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Lynne Connolly

Prologue

1645

Vernon Heatherington swiped his hand wearily over his eyes. Never before had he

worked so hard, either when he was a young earl at Court, or when he had ridden in the
King’s cavalry under the command of Prince Rupert.

Now he was home, the place he should never have left. War had left its mark here,

too. Most able-bodied young men had left to fight on one side or the other, but they were
managing, just. It meant that at harvest time no one could stand idle. House servants, male
and female, even the earl himself had to put a shoulder to the wheel if they were to make
the most of the crops.

With the sun shining low on the horizon he could finally go home and see what his

wife and the two domestics left in the kitchen had made for his dinner.  The house servants
wandered along behind him.  It was a revelation to find this kind of life suited him, that he
enjoyed  the  simplicity  of  this  existence.    If  they  kept  quietly  attending  to  their  own
business, they might avoid the attention of Parliament altogether. It seemed just a matter of
time now until the King asked the Parliamentary forces for their terms.

He approached the great house from the rear. Rustead Abbey had been new a

hundred years ago, and now the red brick was beginning to gain the soft patina of age.  A
handsome  house,  not  overlarge,  but  with  all  that  was  required  of  an  earl’s  residence,
including a many windowed Long Gallery on the top floor, just below the attics.  That was
a reminder of happier times, where the portraits of his ancestors rested peacefully side by
side.

A commotion on the terrace attracted his attention. His wife’s voice sounded, high

and panicked. He couldn’t make out the words but it was enough to make him break into a
run.

When he rounded the corner what he saw made his blood run cold. Five men

surrounded Anne, men dressed in rough, military clothes, stained from traveling and
fighting.

Not here, oh no, not here

! “What do you want?” he roared, in his loudest possible

voice. It worked. Three of the men spun around.

The one at the front, the one dressed in a simple leather jerkin, breeches and

breastplate, his dark hair cropped close to his collar, was his brother Nathaniel. His traitor
brother.

For a blink of an eye the two stared at each other, and then Vernon strode forward.

“What are you here for, Nathaniel? You’re no longer welcome, you know that.”

Nathaniel didn’t bother with greetings. He brandished a document, one he thrust

towards his brother. “I have an order to commandeer this house. I’m claiming it in the
name of Parliament.” His clear, blue eyes flashed a warning. One that Vernon ignored.

“I want you all out of here. How dare you claim anything here? The King is the

ruler at Rustead Abbey!”

The four men surrounding Anne took a step towards him. Perhaps she could get to

safety, if he kept them busy.

Black Leather, White Lace

“I’m sorry, brother, I have to insist.”
Vernon narrowed his eyes. “You always wanted this house, didn’t you? Was this

the only way you could get it? By theft?”

With a sweep of his arm, he drew his sword. Everyone went around armed these

days, not knowing what was around the next corner. Well he would not take this
imposition lightly. He’d had enough.

He raised his weapon, only to meet steel. Nathaniel had his own sword ready, and

tried to knock his aside. But Vernon wasn’t the dilettante swordsman he’d been at the
beginning of the war. He was a seasoned cavalry officer, and he no longer fenced with a
flourish and an elegant twirl. He fought for one reason only. To kill.

When his men would have surrounded them, Nathaniel called out to them. “Leave

be! I’ll handle this!”

One muttered, “Have a few scores to settle, Captain?” and they stepped back,

clearing a space for the fight. One took Anne by the arm, not ungently, and pulled her
back.

Vernon spat fire, and attacked. Nathaniel met his vicious blade with parries and deft

sidesteps, but it was some time until Vernon realized he wasn’t attacking. “Damn you,
fight!”

“Not unless I have to,” Nathaniel panted, making another parry, knocking aside

Vernon’s blade.

They fought for what seemed like forever, too evenly matched for either to make

inroads on the other.  The men made raucous bets, infuriating Vernon further.  The swords
clashed and  clanged,  occasionally hitting the hard paving of the terrace with a dull thud.
They fought until the sun went down, until Nathaniel forced Vernon to face the sharp rays,
slanting  straight  into  his  eyes.    “Give  over,  Vernon.    Let  us  take  the  house.”      His  words
came  out  between  harsh  pants,  each  marking  a  swing  of  his  sword.    Blood  trickled  from
numerous small wounds on his arms and body.  This was no duel for first blood; otherwise
it would have finished long ago.

