight off the white walls, and heard the waves of laughter and voices. The laughter was louder, more raucous and unrestrained than when they’d arrived. He looked back into her face. She was tall, nearly his height. He said, his voice utterly emotionless, “How come you to be acquainted with my father?”

She gave a light laugh that sent a jab of pain into Grayson’s head. It was familiar, that pain, and he shook his head.

She said, “I am fortunate to meet many people in my travels. I met your father at a soiree in London, I believe it was. But perhaps it was at a soiree in Paris? There are so many. Who can remember?”

Grayson saw Aunt Sinjun blink, open her mouth, then close it and look perplexed. He said, “You have traveled extensively then, yet you chose to move here to Loch Leven? It is not a renowned capital, my lady.”

She shrugged. “I do what I wish, nothing more, and I wished to restore this particular property. Listen, Mr. Sherbrooke, my guests are laughing, enjoying themselves.”

“Your guests appear to be enjoying themselves overmuch. It sounds almost as if there is madness floating in the very air itself.”

She lightly touched her gloved fingers to his forearm. “What a clever thing to say, sir, but you are a writer of some renown, so I suppose you must be clever in order to impress others.”

He never looked away from her. “Yes, that is very probably true. Are you impressed?”

“With you?” She looked him up and down, said again, “With you?” And nothing more. She fastened her eyes once again on Colin. He was staring at Lady Blackthorn as if mesmerized. He didn’t look away from her. As for Aunt Sinjun, she was standing still as a statue beside him.

“I hear a waltz,” Grayson said.

Lady Blackthorn looked back at him and laughed, and to his ears that laugh promised nothing good. He saw that she was looking back toward the massive staircase. Grayson turned to see a beautiful young girl. Surely she was a princess. She was gliding down the stairs, her step light, radiating joy and pleasure and energy—it was coming off her in waves. She skipped to their small group and lightly laid her hand on Lady Blackthorn’s gloved arm. “Mama! I have met everyone but not—” She stopped and stared at Grayson.

“I am Millicent,” she said, her voice demure, and gave him her hand.

Grayson bowed but didn’t touch her hand. Was she Millicent or perhaps Queen Maeve? He wanted to look into her eyes, but she averted her face.

She was Belzaria’s daughter? He realized she was no more English than her mother was. Ah, but her glorious blue eyes sparkled, and her smile was beautiful, showing perfect white teeth. Introductions were made, and again Grayson was drawn to the raucous noise coming from the drawing room as if all the guests were speaking at once, laughing at once.

“Your guests are enjoying themselves,” Sinjun said, the first words out of her mouth. She looked vaguely surprised that she’d spoken.

Lady Blackthorn gave her a dismissive look. “I don’t recall having asked your opinion.”

“Forgive me,” Sinjun said, and Grayson’s mouth fell open. What had Belzaria done to her? Done to Colin? Why was Grayson seemingly immune?

Millicent drew close to Grayson. She tapped his arm with an exquisitely detailed oriental fan. “Mr. Sherbrooke, perhaps you would waltz with me?”

He felt the pull of her and bowed, lightly laid her gloved hand on his arm, and walked to the drawing room. Beaufort stood in the doorway, his eyes on the half dozen servants gliding through the crowd with trays of champagne. Grayson had never seen such exquisite goblets. From a distance, they appeared worked with gold.

“I’m older than I look.”

He looked down into her beautiful upturned face. “You are seventeen and not fifteen?”

She laughed, tapped her fan on his arm. “No, I am nearly your age, quite of an age to be your wife, sir.”

“You look young enough to be my son’s older sister.”

“I am lucky in my mother, sir. When I was born, you see, my mother bade all the visiting dignitaries to give me presents to carry with me into eternity. The Wizard of Spain gave me eternal youth. He said I would age very slowly, and thus I would have many husbands. All would grow old and die, and thus I would have to find another, then another.”

“I have not heard of the Wizard of Spain. Who is he?”

She shrugged white shoulders. “He is a grand old pooh-bah—Uncle Alessandro, I call him. He is all bluff and good-natured, and he adores Mama, has forever. He would make the seas flood the land if it would please her. Do you recall the tidal wave in Lisbon in 1755 that destroyed the town? And what a ratty little town Lisbon was in those days. You see, the Wizard of Spain was very angry at the Portuguese bandits because they’d had the gall to rob three of his ships, and so he took his revenge. He smells of lemons, from the immense groves in Seville, where he resides. Do you like my gown?”

He stared at her, and she stared back. He looked fully into her eyes. He saw vivid deep blue, no mirrors, no tiny bursts of flame, but he knew somehow she’d managed to shield the shining mirrors and the flame. He knew she was a demon.

“I asked if you liked my gown, Mr. Sherbrooke. You are staring at me. Will you be the third of my husbands, do you think?”

He saw laughter in her eyes, and then he saw something else looking out at him that gave him a jolt. “Yes,” he said, “I like your gown. It is very white.”

She sighed, tapped her fan on his arm. “Mama insists upon white. Everything must be white. Myself, I prefer blue, a light blue like your eyes.”

“You spin a fine tale, Miss—?”

“Blackthorn is my mama’s title and a family name as well. Mama tells me we come from a long line of Scottish prelates. You have not answered me. Would you like to be my third husband? The other two, I did them no harm. They lasted their allotted time, as would you.”

“Perhaps you could convince me,” Grayson said. She laughed gaily and pulled him into the throng of dancers.

The waltz was fast, too fast, and too loud, as if the musicians were drunk. He saw that the dancers were hopping about, ankles showing, gentlemen sweating, weaving, and laughing, trying to keep up. He saw Lord Fergusson, the local magistrate, dancing with his plump younger wife, and his hand was rubbing her breast as her small white hand was touching the front of his breeches. There was Mr. Bellingham, the local squire, twirling his wife round and round until they were both staggering, crashing into another couple who didn’t seem to mind at all. They were holding each other up and laughing, always laughing, manic laughter. The squire kissed the other woman, and her husband grabbed the squire’s wife. He wouldn’t be surprised if they began ripping off their clothes. He’d always wondered what a Roman orgy was like. He was seeing it now. He pulled Millicent to a stop. “What is in the champagne, Miss Blackthorn?”

CHAPTER TWELVE

She dimpled up at him, came up on her tiptoes, and whispered, “It is Mama’s special mixture—more a punch, really. It is remarkably delicious and effective.” A servant appeared at Grayson’s elbow and handed him a glass, then gave Millicent one as well. She clinked her glass to his and said, “To our destiny, Mr. Sherbrooke.”

