Page 2 of A Ghost of a Chance

“The shadows are playing tricks on your eyes,” someone else said, but he cast furtive glances about and crossed himself, too.

Wide-eyed, the woman said, “It’s All Hallows’ Eve, ain’t it? Ghosts about.”

A few laughed at her statement. The seasoned pranksters, John and Frank, flitted unseen about the room, brushing past people, bumping into objects, and causing flames to flicker wildly. The boys snickered as people looked about for the cause but failed to see the sneaky Larkins. More and more murmurs about ghosts and spirits filled the room.

As Osanne hurried after the Larkin boys, she passed a corner table where a man with a dark expression stared into the mouth of his tankard, like a man seeking answers in the bottom of his cup. Frank slipped behind the dark man and blew out the candle on his table, then darted out of the way.

The man, handsome in a brooding sort of way, frowned at the candle as if it had disappointed him. He returned his gaze to his tankard, his large hands cupped around it like a street urchin seeking warmth.

John reached for the medieval chandelier hanging in the center of the main room.

Osanne marched up to him. “Cease these ridiculous antics, John. You are not frightening or even amusing; merely annoying.”

“Oh, the fun’s just starting,” John said.

He tugged on one side of the chandelier and sent it rocking back and forth, then scampered away. Several candle flames blew out, plunging the taproom into semi-darkness.

A woman let out a yelp.

“What’s going on?” someone asked.

The patrons looked about but no one spotted the reprobates.

Mr. Atwood, a great-grandson of the original owner from generations past, glared at the entrance, then up at the garlic. “Wards aren’t working. Ghosts are back again this year.”

“Spooks,” agreed someone at the bar.

His companion nodded. “Spirits.”

The handsome man looked up from his tankard and laughed grimly. “Ghosts? Be reasonable. Surely you don’t believe that silly superstition.” He spoke in the cultured accent of a member of the gentry and in the smoothest baritone voice she had ever heard.

From across the room, Osanne studied him. Perhaps somewhere in his twenty-fifth year, he wore his hair short at the sides with tousled curls on top. A dark lock tumbled over his brow, partially concealing one eye. The dark scruff at his jaw suggested he had forgone shaving the past few days. His well-tailored clothing, made from fine cloth, revealed him as a man of means, but he wore it carelessly. Dust marred his boots and the bottom of his coat. A traveler.

Nevertheless, any female alive would swoon over him, even in his state of mild dishevelment. In fact, all the females in the room sent him lingering, admiring glances that he seemingly failed to notice. Osanne sent him a few of her own.

“Silly superstition, says you?” Atwood eyed the stranger as he wiped down the counter. “You’re new to Madding Hallow, ain’t ye?”

“Passing through.” The stranger held up his tankard. “Fine brew you have here.”

Atwood puffed out his chest. “Old family recipe, that.” He frowned up at the wooden chandelier where most of the candles merely smoked now.

John and Frank Larkin continued to tease and pester the patrons. A few grew alarmed and left. The handsome stranger looked around thoughtfully.

“Bad for business,” Atwood muttered under his breath. “Fill yer drink, Jake?” he asked a regular.

“Aye.” Already swaying on his chair, Jake raised his tankard.

Frank upset a table, then a second. Drinks and candles went flying. Splattering wax burned several patrons, and flames from fallen candles licked the alcohol-soaked floorboards. Shrieks and cries came in response as people scrambled to their feet. Women ran screaming, stumbling over themselves and each other as they tumbled out the door.

The newcomer leaped up and stamped out the flames. He crouched with his fists up, not frightened but rather prepared for a fight. A man of courage.

Frank and John lurked in a shadowy corner, snickering. Osanne shot them a dark look but they only grinned like a pair of imps. The man Atwood had called Jake lay on the floor next to a table holding his head and moaning.

The handsome stranger knelt by Jake. “Are you injured?”

Jake rolled over. “I hit me head.”

The stranger helped him up and pulled away the wounded man’s hands, revealing a bleeding gash on his brow.