“Never, you’ll never take Rustead away from me!”
Vernon twisted, meaning to move back, away from the glare of the sun, but he

stumbled.

Right on to Nathaniel’s blade.
Cold seared through his body, and he knew he was done for. With the last strength

left in his arm he thrust up, snarling defiance, and was gratified to hear his brother’s cry of
pain, until the world went black.

*****

“Dear God.” Clasping his hand over the deep wound in his side, Nathaniel stared

down at Vernon.  Why hadn’t the fool listened?  If he hadn’t taken the Abbey, someone else
would  have  done.    Better  it  stayed  in  the  family  than  passed  out  of  it.    He  meant  to  tell
Vernon, then arrange matters so the Abbey was in his care, but could pass back to Vernon,
the rightful Earl, when things had died down a little.

It was difficult to draw breath, worse than after a long fight. With his dying breath,

Vernon had ensured that neither brother inherited. Except that he, Nathaniel, was the earl
now. For a time.

A very short time.

Black Leather, White Lace

Chapter One

1814

Cassandra stood with her husband in the Long Gallery of their home in Rustead

Abbey.  Both were dressed rather strangely, for being Halloween, his lordship’s fancy had
alighted  on  a  costume  ball  with  a  spectral  theme.    Cassandra  was  dressed  most
uncomfortably in the clothes of a Royalist lady; uncomfortably because she had discovered
the clothes only a couple of days ago in the spacious attics of the house, and after they had
been laundered there really hadn’t been time to alter them properly.  Pins stuck in her from
all angles where her maid had altered it for her.  The gown had been fashioned for a much
larger lady.

The arrangements for this ball had been rushed, since Lord Rustead had arrived

from London a few days before with several companions, announcing that more were on
the way. Cassandra avoided London when she could. She used to like it, but she couldn’t
bear the pitying glances cast her way in every ballroom and every concert hall these days.

Her husband had attempted a skeleton costume, but the suit was showing signs of

the dissipation into which he sank progressively earlier in the day. His watery gaze
studied her. “Can’t think why you want a private word, old girl. Couldn’t you have told
me later? Got a house full of guests to see to.”

He would be too drunk later to understand her, but she didn’t say this out loud.

Edward’s  family  had  been  careful  to  present  him  in  his  best  guise  before  they  were
married, but now Cassandra was Lady Rustead, nobody bothered to conceal the effects of
her  husband’s  long  and  determined  pursuit  of  all  the  pleasures  society  had  to offer.    The
white paint, which adorned the simple black shirt and breeches, in an imitation of the bones
that  were  presumably  underneath  had  flaked  a  little,  and  red  port  stains  revealed  the
evidence of his lordship’s favorite tipple.

At the moment the expression on his once-handsome face was decidedly peevish.

“Can’t think why the damned servants didn’t fill the decanters up here.”

Probably

, Cassandra thought, because they knew you would come up here.

Distinctly, she heard a voice in her head, a male voice she was almost used to

hearing. We hid them. If you have to speak to him in private, best done while he is relatively sober.

She had persuaded herself that the voice was just her own imagination, but

sometimes she wasn’t so sure.  The strong, male timbre had been her companion since she
had arrived in this house six years ago, and every time she crossed the threshold, coming in
from the garden or a visit, it had been there, waiting for her.   He  expressed opinions she
never dared utter, except in her heart, shared her woes and her small triumphs.  Now here
he was again.

The Portrait Gallery, one of the showpieces in the house, blazed with the light from

dozens of candles set in chandeliers and wall sconces.  If Edward didn’t look to his finances
soon, they would have to start counting the number of candles they used, but fortunately,
not quite yet.  Edward never lifted a finger to administer his estate, and his steward was a
lazy as he was.  Cassandra’s fingers itched to study the books, to put at least some things

Lynne Connolly

right, but until she quickened, she was forbidden to do so. It was exquisite torture, to
watch the house she loved falling to pieces about her ears.