“Yes,” he said, “destiny.” Grayson tapped his golden goblet to hers and pretended to take a sip. He noticed she drank deeply, smacked her lips, and leaned up to kiss him. Her mouth was warm, her breath sweet. He took a quick step back, smiled, and pointed his goblet toward an elderly man who wore immense side whiskers and was whispering something to Lady Henchcliffe even as his hand was roving over her bottom. She was a matron he’d once heard his aunt Sinjun say, who had amazing stamina in the bedchamber. “Who is that gentleman?”

When Millicent looked away, Grayson poured the punch into a potted palm tree and prayed the plant wouldn’t die. She was laughing when she turned back to him, and he pretended he’d drunk all the punch. “That’s Major Plintburough,” she said. “He fought in the big war with Napoleon, led a charge at Waterloo. He was quite the hero—if you are English, that is.”

“And you are not?”

“I? Not English? Don’t I look English?”

Before he could answer, she gave a look at his empty goblet. She took it from him and tossed it to a servant, who deftly caught it and bowed to her, and she pulled him onto the dance floor. Another waltz began.

“I adore waltzing,” she said, louder now, to be heard over the mad noise and the strident beat of the waltz that pounded into his head. Was she watching him closely to see if he would be affected by the champagne?

“I do too,” he said, and twirled her around and around. They bumped into two other couples who exuberantly danced into their path, but there were only laughing apologies, one gentleman’s eyes openly examining Millicent’s breasts. The waltz grew louder, faster. Suddenly, the madly dancing couples left the dance floor. They were running toward a large table that had suddenly appeared at the other end of the drawing room, at least a dozen platters set upon it. Why hadn’t he noticed the table before? Why put the supper in the drawing room? He saw guests were dipping their goblets into a huge bowl of punch in the center of the long table. Endless goblets dipped into the punch. Grayson would swear the level never changed.

“We are nearly alone,” she said, smiling up at him, still moving in place as the musicians had left the narrow dais and had dashed to the punch and food behind the guests. She leaned up, pulled his earlobe lightly with her white teeth. “Do you think it is because we look so beautiful dancing together that all wish to look upon us, or because they are all cochons—excuse me—pigs, to the trough?”

“You aren’t French.”

She said in English, then in fluent French, “I am very gifted. I speak five languages. Mama insisted.”

“Did a visiting wizard bestow upon you the gift for languages?”

She frowned. “Not that I know of.”

“What language is spoken in Border?”

“Border? You mean the lowlands of Scotland? Please call me Millicent, and I will call you Grayson.”

He twirled her around and around to the beat of the waltz that was in his head until his heart was beating hard and fast, and he knew it wasn’t from exertion—it was something that simply wasn’t right. She felt eager and soft. Her breath was sweet and her eyes a deep beguiling blue. Yet there was something—

“How old are you really, Millicent?”

“Ah, but Grayson, I have already told you. Surely a gentleman wouldn’t request a lady’s age a second time?”

“Are you also called Maeve?”

She continued to sway in his arms even though he’d stopped moving. “Maeve? Who is this Maeve?”

“She lives in Border. She told me she is Queen Maeve. I don’t remember what she looked like. Are you she?”

She frowned up at him and tapped her fingers on his black sleeve. “I seem to recall one of the dignitaries my mother summoned at my birth was called Maeve. But a queen? No, I believe she was a sorceress from the Bulgar.”

“How could you recall it if you were but newly birthed?”

“That was another gift, from a witch in Naples, a childhood friend of my mother’s, I believe. She gifted me with absolute memory from before I was even born throughout my life.”

“I wouldn’t want to remember everything.”

“I agree, but I am doomed to lose not a single second of my existence. I will remember each word, each nuance of this, our first meeting.”

“And what did the sorceress Maeve give to you?”

“My beautiful white teeth with the promise that no matter how many years I gained, they would never fall out.”

“A very fine gift indeed. Tell me, Millicent, who is your mother that she was able to garner all these favors from sorceresses and wizards?”

Millicent smiled up at him, still swaying. “Look into her eyes, Mr. Sherbrooke, and you will know. But you already have, have you not? Come, let us go back to your aunt and uncle. If I am not mistaken, your uncle is already in love with my mama. She has but to look at a man and he would kill to have her.”

Grayson felt a pounding behind his left temple. This was madness—a mad illusion, a mad play with mad players. For a moment, he was back in that tower room, with the rat and Queen Maeve. Why couldn’t he remember what she looked like?

Millicent grabbed another goblet of champagne punch from a hovering servant and handed it to him. He simply held the priceless gold-worked goblet. The huge drawing room was now stifling, the guests all speaking over each other, fondling each other, feeding each other. So much discordant noise and it filled his head, and the pounding behind his temple grew, making him nauseated. Did the drawing room seem larger now? Did it look more like a ballroom than a simple drawing room? Were there more candles in the ornate chandeliers, flames dancing, all glowing madly? He looked at the gigantic punch bowl in the middle of the large table, and he’d swear it was still full with the punch, magic punch, drugged punch. He saw one guest drink deeply, throw back his head and laugh loudly, then throw his goblet to a lady in a dark green gown. She caught it, saluted him, and joined him in laughter. Then she hurled the priceless goblet against the wall. The goblet didn’t shatter—it seemed to float slowly to lie on the floor.

The pain in his head grew. His eyes hurt.

He heard her voice as if from a great distance. “Drink the champagne, Grayson. It will make you feel wonderful. I know—I snuck a sip when Mama wasn’t looking.”

Grayson didn’t look at her. He walked straight out of the vast drawing room to see Aunt Sinjun, Uncle Colin, and Lady Blackthorn standing exactly where he’d left them, at the base of the ornate stairs, the golden plaster cherubs smirking down upon them, as if they hadn’t moved or as if no time had passed at all. They presented a frozen tableau. No, that wasn’t right. Lady Blackthorn had moved closer to Uncle Colin, too close, and Aunt Sinjun standing quietly beside him, the expression on her face curiously blank. Each of them held a goblet of the champagne punch in their hands. Had they drunk any of the punch? Neither of them seemed to be really here, only shadows of themselves. Grayson looked at the wide graceful staircase, followed the dozens of steps upward, but oddly, he couldn’t see the top—the stairs simply faded into shadows. Lady Blackthorn was leaning up now, her fingers lightly touching Colin’s cheek, and he was smiling down at her, and now he’d raised his hand to cup her chin, raising her cupped chin so he could kiss her, and Aunt Sinjun only stood there, unseeing, unheeding.

Grayson shouted, “Uncle Colin, Aunt Sinjun, I fear I am grown unwell! We must leave before I am ill.”

Nothing happened.

He ran to his uncle and grabbed his arm and jerked him away. Sinjun blinked, shook out her skirts, look confused, and Colin was staring down at Lady Blackthorn. Grayson shook his arm again. “Uncle Colin! We must leave!” Colin quickly stepped back, his look uncertain.

