A roar.
Terrible and chilling.
She sat up, and strained to listen. It seemed to echo in her mind, but only there. There were no rushing footsteps, no bumps or creaks, nor voices in the night. It seemed she alone had heard it. But heard what? Echoes of a dream? A ghost? Her imagination? Was her mind finally surrendering its reason to all the tales and gossip?
Entirely likely, Rebecca. Losing your wits at last...
Another roar.
That was it. In one fell swoop she was out of bed, had donned her dressing robe and slippers, and had begun to make her way through the servants’ quarters as quietly as possible, candle in hand. There would be no going back to bed—not until she was either firmly convinced of her impending madness, or had found whoever it was who was screaming bloody murder.
Such a vivid image you paint yourself...
Rebecca stopped at the bottom of the main servants’ staircase and listened intently. She heard only the flicker of the candle and her own shallow, rapid breathing. That, and her heartbeat. The dull thud of blood in her ears.
But she also heard more dull thuds—not a product of her own fear. Those were coming from upstairs.
And then yet another scream.
Rebecca jumped, then took a deep breath and calmed herself. Whatever—whoever—it was making them, the sounds were definitely coming from upstairs. Steeling herself, she resolved to investigate before rousing any of the others, who remained, it seemed, wholly unaware of any of this. She had yet to convince herself it wasn’t all a figment of her overexhausted mind, and so on she went, slowly and carefully, dreading the sudden appearance of a spectre or masked figure with every step.
You know full well there are no ghosts here. You don’t even believe in the things.
At the top of the stairs Rebecca paused, listening for any sign of life. There seemed to reign the usual silence, punctured only by the ticking of the grandfather clock. Perhaps she had been dreaming after all.
Or perhaps there are ghosts after all.
Is this how it happened? Is this what drove the others away? Screams of terror piercing through the stone walls and the heavy night? Strange towers—
Not ghosts, Rebecca realised as she moved to return to bed and another scream pierced the air, making her shudder. Not in fear, but in pain, for the sound was one of anguish, of pure suffering. It twisted her heart, and made her blood run cold.
A howl... A wolf. Or a man.
Holding out the candle, clutching her robe tightly around herself, Rebecca stepped into the corridor.
Voices, murmurs, moans...
Pricking up her ears, she tried to discern where they were coming from.
The library.
The glow of the fire was visible through the open door.
The master...
He was the only one who would be there at this time of night. Was he being attacked? Should she arm herself? Call the men? And yet, as she cautiously approached the doorway, she knew instinctively that she alone should deal with this. In her heart, she knew there were no attackers. No rogues, and no bandits.
No ghosts.
‘My lord,’ she said, as calmly as she could muster, pushing the door open to peer inside. ‘My lord, are you well?’
Rebecca gasped when she caught sight of the room.
It had been utterly upended. Furniture, books, even the wall hangings had been tossed and torn. And there, amidst it all, beside the fireplace, stood the master, in only his breeches and shirtsleeves. His back was to her, but she could see his laboured breathing and knew instantly that he’d done this.
‘My lord,’ she repeated soothingly, daring a few more steps towards him, but leaving the candle on the small table by the door. ‘It’s Mrs Hardwicke, my lord, I heard—’
Liam whirled around and Rebecca stopped, her breath catching. He looked like a fallen angel in the firelight. A barbaric, dangerous creature. Strands of golden hair, matted with sweat, hung limply around his tempestuous, unfocused eyes, which were full of anguish, heat and ice. His mouth was set in a tight, thin line, and his fists clenched. Every muscle in his body was tense. It wasn’t difficult to see; his clothes were drenched in sweat themselves and clung tightly to him.
