After lighting a lantern, she settled onto the window seat in her room. She loved sitting on the plush velvet surface while she read or stared at the castle. Rebecca set her lantern down and peered out the window, searching through the dark veil of night for the shadowed outline of Almerry.
Ah, there it was, a barely visible monument in the moonlight. Legend had it Sir Ariston and Lady Isabel shared a love so great that not even death could separate them. It was said they remained at Almerry together to this day, and when the night was still, you could hear them calling to each other across the castle lands. She wanted a love like theirs. A love so strong not even the finality of death could break its bonds.
“My lady.”
Rebecca glanced toward the door. Her maid stood at the entrance with a tray in her hands.
“Your mother sent up a tonic.” The maid crossed the room and placed the tray near Rebecca.
“Thank you.” She managed a weak smile. “I do not wish to be disturbed tonight. You may pick up the tray in the morning.”
“Yes, my lady.” The maid curtsied, then departed.
Rebecca turned back to the window and leaned her forehead against the glass. Despite the warmth of the summer night, the leaded glass felt cool against her skin. She sighed, staring back at the keep. What caused the flickers of light she’d seen earlier? Had someone been inside the ruins? Or had she imagined it as Phoebe suggested?
Her pulse increased as the light caught her eye again—bigger, brighter—a flickering beacon against the blackness of night. This time the glow appeared to be coming from higher in the keep. A smile stretched across her face. She’d not imagined a thing. Someone, or something, was in the castle.
She narrowed her gaze, hoping to see more clearly. The light glowed behind the lancet windows of the massive stone structure. It looked as if someone had built a fire in one of the rooms. Who would dare to enter the castle? She could not imagine, but someone had to be in there. Every fiber of her being called for her to go catch the intruder.
She stood, strolling halfway across her room before stilling. No. She couldn’t. She’d given Phoebe her word, and she’d not go back on it.
Leastwise, not tonight.
Two
Camden Beauchamp strolled across the large bailey, stretching his stiff muscles. He peered through the thick blanket of fog clinging to the castle grounds, then massaged his stiff neck as he headed for the stable.
The medieval stone floor he’d slept on left him sore all over. He’d arrived at Almerry late last evening, sadly ill-prepared for what he found. What the devil had he been thinking, arriving at an abandoned castle alone, and at night?
Once Wellington released him from duty, he dismissed those in his charge and set out for a quiet place to clear his head. Though he loved his family, he found himself reluctant to return home straightaway. Not that he regretted his part in the war or his duties as a soldier. He took pride in his accomplishments.
All the same, the war had left him weary and in much need of solitude. He longed for time to himself to make peace with all he had seen and done. The war was still close in his heart—there was no denying it—but something about this castle filled him with hope that perhaps, just perhaps, he could find peace once more.
He glanced around the bailey, focusing through the eerie fog. Leastwise, no one was likely to bother him here. The castle lay in ruins from years of neglect. Its inner wall had been reduced in size by plundering villagers a hundred or so years before. The once grand gatehouse appeared more like a shell, its enormous gates rotted away long ago. Most of the outbuildings had been taken apart, their stones either carried away or scattered across the bailey.
He trailed his gaze across the grounds from the stable to the keep. They still held their shape but also suffered damage from the years of neglect. Most of the wood within the stable had rotted away, though the stone walls held strong. The keep was mostly intact, other than the partially caved in roof making the fifth floor uninhabitable.
Camden had inherited the castle from his uncle upon his death. It had been passed down through his family for centuries, though no one ever bothered to make use of it. According to his father, no one had lived here since the thirteenth century. Almerry had long ago been stripped of most of its furnishings, only a few moth eaten tapestries and broken pieces of furniture lingered.
A chill tickled his spine as he glanced from the gatehouse to the postern gate, paying mind to all things in-between. Considering the once grand castle’s current condition, it was no wonder people believed the spirits of his ancestors haunted the place.
Almerry had been abandoned after the deaths of his ancestors, Sir Ariston Beauchamp and Lady Isabel Staunton-Beauchamp, not even a hundred years after it had been built. So far as Camden knew, he was the first to slumber here since. Family legend held that no one could stand the idea of disturbing their spirits and so they allowed the castle to fall into ill-repair.
Camden turned toward the stables, then stepped into the dark interior. He stopped behind a large stall. Closing his eyes, he inhaled deeply, savoring the dust-filled air mingled with spices of hay and leather. Mayhap he should consider having the old pile of stones restored and making it his permanent home. A quiet life in the country did hold some appeal. At the least, he would be able to avoid the pressures of London.
He made his way to a stall at the end of the row, where his stallion whinnied. The horse nudged Camden’s arm with his strong head. “Hey there.” Camden reached up to stroke the beast’s muscled neck. “How about I move these stones so we can get you out and go find some oats?” The horse stepped back, nodding its head and neighing with approval.
Camden would need to gather some wood to repair the rotted stall door along with hay, oats, straw, and commodities for himself. At least a few laborers to help make the repairs would be needed as well, and perhaps a house servant or two.
A sharp intake of air drew his attention to the door. He glanced away from his task, searching for its source. His heart skipped a beat. A woman stood framed in the morning fog, pale skirts billowing in the breeze.
He did not believe in ghosts, but the woman before him fit the description he’d been given of Lady Isabel Staunton. She was tall and lean with piercing green eyes. The sun’s rays cut through the fog, casting her in an eerie glow.
There was no way. It couldn’t be. He blinked, then blinked again, but she did not disappear.
Once he recovered from the shock, he noticed her modern clothing and honey-colored hair. The lady wore a flowing mint day gown with a high waistline and short sleeves. A bonnet framed her heart-shaped face, its ribbons tied beneath her chin. She most certainly wasn’t a spirit. Though she had the beauty of an angel.
He opened his mouth to speak.