Grayson stood between them, gripped both of their arms. “Lady Blackthorn, I fear we must leave. Miss Blackthorn, a pleasure.” He pulled them away, aware that the butler, Beaufort, was suddenly in front of them, walking smoothly toward the cherub-carved dead-white door, opening it. Grayson turned, took one last look. Lady Blackthorn was standing perfectly still, looking after them, Millicent at her side, smiling, showing off her perfect white teeth, and she raised a slender hand and waved at him and mouthed, “Marry me.”

Beaufort said, “I have, of course, summoned your carriage, my lord.”

Grayson wondered how the butler had known to do that. He gestured them outside to stand on the top marble step. He stood behind them in the open doorway, stately and in charge, watching them, the too-loud music and laughter loud roiling behind him. And suddenly there was Frazier, the coachman, holding the horses still and nodding to them. Liam, the tiger, was placing the steps in front of the open carriage door.

Outside in the chill clean air, Grayson’s head cleared, and the pounding lessened, then disappeared. In the next instant, he saw himself lying on a stone floor, and he was so cold, and there was a rat staring at him. The image disappeared.

Grayson nearly shoved his aunt and uncle into the carriage. He closed the door. He looked up at the Ashburnham coachman he’d known since he was a boy. “When did the butler summon you, Frazier?”

Frazier scratched his whiskers, looked momentarily confused, and then his brow cleared. “Oh, aye, ’twere nay more than ten minutes ago, Mr. Sherbrooke. Aye, aboot ten minutes ago. Me and Liam were close by, ye ken, in a special place, we were told. Mr. Beaufort was kind. He sent me a flagon of ale.”

Of course the ale had been drugged.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

“What a lovely ball.” Sinjun sighed as she nestled against Colin’s side in the carriage. “How very charming Lady Blackthorn is, and the manor house—do you not believe she has made it splendid, Colin?”

Colin was staring out the window into the night, silent. Slowly, he turned to his wife. “You don’t remember? She kissed me, Sinjun, and I would have kissed her back if Grayson hadn’t shouted at us. But my mind didn’t seem to be in my control. And you, Sinjun, you weren’t there. It was as if you were a shadow of yourself, an impression, but no, you weren’t there. And you still aren’t. How do I get you back to me?”

Sinjun blinked. “Lady Blackthorn kissed you, my dear? But surely you must be mistaken.”

Grayson was sitting on the seat facing them. He leaned forward, interrupting. “You remember that, Uncle Colin?”

“Yes, but I didn’t remember until we stepped outside.”

Sinjun grabbed his arm. “What are you talking about, Colin? You wanted to kiss that woman? I don’t remember that. We laughed and talked and—” Her voice fell off the cliff. She stared at her husband, then at Grayson, and finally she shook her head, whispered, “Now I remember, some of it anyway.” She shuddered. “It’s like a nightmare.”

Grayson said, “Do you remember what you talked about, Aunt Sinjun?”

She looked thoughtful, then frightened. “I don’t know. I don’t remember talking about anything.”

“The champagne punch was drugged,” Grayson said matter-of-factly. “I imagine you don’t even remember drinking it. But it’s over now that you’re out of that house, away from her.” He saw Sinjun wanted to say something, but then she shook her head at herself and stared out the carriage window.

He said, “Do you remember that the laughter was too loud? The music in the drawing room too exuberant?”

Colin was very still. “You said the punch was drugged. I remember now that a servant handed each of us a goblet of the stuff. It was a beautiful goblet, gold, and the handle was gilded, I’m sure of it. Sinjun, you were thirsty, I remember, and you took only a small sip, but like me, you didn’t like the taste. All this confusion, Grayson, and we only drank small amounts of the stuff?” He shook his head. “Odd, I don’t remember what I did with the goblet.”

“Evidently one sip was enough,” Grayson said. “All your neighbors, they drank goblet after goblet. I wonder what they will remember tomorrow morning?”

Sinjun asked, “What do you mean by that?”

“I realized it must have been like one of those Roman orgies you read about. You would not have recognized your neighbors, Aunt Sinjun. I hope they won’t remember anything. One thing I’m sure of—they will all be praising Lady Blackthorn—both ladies and gentlemen—and all the talk will be of her splendid party. She will become, overnight, the gracious hostess, a lady to be admired and welcomed into the neighborhood.”

Sinjun was fretting with her reticule. “But I only drank a sip of it, and yet I don’t remember that hussy kissing Colin.”

Colin hugged her to him. “We are free of her now. I think you will eventually remember, Sinjun. And I agree with you, Grayson, all the other guests—our neighbors—they will never remember, will they?”

“I strongly doubt it.” Grayson grabbed the strap to steady himself over a rough stretch of road. “It wouldn’t serve her for any of them to remember that they behaved like out-of-control Oxford students with no boundaries, no rules.”

Sinjun looked over at Grayson. “You told us what Jane said, that Belzaria wanted Colin, that she wanted to take him to Border and make him her slave.”

Grayson said, “I’d hoped Jane was being overly dramatic, but evidently not. And that means we must all take great care. Now, how old do you think Lady Blackthorn’s daughter Millicent is?”

Sinjun said, “Sixteen, perhaps?”

Colin said nearly at the same time, “Older, at least thirty, I should say, but now that I think about it, Lady Blackthorn—the mother, she looked no older than her daughter.”

They stared at each other, then looked at Grayson. “What is going on here?” Colin asked, his voice not quite steady. “Do you know how old she is?”

Grayson felt the threads weave themselves together. “I don’t think either of them has an age,” he said slowly. “I think their ages are what they want you to see. But I think Lady Blackthorn is indeed Belzaria, and that means we’re in deep trouble.”

“Because of Colin?”

“Yes, Aunt Sinjun, because Belzaria wants Colin.”

“But you are younger, Grayson. Why wouldn’t she want you?”

Colin stared at his nephew in the dim light. “I think whoever or whatever these two women are, they’re afraid of Grayson.”

When they reached Vere Castle, Hobbs handed each of them a lit candle, locked and bolted the great front doors, and said in his pinched voice, “It isna late ye come home, my lord. The party wasn’t to yer liking?”

It was Sinjun who said, “I believe we were the first guests who left, but still, I remember being there a very long time. Pray, Hobbs, what time is it?”

“A pinch after eleven o’clock, my lady, only a pinch.”

They’d been gone less than two hours. They looked at each other, but nothing was said.

Grayson followed his aunt and uncle up the stairs, heard her say quietly, “I will not leave your side, Colin. If this—demon, or whatever she is—wants you for whatever reason, she will have both of us to deal with.”

Colin leaned down and kissed her, but he said nothing.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Grayson waited. He wasn’t surprised to feel the air itself shift almost instantly, as if something unseen parted it to come through. She shimmered at the foot of his bed, her pearls glowing in the soft candlelight. Slowly she became clear, and he saw her face was as pale as her pearls, but then it always was. She was tugging on her pearls.

