His mouth twisted. “Come now. I know you were the one lurking in the passage beyond my chamber just now.” He lifted a brow. “Haven’t you been warned about going to the north wing?”
Her eyes were wide, and for a moment, he forgot he was supposed to be angry with her. It would be easy to lose himself in those warm, dark eyes. “I didn’t know where it would lead—”
“Indeed. How convenient,” he returned in a mocking tone.
She reached out and dared to grasp one of his hands with hers. “You must believe me.”
Her eyes shone with moisture, and for a moment, he was nearly swayed to accept her innocence again, but he had been lied to by those he had thought he could trust, only to find out the opposite was true. “Why should I?” he countered evenly.
She released him with a weary sigh and walked over to the mantel. She lowered her head, and whispered, “I’m not sure you would believe me if I told you.”
He steeled his spine. “Try me.”
He watched as she put a hand to her forehead and then turned back around reluctantly. She hugged herself, as if by doing so, it would cause the haunting memories he saw in her gaze to fade. “I was following… something.”
Alaric instantly went on alert. “What?”
She looked at him and he could tell she was hesitant to reveal the truth. In the end, she must have understood she had no other choice, and she took a deep breath. “I dare not call it a ghost, but it was some sort of spirit, a ghostly vibration of sound that called my name and showed me the hidden door in the music room and illuminated the way—” She broke off and shook her head. “I must sound mad.”
Alaric tapped a finger on his thigh. If he wasn’t wicca, he might have thought she was telling tall tales, but he had encountered the same apparition on more than one occasion. He often communicated with the ghostly ancestors of his past, but he was surprised to learn that they dared to appear to her. It made him ponder the reasons. Of course, it could be someone who wanted her to believe that it was tied to this estate somehow.
Rather than contemplate further, he allowed his gaze to flick up and down her form, finally settling on her face. “Come with me. Let us find out if you are correct.”
He turned, expecting her to follow, and he soon heard her padding hastily after him. He led her to the west wing, and into the portrait gallery, and that was when he started to feel a cold hand of awareness steal over him. It had been a sensation he hadn’t felt for many months, but something about it was different, altered.
He frowned.
“Why are we here?” she asked in a whisper. It sounded as though she couldn’t offer more than that. He noted that her face had gone ashen, and she held the front of his banyan closed at the throat.
He stood by the gilt-edged portraits in the midst of the long row and crossed his arms. “Can you tell me if there is anything special about one of the paintings in this room?”
Marlene swallowed, but her throat was dry as she stared at the portrait that appeared to watch her—the lady with the dark hair and hazel eyes in a costume that was from the turn of the century, perhaps even before that. Whispers seemed to call to Marlene from all around her. She glanced about, but no one was there. Her lips barely moved when she said, “That one.”
Sir Gothry came back with a demand. “Which one exactly?”
Marlene lifted her chin as she slowly moved toward the painting, and then looked back at him.
“What’s special about it?” he asked.
She swallowed again. “There’s another passage behind it.”
His eyes were fixed on her. “Show me.”
She dared to reach out a shaking hand and give the gilt-edge a slight tug. It didn’t move. With a frown, she tried again—with the same result. “That’s impossible,” she breathed. She glanced toward him. “The last time I was in here—this opened. It revealed a passage that led to a secluded room, like some sort of study or library.”
“How did you discover this painting hid a secret?”
She stared at the woman and thought she saw her smile expand. She turned away. “I felt a chill as I passed by, and then, just like today in the music room, someone whispered my name.”
“Who was it?” he persisted. “Was it male or female?”
Marlene closed her eyes and tried to remember, but all she could recall was the eerie sound of the disembodied voice. “I don’t know.”
“Don’t lie to me, Miss St. Clair.”
She opened her eyes and glared at him, angered that he would consider that she was some sort of charlatan. But then she reminded herself that she hadn’t yet been here for a fortnight. Not a long time to become comfortably acquainted with anyone. “I can assure you that I’m no liar, and I don’t care to have my integrity questioned.”
He changed the topic. “How did you get to the orangery?”