She drew a breath and prepared to announce her lie. “Edward, I think I may be

expecting.”

His face lit up, his brown, bloodshot eyes showing some of the sparkle his must have

had before debauchery took over his life. “Really? You’re sure?”

She bit her lip. She couldn’t go that far. “Not completely. But it looks promising.”
He threw back his head and barked a sharp laugh. “Ha! Delighted to hear you’re

finally doing your duty, m’dear.” He grinned broadly. “After three years I’d given you
up. Well, best you stay here then, instead of coming up to Town with me.”

“Yes.” Relief surged through her. That was why she had played this, her last,

desperate card. By the time he discovered her lie, she might have been able to put some
order into the estate, and perhaps even made a small part of it safe from his depredations.
The timing was right. On a previous, brief visit last month, he’d spent some time in her
room. It was enough.

“I’ll be off in the morning, then. I’d hoped to take you with me, but…” He scanned

her body, taking his time, although Cassandra had reason to know he was capable of little
more these days. Fleetingly she wondered how he managed with the London whores.
Perhaps they used tricks she didn’t know about, or had little reason to learn. His body was
still comely enough, but no woman could fancy a man once he’d vomited in her bed.

“Are you coming, coz?” A handsome man strolled towards them, dressed as her

Cavalier counterpart. This was Edward’s cousin and heir, William Heatherington, as
debauched as Edward and twice as vicious.

He bowed, turning the graceful gesture into a mocking salute. “Good evening,

ma’am. I didn’t realize you were here, too. Will you grace us with your presence
downstairs?”

Cassandra glared at him mutely. She suspected William was pushing her husband

into an early grave, but since he was hurrying there anyway, it mattered little. William was
as tall as Edward, but slimmer and his brown eyes were less bloodshot. Either he had a
better head for drink than his cousin, or he threw half of what he pretended to drink away.
His deceivingly soft eyes gleamed at her.

“Cassie here says she’s in the family way,” Edward blurted out.
Since she was looking at him, Cassandra saw the mockery in William’s eyes change

to pure hatred.  Just for a moment she feared for the entirely imaginary child in her womb.
Now  she  knew  for  sure  William  had  pretensions  to  the  title  and  inheritance.    She  would
have  to  take  great  care  in  the  next  few  months,  until  it  became  obvious  her  child  was
illusory.

She broke eye contact with a toss of her head. “I will not go downstairs again

tonight.  Please convey my apologies to your friends and try not to break the best crystal.”
Edward  wouldn’t  have  a  chance  to  do  that,  since  Cassandra  and  the  servants  had  locked
the best crystal in the  laundry cabinets,  well away from possible depredations.  That was
one  thing  she  could  do.    The  servants  knew  that  as  soon  as  they  sighted  her  husband’s
carriage, they were to lock away the more valuable breakables in the house. He’d been here
for  nearly  a  week  now,  and  he  hadn’t  even  noticed  the  best  porcelain  and  crystal  had
disappeared.

Regaining his equilibrium, William smiled and draped one elegant arm around his

cousin’s ample waist. “We’d better get back down to the ladies.”

Black Leather, White Lace

With an avuncular pat on her shoulder, Edward turned away from her.

“Somebody’s got to see to the guests. If you want to retire my dear that will be quite in
order.” He shambled up the gallery towards the door at the end.

Sick at heart for the death of all her hopes, Cassandra decided to go to bed, feeling

no obligation to entertain any of the individuals currently wrecking her dining room and
green drawing room.

It had been the final insult to learn that their guests were the most raucous of

London’s bloods and the most racy of its widows and married women, who were notorious
for seeking their pleasure anywhere they found it. He might as well have asked her to
share her table with whores.

At least whores were honest, requiring a fee rather than eternal love or something

equally  as  unattainable.    Cassandra  strolled  slowly  up  the  long  gallery,  in  the  opposite
direction  to  the  one  her  husband  had  taken,  towards  her  bedroom.    Perhaps  her  faux
pregnancy would give her a chance to pack and leave, although she had no idea where she
could  go.    Edward’s  possessiveness  had  driven  away  all  her  old  friends  and  her  parents
were abroad, in the service of their country. Nowhere to go, no one who cared.