I took back my pearl, she said clearly in his mind, and she held up one of the loops, her fingers around one pearl.

He wondered how a ghost could pick up a pearl that had been too real, how she could have possibly restrung it onto one of the loops. He started to ask her, but he heard her voice clearly. Ye saw her, didna ye, Grayson? Ye saw Belzaria, the demon?

He settled his head against his arms. “I saw both Belzaria and another, named Millicent, supposedly her daughter.” He told Jane about the drugged champagne punch, the bizarre drunken behavior of all the guests, ladies included, and how Colin and Sinjun had only taken a sip of the drugged punch, but still Colin would have kissed Lady Blackthorn if Grayson hadn’t stopped him.

I would have liked to drink some of that lovely champagne punch, but like ye said, the demon poisoned it. An’ all those idjits, those gowkies, the lot of them laughin’ too loud an’ dancin’ aboot like dafties. Ah, Grayson, but there was so much fuid—it all looked so very good.

Grayson would swear he heard her sigh. “I didn’t know you were at the party, Jane. You should have stopped me.”

Oh nay, to hear it from yer lips, ’tis different. Ye have senses I canna remember. Aye, I knew soon enough she’d poisoned that champagne, an’ so I made it taste nestie to Sinjun and Colin. But he sipped it, jes’ like a mon, always doin’ what he isna supposed to do, an’ he nearly pree the lips wi’ that demon. An’ my poor Sinjun, she took only a tiny sip—but the demon had put a spell on her.

I told ye, I told ye, now didna I, that the demon wants Colin and ye canna let the bitch take him. That canna happen.

“No, we will not let that happen, Jane. Did you speak to your kelpie friend, Barrie, at Loch Ness?”

Och, aye, Barrie tried to hide from me, nestled he was in amongst the yellow heather, but I saw his bare foot sticking out and grabbed it and pulled. He yaffed, jes’ like a wee lassie an’ so I told him. He said he couldna help me, that he had to find a nice big goat for the monster. Her bairns were hungry, and no fishers had ventured out—they were scairt feardies because a fisher had seen her.

I told him I’d tie him up with my pearls and feed him to the monster’s bairns unless he told me how to kill a demon. He hemmed and hawed, as kelpies do, forever trying to slither off, like weasely snakes, but I didn’t let go of his foot. This is what he told me, Grayson: A demon loves French sweet breid and will eat the French sweet breid until it falls asleep. Then ye must strangle it, if ye can find its craig.

“Craig? You mean its neck, Jane?”

Aye, that is what I said!

“Do you believe Barrie? Sweet breid—cake, Jane? That doesn’t sound like something that would make a demon fall asleep.”

That is what Barrie said. Sweet breid, French sweet breid. An’ he said it like I was a looby and ignorant, that everyone should ken how to kill a demon.

“What sort of cake is French sweet breid?”

The air heaved and shimmered with impatience. French sweet breid, ’tis naught but fruit and berries in pastry. Sinjun’s cook, she’ll ken how to make it.

Jane shimmered in the air, faded away, and then came back, fully formed, swaying in front of him, playing with her pearls, making one loop longer, then shorter, preening, something he imagined her doing most of the time. And that was a question: Did she see herself in a mirror? And what was time to a ghost?

She paused, and he would swear she stiffened, turned about quickly, then he saw the fear on her face, and she was gone, simply gone. He heard her voice frantic in his head: The demon is close. Ye must kill it, Grayson, afore it kills me and Sinjun and takes Colin.

Grayson pinched out the candle and lay on his back staring up at the dark ceiling. He heard a floorboard creak and wondered if Belzaria was here. When he fell asleep, he saw Millicent’s young face, and he saw himself pulling her back against his chest in the circular tower room. In Border. And she’d told him she was Queen Maeve and Belzaria was close. The two faces mixed in his brain and changed from young to old and toothless, and he was spinning from one to the other, seeing neither of their faces.

When he woke up at the rooster’s loud crow, close, right outside his window, he remembered all of it.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Day Three

Vere Castle

Grayson drank a cup of Mrs. Keith’s splendid black India tea at the big servants’ table in the kitchen. Everything sparkled, not a single white dot of flour, not a single sign of Jane’s mad visit the previous afternoon.

Mrs. Keith said, “Ye say ye wish me to bake a French sweet breid?”

“Yes, Mrs. Keith. I have asked my aunt Sinjun to invite Lady Blackthorn and her daughter to tea, and I understand this is their favorite cake. Do you know how to make it?”

Mrs. Keith said, “I remember my mither showing me the ancient recipe when I was a bairn, goes back ever so long, even my mither didn’t know where it came from. It was a special sort of French breid, she told me. I will try, Mr. Sherbrooke.”

Grayson left the kitchen, his head bowed in thought. Sinjun had already written a note to Lady Blackthorn, sent Liam with it to Blackthorn Manor. She would come. He knew she would come. And she would bring Millicent. But what he didn’t know was if one could believe a kelpie named Barrie who lived at Loch Ness who’d told this to Pearlin’ Jane under duress. How could a certain sort of cake put a demon to sleep?

He knew he’d better have something else in mind, just in case, and it took him an hour to figure out what he needed.

* * * * *

At precisely three o’clock that afternoon, a very modern, very expensive carriage pulled up in front of Vere Castle. And because Grayson had awoken to remember everything that had happened to him, he recognized it immediately. It was the same carriage that had pulled up beside him that lost day. He stood at the window and watched the coachman, a handsome young man dressed in blue-and-gold livery, hand the reins to the small tiger, then he himself placed the step at the carriage door. He opened the door, bowed, and held out his hand to assist Lady Blackthorn to alight.

Her face blurred. Grayson shook his head, staring hard at her, but somehow he couldn’t seem to bring her face into focus. Then Millicent stepped down onto the step, and she was waving at no one in particular, laughing as she gave her hand to the coachman. When she stood beside her mother, he realized that he couldn’t clearly make out her face either. It was if they were wearing veils, only they weren’t. What was going on here? Their gowns were exquisite, identical, both a dark forest green, the pokes of their bonnets high, streaming green ribbons of the same dark shade. From his vantage point, they looked like twins, very rich twins. One of the chestnut horses neighed. Even the horses looked perfectly matched.

He turned to face his aunt and uncle, his voice low. “We will end this today,” he said, “or else I fear what would happen to you, Uncle Colin, to all of us. I know you do not wish to believe in ghosts, in demons, in the advice the Loch Ness kelpie Barrie gave Pearlin’ Jane, but we have no choice. Listen, neither of you should show anything but remembered pleasure of last night. You are grateful for being invited to her splendid party, all right?”

