Frowning, he read through the next passage, dated a couple of days later.
5 November 1862
I stood outside the old Tudor-style home. When the Mullenger clan moved in, it was quite the scandal. I stood there for two hours, I would wager. Finally, she stepped out. My heart was in my throat. By unspoken agreement, we walked to the village. I told her I loved her. She wanted to meet in secret. But I refused. Her kind are already regarded as fast and loose, and I would not have her labeled as… as a… as such. I cannot bring myself to write the word. I had a much more important task for this errand. I wanted to hand over my mother’s, and now my, journal. She refused. But I shall try again. I have but five years to convince her. All the time in the world.
That was Forrest’s last entry. Disappointment speared Alistar. He took the list he’d accumulated from the table and studied it:Sabina, Romani, Curse, Made S nervous.
Her father built furniture, made a decent living, bought a home in Cavendish.
The Mullenger House—now known as the Skerry House. Who had Sabina married? And did it matter? A swath of swirling black edged Alistar’s vision. The familiar nausea swam deep and low in his abdomen. God, he didn’t have time for a vision. He dared not ignore it.
He stumbled to his feet, then made for the door, working his way to his studio, swaying like a drunkard. He took a brush in hand and blindingly slashed paint on a blank canvas. He threw glob after glob, then brushed, molded, and shaped, in broad, thin, long, short, all violent strokes that he knew he wouldn’t remember the next day. All in the dark.
On the brink of his thirty-third year.
Eleven
P
eyton stretched and reached over to the empty space next to her. The pillow was cool, so Alistar must have been up a while. She wouldn’t mind a small snack or glass of water. She listened intently but couldn’t hear a thing. Even the trees outside the windows had stilled. It was… unsettling.
There was no light in the room, and lying beneath the canopy of the old bed, not even the moon penetrated. The essence of sex filled the air. She rose slowly to sitting, stretching muscles she hadn’t used in years. Yes, it had literally been years since she’d had sex. Vibrators did not count.
She reached for the Tiffany knockoff on the nightstand and pulled the chain. Rich hues of red, blue, gold, and green filtered through its stained glass. She changed her mind—the lamp was not a knockoff. It was Tiffany brand, the real thing. The journal lay next to the lamp, closed. Beside that was a sketch pad. Her fingers tingled. She picked it up and read through a list Alistar must have made while she was sleeping.
He’d been thinking. She glanced at the clock.Ten fifteen.
“Shit.” She hurried to the bathroom and cleaned up. She found her dress on the floor near the fireplace, her bra and panties flanking opposite ends of the settee. She couldn’t very well run about a castle environment that was almost guaranteed to house ghosts. Not without underwear.
Worry warring with a sense of adventure trilled through her. She slipped from the Lilac room, wondering where first to search for Alistar. A scavenger hunt. That’s what this was. He’d said something about a hobby room. She’d start there.
The closed door was only two away. Uneasiness slithered through her. She clutched the handle, her fingers burning. She turned the knob and pushed on the door. Not a single light rent the darkness. She found and flicked the switch, illuminating a room with open spaces and tall windows.
That wasn’t the only thing illuminated.
Sick dread hit her with a punch to the stomach. On a tall wood easel was a new painting. She could smell the mix of oils and turpentine. She barely registered an austere scene that teased her senses, reminiscent ofWithin the Shadows. A girl on the ground beneath a tree. A cut, oozing blood. A fire in an outdoor pit, blazing. A noose dangling from an arm. An impressionistic style of the late nineteenth century.
Pain careened through Peyton, but she would not faint, she berated herself, though her fingers and toes felt numb. So did her nerve endings, so did her heart. Hardly breathing, she moved her gaze from the painting to the nude man smeared with paint, his bleak eyes meeting hers. “What will you name this work, Mr. Aldis?” she whispered. “Lies that Kill?”
She dashed out and back to the Lilac room, her tears blinding her. She grabbed her purse and backpack and ran. Ran until she found a door to the outside. The trees were unnaturally silent. Unnervingly silent, every step crunching the leaves beneath her feet as she fought for direction to the front of the house. For the safety of her car.How could he not have told her?
She hated England. She’d known nothing but hurt in this country sincethe day she was born. Oh, God. This was her birth country. She jammed the key in the ignition, forgetting that she didn’t have to insert it for the car to start. The clutch grinded as she shoved the gear into first. Why couldn’t Tarron have gotten a damned automatic? Because he’d wanted a challenge. It will be fun, girl. I’ll show you how to drive a stick.He’d laughed, a full-bellied one at his own bawdy joke.
The car jerked. Peyton pushed in the clutch, forcing herself to breathe, then eased it into gear. Breathing did not lessen the tears. She drove as if a rainstorm deluge had hit.
She needed to talk to Tarron. They needed to leave. She didn’t care if Leander Skerry had left her that house or not. She refused to stay there another night. If Tarron wanted to stay? Fine with her; she’d sign the deed over to him. She wanted her mother. Her mom had a way of soothing away the hurts. The car jerked again and died. Peyton fell forward, her forehead against the steering wheel, and cried big gulping sobs until her throat was swollen.
After her gut-wrenching pity party, she fumbled in the glove box for something to blow her nose. As expected, Tarron had left plenty on his jaunt to Romford and London. A false sense of peace settled over her—she would never feel peace again—then she drove back to the house without further mishap, and with a sketch of a plan in place.
The foyer was in deep shadow, but a light shone from the library. She poked her head in. Empty.
“Tarron? We have to leave.” She ran up the stairs to the master suite. She’d miss this room, she decided. She wondered who her grandfather had modeled it for. Wondered if he’d had the opportunity to show her his masterpiece. Tears sprung again at just thinking of the wordmasterpiece. She dragged out her suitcase, went to the armoire and grabbed a stack of folded lingerie, and dumped it in. A stack of T-shirts was next, then tops. Jeans, a couple of skirts.
“Hello?”
Peyton jerked, startled out of her stupor. “Carson? What are you doing here? Where’s Tarron?”
“He said something about London.”
