Mr. Martin froze, a hitch forming between his brows. Abruptly he stood up, barely facing St. Silas. “It would give me great pleasure if you would accept my hospitality, sir. In the meantime, we willbothtake our leave now.”
It took only a few seconds for Mr. Martin to forcibly usher Lord Kilworth out.
Once the door to the study had closed, Rami plucked up a brass ornament and held it at eye level. “Quite a welcome. At the mention of a secret,MisterMartin was tripping over his feet to run out the—”
But Leena was no longer paying attention.
Her eyes were trained on the far corner of the room where a young woman lingered by an empty vase. Another spirit; no human could be that still. She was lovely, clear-eyed, with fair hair and a slight, girlish figure. She met Leena’s gaze with keen curiosity, inclined her head at Rami, but paused on St. Silas the longest.
In an instant, she was in front of him. A gentle hand lingered on his cheek, but then the touch hardened.
She was angry.Furious.
Her small hands wrapped around St. Silas’s throat—a futile attempt, as effective as a ruffle of cool breeze. Her mouth opened and silently she screamed—
Except it was Leena who was screaming as the ghost and Leena became one, and the anger and betrayal the spirit felt now made a home in Leena’s chest. It scorched an unbearable heat across her sternum.
Then all was black.
—
She was no longer Leena. Of this she was certain.
She inhabited another body, another memory. That of the fair-haired ghost.
And standing in front of her was Lord Percival Avon.
Not as a spirit, but with the stunning animation of the living.Leena sensed the fair-haired girl’s physical reaction to Lord Avon, her cheeks flaring when he looked down at her.
“My Lord Avon,” she whispered, bowing. The girl’s voice was higher than Leena’s own.
“Percy,” he corrected, with a caress to her cheek.
With a pang, Leena—the fair-haired girl—noticed the gold band on his left hand. He followed her gaze.
“I wear it for society’s sake. Believe me, I’ve long forgotten her.” Percy’s words brought her no comfort, however. He was a flash of lightning that could not be contained, no matter how hard she tried. He held up his other hand to show the silver ring that bore his house insignia. “Ignore my wedding band; pretend it is cast far into the sea. It is only this ring that I cannot be parted from.”
“Your family ring,” she breathed in awe. Then a sudden thought struck her. “Do you care for it more than me?”
Instead of answering her question, he asked her to play for him.
Leena felt acutely how much this girl wanted to please him; the pain of her devotion was like thorns scratching her skin. And yet the taste of this woman-child’s fear was very bitter. Here was an older titled man with vast lands and endless sophistication far beyond her grasp. What could he possibly see in her?
But whenever she played, he smiled. And she would have done anything on this earth to see him smile at her in just that way.
She sat by the piano, her posture straight.
Her fingers skimmed the keys and soft music streamed forth. She knew she could bring her listeners to tears, but His Lordship’s eyes remained dry even after the last note faded into silence.
Yet her reward was his hand on her cheek again; she shivered from the contact. “One day, my little one, I will take you to Weavingshaw.”
The scene dissolved.
But another image arose. Percival Avon lay next to her wearing only a nightshirt, the firelight catching the gold in his hair and softening the blue in his eyes.
They were in bed.
He loomed over her, large and masculine, and for the first time the girl felt an inkling of fear. She now saw that the muscles of his arms, which had only been used to protect her in the past, could also be used to hurt.