Colin looked stiff all over. He was torn, truth be told. The events of the previous evening were blurred in his brain, and he simply couldn’t be certain what Grayson had told him had indeed happened. Neither did Sinjun, but she believed Grayson implicitly, not a doubt in her beautiful head. But French sweet breid?

To Grayson’s surprise and dismay, another carriage pulled to a stop behind Lady Blackthorn’s. This one was much smaller, much older, bordering on shabby. The vicar alighted, nodded to his coachman, and walked quickly to greet Lady Blackthorn and her daughter. He was giving the ladies formal bows, talking all the while. Grayson didn’t remember seeing him at Lady Blackthorn’s party last night.

The three of them were met by Hobbs at the front doors of the castle and shown promptly into the drawing room.

Greetings were made, all offered a seat.

Vicar Gordon was effusive. “I always so enjoy coming here,” he said to Lady Blackthorn, then turned to smile at Sinjun. “The past lives in this room, ah, and the Kinross plaid, its reds and greens so bright, and furnishings to revere our worthy ancestors.” He was fully capable of continuing indefinitely. Sinjun and Colin had heard enough of his sermons to know only a blow to the head or a cup of tea would shut him up.

Sinjun nodded thankfully to Hobbs when he came into the drawing room bearing an old silver tray. Upon it sat a beautiful Georgian teapot, Meissen cups and saucers, and beneath a domed plate, Grayson devoutly prayed sat the French sweet breid.

Vicar Gordon turned to Lady Blackthorn. “I understand from my parishioners that you gave a splendid party last night, my lady. A pity I was unable to leave my wife, what with her putrid throat that came upon her so quickly. She is better today. I am so pleased to find you here.” And he gave her a big toothy grin.

Grayson cleared his throat, well aware that the demon hadn’t said a single word, which was difficult at best, his aunt Sinjun had told him, when the vicar was around. She looked quite complacent, sitting upright, her beautiful green skirts spread around her. Millicent looked somehow dimmed beside her, somehow overshadowed by her . . . what—her mother? In the next moment, he finally saw their faces clearly; one was older, one younger. Mother and daughter. They seemed to be exactly what they appeared to be. Only they weren’t.

When everyone had been served tea, the vicar continued with his monologue. Lady Blackthorn took a sip of her tea, looked at the vicar, gave him a nod, and in the next moment, he leaned his head back against the settee and was snoring lightly.

She smiled at them all. “Ah, he has talked himself out, I see.”

The power, Grayson thought, the absolute power. At least she hadn’t killed the vicar. He smiled at her. “Lady Blackthorn, I have wondered why your daughter’s last name is also Blackthorn. Has she not been married before?”

“Ah, as to that, it was her father’s name. A fine man, a holy man, a man who was more than a man. Her previous husbands were naught but middling fools. But they were rich, and surely that was something in their favor.”

“I was told Blackthorn was a Scottish prelate’s name from the twelfth century.”

The demon laughed. “Surely there have been many Blackthorns over the centuries, Mr. Sherbrooke, many prelates by that name. And why is that important to you?”

“It is of interest, don’t you think?” Grayson rose, went to the marquetry table, lifted the dome, and saw the large cake with apricot preserves flowing over its sides. He picked up the knife and sliced the French sweet breid.

Grayson saw both heads snap up, watched both noses sniff the air.

“What is that?” The demon was leaning forward, nearly tipping off the settee.

Grayson merely smiled and handed it a large slice of the cake. He looked at the demon daughter—Queen Maeve—yes, he remembered her as the young girl who had come to him in that tower room. But what would this demon have done to him? “Would you care for a slice? I believe it’s French sweet breid.”

The daughter nodded as well, her eyes never leaving her mother’s slice. Her mother didn’t wait for everyone to be served. She immediately cut a big piece with her fork and crammed it into her mouth.

Grayson handed Queen Maeve a slice and watched her gobble it down.

The two demons sat as human beings in a Scottish drawing room, chewing, swallowing, making sounds of pleasure, ignoring Sinjun, Colin, and Grayson.

They silently watched the demons devour another slice of the French sweet breid.

After a third slice, Lady Blackthorn paused, licked her lips, and nodded. “Excellent. I cannot remember the last time I enjoyed such excellent French sweet breid. Your cook—I fancy I will take her to Blackthorn Manor. Perhaps another slice would suit me,” and held out its plate.

Grayson served each of them a fourth large slice. How many slices would it take before they fell asleep and he could kill them? They both still appeared alert—and hungry. Had cook not known all the ingredients? Was a critical one missing? What would happen if he ran out of the French sweet breid and they wanted more?

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Grayson saw Colin staring fixedly at Lady Blackthorn as she stuffed the fourth slice of French sweet breid into her mouth. Was he remembering what had happened, and more importantly, was he accepting it, accepting that she was not a human, rather a demon?

Grayson felt the air change right behind him and knew it was Pearlin’ Jane. She was hidden behind him, watching. Could the demons see her? Perhaps sense her presence?

The demon raised her head and sniffed the air. Grayson didn’t feel Jane now—she’d left. She was fast. The demon turned to smile at Colin. “Your wife is really quite old and ugly, my lord,” she said, even as she forked another bite of cake into her mouth. “I am here to remove her from your sight. I will erase her, as if she never existed to torment you. I shall take her place. You and I will travel to lands you have never imagined, my lord, lands that will thrill your blood.”

Colin felt the pull of her, remembered that same pull last night, and he knew he was in trouble. He felt the derringer in his pocket. He wouldn’t have fed this creature the ridiculous French breid. He’d have shot her –it--between the eyes. Maybe he would still need to.

Sinjun laughed. “Really, ma’am. Me, ugly? Have you not gazed into my beautiful Sherbrooke blue eyes? Admired my beautiful smile, heard my mellow voice, like bells, my husband is always telling me? It is you who are an abomination. Who would want to see other lands in your company? You are an ancient evil. How old are you? Older than the dirt in my garden? At least, I should say—just look at you.”

Millicent said, her voice sharp, vicious, “How dare you speak to her like that? She is a princess, nay, a queen, more than a queen. She is the undisputed sovereign over lands you cannot begin to imagine. For her to select this man, it is a gift, to all of you.” She turned to Grayson, and she was no longer sixteen. Her face was setting into hard lines, older lines.

“And you, sirrah, we tried to stop you. We both recognized what you were, the threat you were to us, and I knew you would fight to come back, and so you did.

“I was your prisoner in Border, in that tower room. Why did you let me go?”

Belzaria said, “We wanted to see you, examine you. My Maeve talked me out of killing you. She felt it would be more amusing to watch you try to best us, you with your reputation for dealing with our kind, and your silly novels about ghosts and beasts of the otherworld. But you are common, withal, despite your hardy spirit, your fine human brain, and your seeming immunity to my power. I will admit that you have a strong will. And here you are, trying to save your precious uncle from me, a beautiful queen of lands he can only begin to imagine.”

Maeve said, “The earl does not need to be saved from my precious mother, do you hear me? He will be a prince, even a king, if he pleases her, and if she becomes convinced he isn’t weak like the others, that he will accept all that is offered to him. He doesn’t need this worthless bitch. He will thrive with my mother.” She eyed the French breid. It seemed to Grayson that she had to force herself to look away, to look at him, and she shrugged. “Yes, I wanted to let you go. I wanted to see what you would do. You’ve done nothing but talk, talk, talk, like all worthless humans.”

Grayson said, “Are you Queen Maeve? And if you are indeed she, how can she be your mother? Wouldn’t that make her the queen of Border? Not you?”

“It is all of a sameness,” Belzaria said, staring at the French breid. “You would not understand. Your minds are too narrow, too feeble, to see anything as it really is. She is Queen Maeve—she is whatever she wishes to be, just as I am Belzaria.”

“More cake?” Grayson asked, even as he cut two more slices of the French sweet breid.

Both demons’ eyes were fastened on those two slices.

Colin said, “Why do you think I wouldn’t be as weak as the others, Lady Blackthorn? Belzaria? Did you marry many other men before you found me? Tell me, how many have preceded me? Did you divorce them all? Did you kill them?”

“Bah,” the demon said even as it let the fork fall to the carpet. It was eating the fat slice Grayson had put on the plate with its fingers, as fast as it could. It chewed, eyes closed in bliss. It was the same with Maeve. Both demons were eating their fifth slice.

There were only two slices left. Would they finally fall asleep? Belzaria took the last bite, but didn’t fall over, it opened its eyes, said to Colin, “You are a handsome man, you are an earl, and you are known even where I live much of the time. Your land, it constricts me. I do not like it here even with the splendid house that languished because I could find no more boy children to kill.”

Grayson said, “What do you mean, Belzaria, you have no boy children to give it to kill? The house?”

Belzaria laughed. “So you know me. Aye, of course the house, you brainless man. Donnan MacKeller, what a fool he was, so greedy, willing to make a bargain with a demon, and then the idiot thought to cheat me. Me! Aye, we’d made a bargain, his life and lands saved from the English soldiers in return for his giving me the ancient Celtic cross he’d hidden, a cross my grandmother gave as a gift to one of his ancestors, a rickety old sot she occasionally bedded. And so I saved him, saved his lands, his family, and what did the deceitful fool do? He told me he could not find the cross, that his father had hidden it again, not showing him the hiding place. I knew he was lying. And so I cursed all the male children who would ever live in that house.” It paused, popped the last piece of cake into its mouth, chewed, swallowed. “I looked and looked but could not find the cross. I do not wish to remain here. I must give up hope, and it sorely tries me. I will leave once I have Colin.” The demon wiped its mouth with the back of its hand. It looked toward Sinjun. “You are a bothersome bitch. You have no worth, no value, and you are old and ugly, as I said. Colin will want to come with me—he’ll beg to come with me. Shall I kill you?”

The demon leaned over and grabbed the rest of the cake slice off Maeve’s plate. Grayson would swear he heard Maeve hiss. He was quick to hand each of them the two final slices, neither of them very big. The demon had killed all those innocent boy children? It chilled him to the bone. But he couldn’t let them see it. He shot his aunt Sinjun a quick look to keep her still, then said, smiling, “Your wit was remarked upon by many of your guests last night, my lady. All thought you vastly amusing. Surely you are jesting now. Surely you would not wish to divide this man and woman. They are devoted to each other. Colin would not be happy without his wife.”

“He will forget her in an instant.” She snapped her fingers. “You saw him last night. He knew he belonged to me.” The demon gave him a frown. “When I let you go, I didn’t realize you were immune to us, and that is bothersome, but in the end it won’t matter. You don’t matter—you’re naught but a garden slug, slow and stupid.”

“But Mama, he is giving us French breid. He is nice now, isn’t he? But this is the last slice. Isn’t there any more? I will be very angry if there isn’t more French breid.”

Grayson felt the knotted string in his pocket, enough to garrote both of them. Why didn’t they fall over? “To prove how nice I am, shall I call for more cake?”

Both demons nodded.

But there was no more cake. Grayson said quickly, “Tell me, what language is spoken in Border?”

Both demons stared at him, momentarily distracted. Finally, Belzaria said, “I must revise my thinking. I have decided that you are not a common garden slug. You are a bright lad. I shall kill you swiftly, not draw out your death as would usually please me. Did you enjoy your brief stay in my lovely Warwick Castle?”

He nodded, why not? Anything to keep it talking. Why didn’t the demons fall over?

“All of you—you are so very tedious, your minds so limited. I have had enough of humans to last me one of your pitiful lifetimes. Save for Colin, who will amuse me for a time. I ask you, who would ever wish to wear a ridiculous corset?” The demon licked its fingers, rose, said to Colin, “Sir, prepare to enjoy my magnificent self. For how long? We shall see. And you, my lady, you have outlived your usefulness.” It raised its hand.

Grayson said quickly, “Wait, there is something I do not understand. When I was in your tower room at Warwick Castle, I remember Queen Maeve told me she wanted to save me from you. She said she was there to rescue me. She said she was the hereditary queen of Border.” He looked from one to the other. “If she is the hereditary queen of Border, then who are you?”

Belzaria threw back her head and laughed, and her thick lustrous wig fell off. She looked dispassionately at the wig on the carpet at her feet. “Ah, that feels better. My Maeve here adores to spin better tales than you write, sirrah. Now, as for you, Colin, it’s time for you to visit my land and learn what it is like to serve me, your queen.”

The cake hadn’t worked. Neither of the demons was asleep.

“As for you, pathetic cow, say good-bye to this benighted earth.”

The air split apart, and Pearlin’ Jane shimmered in front of them. She jerked off her pearls and began hurling them at the demon. Belzaria shrieked when a pearl hit its face and stuck for a moment, burning, leaving a black pockmark. It howled, slapped a hand to its cheek, and disappeared. The expensive green gown lay empty on the floor. But Jane continued to hurl the pearls at the spot where the demon had stood. A flash of bright light appeared, and arms of light slapped away at the pearls, but there was a noise, a moaning, a shriek, low cries, and Jane kept throwing pearls.

Pearls struck the demon Maeve and it too disappeared, the second green gown tumbling to the floor. Jane was still hurling her pearls. She could still see the demons?

They heard the demons shrieking in unison now, an unearthly noise. But Jane was running out of pearls. How had she known her pearls would hurt the demons? A guess? It didn’t matter. They owed her their lives.

Grayson shouted, “Come back, I have more French breid for you.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

The pearls stopped, the shrieking stopped. The air itself seemed to freeze, and then he saw a hand, only it wasn’t really a human hand, it was withered, three long fingers, a yellowish-brown, and those fingers grabbed his wrist. Then other fingers shot out and grabbed his other wrist, shook it. When would the demons realize there was no more cake? Grayson prayed.

Time froze.

His wrists were released. There were two thumps, as if something substantial had hit the floor. And the demons appeared again, once more dressed in their gowns, but their faces were changing, growing older and older still, and they were making a humming noise, and finally, both were asleep - two ancient women lying on the floor, cake crumbs still on their vein-backed hands, and smeared on their mouths.

Grayson didn’t wait—he pulled the knotted string from his coat and looped it around Belzaria’s ancient wrinkled throat and pulled with all his might. The demon didn’t move. Then its eyes popped open and it whispered in a strange guttural language, and strangely, he understood it. “I am Belzaria, I rule all I wish to rule,” and its eyes closed and the demon was dead. He quickly looped the garrote around Maeve’s neck and jerked tight, held it.

Nothing. Deep heavy breathing, then Maeve’s eyes opened. “You think to kill me, you puling little human?”

“Yes, you ate the cake, and you’re helpless. I am strangling you.”

“I will turn you into filthy muck. I will grind your guts and make you eat them. I will—”

He jerked the garrote tighter, pulled with all his might, his knee against a chest that wasn’t a human chest to gain more leverage. Fingered claws went around his throat, trying to choke him. The demon was stronger than he could imagine. So the daughter was younger and stronger than the demon mother. He knew he was going to lose, and when he did, all of them would die.

The Jane was beside him. She was stuffing pearls down the demon’s throat, a half dozen, a full dozen, and the demon was trying to spit them out, choking, heaving against the garrote around its neck, but Jane kept gathering up the pearls from the carpet, one pearl after the other, shoving them down the demon’s throat.

Finally the demon died, its mouth open, ancient parchment cheeks that weren’t human cheeks, bulging with pearls. Grayson slowly stood, looked down at them, Jane beside him, and he’d swear she was panting with exertion. “Ye kilt them, Grayson, ye kilt them!”

“We kilt them, Jane. Thank you.” He watched as the demons slowly seemed to shrink and fade, and soon there was nothing left, not even the gowns. It was as if they’d never been there.

Except for a rancid smell Grayson knew had once been violets and roses.

He looked at the empty cake plate, at all of Jane’s pearls scattered on the carpet. He heard her say, Me pearls kilt that young demon – ooh what a fine thing it was, a verra fine thing. He looked over to see Sinjun and Colin sitting perfectly still, not looking at him, not looking at anything in particular. It was if they weren’t there.

Grayson walked to them, lightly shook their arms.

Sinjun opened her beautiful Sherbrooke eyes. “Grayson, what happened? I simply fell asleep—Colin!” She shook his arm, and he jerked awake. “What happened? Grayson, you are all right? Those demons, what happened?”

“They’re dead.” Having them not aware of what had happened surprised him. He eyed them, said, “What is the last thing you remember?”

Colin said slowly, “Lady Blackthorn—a demon? I can’t believe that, I can’t. But—” He drew a deep breath. “I knew she was, whatever she was, she was going to kill Sinjun, but I couldn’t seem to move, and then—” He shook his head. “Sinjun?”

“No, I don’t remember anything. Where are they, Grayson?”

“They’re gone. Dead, I hope. What the kelpie Barrie told Jane, it worked, but I couldn’t have killed them without Jane’s help. She hurled her pearls at them, stuffed them into the younger demon’s mouth. It finished it off. How, I have no idea.”

Sinjun stared at him blank-faced. “Really? The demons simply disappeared?”

Grayson nodded. “Yes, they’re gone. Maybe Border will change now that they’re gone. However, we have a problem.” And he pointed toward the piles of white pearls scattered all over the floor.

The air shimmered.

Sinjun stilled, and then she smiled. “Jane believes they’re dead. She said she’s going to Loch Ness to see if Barrie would like to drink champagne with her. And she wants to ask him more about how the pearls helped kill them.” Sinjun looked blank a moment, then threw back her head and laughed.

Colin stared at the pearls. “How can a ghost have real pearls? How can a ghost throw something? It is difficult for a man to accept.”

Sinjun patted his arm. “I know. Now it’s up to us to restring them for her.”

Grayson said to the still air, “Thank you, Jane, really, thank you.”

Vicar Gordon, forgotten until this moment, jerked awake, blinked furiously, and turned bright red with embarrassment. “Oh dear, I fell asleep, how very rude of me, my lady, my lord. Was I sleeping a long time?”

“We let you enjoy your nap, Vicar,” Colin said, giving him his hand to pull him up. “Perhaps you would care for a cup of tea to revive yourself?”

“Oh yes, that would be excellent, my lord. And perhaps a piece of that cake? I seemed to smell something extraordinary in my dreams, and I knew it was a cake, a special cake.”

“Alas, we consumed every single slice,” Grayson said. “I will have Mrs. Keith send your cook the recipe. It’s called French sweet breid.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Day Four

The next day, Grayson returned from Kinross village to tell his aunt and uncle about the endless gossip and consternation at the sudden disappearance of beneficent Lady Blackthorn, her glorious daughter, Millicent, the stately butler, Beaufort, and all the staff. It appeared everyone had simply left during the previous night, leaving all their fine clothing behind, all the beautiful furnishings. All that was found was one empty champagne bottle in the huge drawing room. But how could that be possible? It was soon whispered that they’d been borne away by the curse of the MacKellers. Soon, Grayson knew the story would be repeated so many times that in the years to come it would be accepted as one of the strange truths in the neighborhood.

It was a day for surprises. Within the hour, Philip Kinross, eldest son of Colin, the Earl of Ashburnham, arrived with his wife and two children, Colin and Tessa, ages seven and four, a surprise visit, only Grayson knew it wasn’t. He knew Pearlin’ Jane had brought them, and he knew what he had to do, what she hoped he could do.

There was laughter in the house again, the sounds of children racing about, enjoying themselves immensely.

All the staff had searched for Pearlin’ Jane’s pearls and found one hundred and seven. One pearl was missing. And so was Pearlin’ Jane. She was too embarrassed to be seen without all of her pearls. Grayson smiled as he fingered that last pearl he’d slipped into his pocket.

The morning after Philip’s and his family’s arrival, Grayson was eating his porridge, alone for the moment, and he felt her behind his chair.

I canna find my missing pearl!

“I know, Jane. I fear one of the demons swallowed it. And they’re long gone now.”

A huffing silence, a begrudging, Miserable demon bitch, eating one of me pearls! Maybe she spit it out, left it somewhere. I’ll ask Barrie.

“Don’t worry about it. Trust me, Jane, all right? I wish to thank you again. That was a brilliant idea, throwing your pearls at them. Did you ask Barrie why it hurt them?”

I tell you, Grayson, the first pearl simply leapt out of my hand, hurled itself at Belzaria. And how would a pearl know how to hurt a demon? The young one was stronger than her mither, that wicked Belzaria. It was hard to stuff my pearls down that one’s throat. Och, but both demons were old, so very old, from ancient times, and we kilt them, Grayson, we kilt them! An’ my pearls!

“Yes, we did. About your missing pearl—”

“Who are you talking to, Grayson?”

Grayson turned to see Elise, Philip’s wife, coming into the dining room, smiling at him. She was small and plump and quite pretty, only a year older than he was. He rose, said matter-of-factly, “I was speaking to Pearlin’ Jane. She was very helpful to me, eliminating a very big problem.”

A perfectly arched dark eyebrow went up. “Ah, you are jesting, Grayson. Pearlin’ Jane? The ghost my mama-in-law swears to me has lived here at Vere Castle for more than a hundred years now, her friend and confidant? Come, sir, really. I have told Tessa and Colin how you make up ghost stories, and they are clamoring to have you scare them. But I do not need them, particularly before my breakfast.”

Grayson looked at the patent disbelief on her lovely face, the indulgent smile, so like Colin’s. “Elise, if I were to tell you Pearlin’ Jane and I were discussing the events of the past week, what would you say?”

“I would say you have imbibed a very strong beverage with your porridge.”

“Did you see the pile of perfect white pearls in Aunt Sinjun’s basket?” He wouldn’t tell her about the demons—she’d doubtless petition to commit him to Bedlam.

“They are magnificent. She didn’t say where they’d come from, just that they needed to be restrung. Why?” She paused. “Ah, you’re going to tell me they belong to this ghost, this Pearlin’ Jane, and that’s how she got her name? They are real pearls, Grayson, not ghostly pearls that don’t really exist.”

He only smiled, pulled back her chair, and waited for her to settle herself. He handed her a cup of tea. “Will you perform an experiment for me, Elise?”

She gave him a suspicious look as she picked up a piece of toast.

“If I give you a pearl, will you take it to the tower room, by yourself, sit in front of the window, remain silent, and simply wait?”

“You think the ghost, Pearlin’ Jane, will come to me?”

“She might. She would want to know what you are doing with one of her precious pearls.”

Grayson reached into his pocket and pulled out the last pearl he’d kept and handed it to her.

He could swear he heard a low laugh.

* * * * *

That evening, before everyone met in the drawing room before dinner, Grayson walked in to see Elise standing by the window. She looked at him when he stepped beside her. For a moment both of them stared out toward Loch Leven.

She said, “This is a magnificent view, but I find that now I prefer the view from my papa-in-law’s tower room. When I went up there, Andrew the cat was sleeping on the small settee that faced the window. He and I sat there together, I petting him with one hand and holding the single pearl tightly in my other hand.”

She turned to face Grayson. “She didn’t speak to me, yet I heard her say clearly, What are you doing with my pearl?

“Andrew looked up and began purring loudly, then he ducked his head and I would swear to you a hand was petting him.

“I was so shocked I was mute. I held out my hand, and then the pearl was gone and her voice was again clear in my head. Thank you. I am Pearlin’ Jane, but you may call me Jane. Welcome to my house.

EPILOGUE

When Grayson mounted Astor the following Monday morning, he knew he would arrive back at Belhaven with Pip on the morrow. He knew there would be no strange carriages stopping him, whisking him to Border. No, all was right with the world again, at least his small part of the world. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a single white pearl.

Take it, Grayson, it’s my gift to you. It’s now your talisman—it will keep you safe.

He felt the soft summer air, filled with the scent of heather and jasmine, and he felt a whisper of good-bye against his face.

About the Author

Catherine Coulter is the author of nearly 80 novels, including 68 New York Times bestsellers, finally hitting #1 after exhaustive prayers. She earned her reputation writing historical romances to pass the time while aboard the ark. She’s written over ten different historical romance series, including the hugely popular Sherbrooke series. Over a decade ago she added suspense thrillers to her repertoire-- with great success. The Cove, the first book in her bestselling "FBI Suspense Thriller Series" spent nine weeks on the New York Times list and has to date sold over 2 million copies. Since then, she has written 20 more bestselling thrillers in her FBI series, including The Maze, The Target, The Edge, Riptide, Hemlock Bay, Eleventh Hour, Blindside, Blowout, Point Blank, Double Take, Tailspin, Knockout, Whiplash, Split Second, Backfire, Bombshell, Power Play, Nemesis, and Insidious. She has also launched a bestselling new series, co-written with JT Ellison, titled “A Brit in the FBI,” including The Final Cut, The Lost Key, and The End Game. Critics describe the Brit series as “unputdownable” and full of “heart-stopping action”.

For more information on Catherine Coulter and her books go to her website, sign up for her newsletter.

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OTHER BOOKS BY CATHERINE COULTER

An FBI Thriller Book

The Cove

The Maze

The Target

The Edge

Riptide

Hemlock Bay

Eleventh Hour

Blind Side

Blow Out

Point Blank

Double Take

Tail Spin

Knock Out

Whiplash

Split Second

Backfire

Bombshell

Power Play

Nemesis

Insidious

A Brit in the FBI Thriller Book

The Lost Key

The Final Cut

The End Game

Contemporary Romantic Thrillers

False Pretenses

Impulse

Beyond Eden

Born to be Wild

Contemporary Romances

Aftershocks

Afterglow

The Aristocrat

Historical Romances

Georgian

Devil’s Embrace

Devil’s Duaghter

Regency

Night Fire

Night Shadow

Night Storm

The Countess

The Rebel Bride

The Heir

The Duke

Lord Harry

Midsummer Magic

Calypso Magic

Moonspun Magic

The Wild Baron

The Offer

The Deception

Sherbrooke Series

The Sherbrooke Bride

The Hellion Bride

The Heiress Bride

The Courtship

The Scottish Bride

Pendragon

The Sherbrooke Twins

Lyon’s Gate

Wizard’s Daughter

The Prince of Ravenscar

Legacy Series

The Wyndham Legacy

The Nightingale Legacy

The Valentine Legacy

Medieval

Warrior’s Song

Fire Song

Earth Song

Secret Song

Rosenhaven

The Penwyth Curse

The Valcourt Heiress

Victorian / Early San Francisco

Evening Star

Midnight Star

Wild Star

Jade Star

Viking Era

Season of the Sun

Lord of Hawkfell Island

Lord of Raven’s Peak

Lord of Falcon Ridge

Grayson Sherbrooke’s Otherworldly Adventures

A Strange Visitation at Wolffe Hall

And meet Sinjun, Colin, and Pearlin’ Jane in The Heiress Bride

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Epilogue

About the Author