Perhaps she could retire to another of Edward’s houses. Luckily, the entail

encompassed three houses and estates, so Edward could do no more than mortgage them.
Perhaps  there  would  be  enough  left  that  she  could  live  quietly  and  modestly  once  he’d
gone.    It  was  all  she  had  left  to  hope  for.    She  no  longer  felt  the  tragedy  of  a  promising
young man, now destroyed by drink and probably disease as well.  When he had no ready
money, he came back and found something else to sell.  He’d destroyed any emotion she
felt for him long ago.

She stopped to stare at the portraits in the long gallery. There was a definite family

‘look,’  one  Edward  possessed,  despite  his  florid  complexion  and  increasing  girth.   If  they
looked after themselves, the Hetherington men and women tended to the lean, their near-
black  hair  almost  universal,  except  for  a  few  notable  exceptions.    The  eyes  seemed  to  be
blue  or  gray.    No  brown  eyed  people  amongst  them  apart  from  Edward  and  his  cousin
William. Their ability to breed true had been a standing joke.

Some of the men had a noble history. Cassandra paused before a full-length portrait

of a Cavalier gentleman.  Vernon Heatherington, Lord Chiltern.  Shortly after the portrait
had been painted, he’d inherited the earldom from his father.  Then came the famous duel
that had ended his life, and shortly thereafter, that of his Roundhead brother.  If it hadn’t
been for their younger brother, a babe in arms in the nursery, too young to take sides, the
ancient line of Heatherington might have died out at that point.

It might have been just as well. Then she wouldn’t be standing here, lying to her

husband just to get him away from the house for a few weeks. “It’s hardly my fault.”

“What is hardly your fault?”
She whipped her head around to look at the portrait of the Cavalier, then back to the

man standing before her where there had been none before. The man who had just spoken.

The voice was so familiar to her that at first Cassandra didn’t register that it had

been outside her head, not inside. She’d been hearing it for months. She took a few deep
breaths to steady herself, afraid that her little imaginings were turning her into a complete
lunatic.

Blue, blue eyes twinkled at her. “The resemblance is remarkable, isn’t it?”
“Y-yes. Are you related to him?” Perhaps a relative on his mother’s side, she

thought, grasping at straws to find a rational explanation.

Lynne Connolly

He smiled, much more at his ease than Cassandra felt herself to be. “In a way.”
Her mind raced. “Vernon Heatherington?”
“That’s the one.”
“I didn’t know Edward had any close relatives left apart from William.”
“He hasn’t.”
This man was everything Edward should have been, but wasn’t. Trim waist, slender

but broad shouldered and powerfully built, with a clear complexion and eyes.  He wore his
hair unfashionably long, a compliment to the cavalier dress he wore.  It wasn’t the same as
the one in the portrait, the one William had imitated in his get-up tonight.  Less elaborate,
although  the  white  lace  edged  collar  was  in  evidence,  and  the  high,  carefully  polished
boots. But his coat and breeches were a dark red, not the celestial blue of the portrait.

“Too fancy for everyday,” he said with a smile, staring up at the painting.
His voice sent chills through Cassandra. Just as well she wasn’t fanciful, or she

might think he was the ghost of the long dead cavalier come to life. But that would be
ridiculous–wouldn’t it?

On an impulse, Cassandra leaned forward and touched his sleeve. Soft wool met her

probing fingers, but because she had poked rather than touched, she felt the yielding flesh
underneath.

She drew back and laughed jerkily. “I’m so sorry.”
He glanced back up at the portrait. “You had reason to touch. That was painted in

happier days, long before the king decided he was going to stamp his foot and say no.”

She was shocked to hear the Civil War referred to in such a way. “Does a brave

man’s death mean nothing to you?” she demanded, before she realized how rude she was
being. All this solitude had obviously had a poor effect on her manners.

He laughed. “You mean my death, my dear.”
“Taking your part a little too seriously, aren’t we?”
His expression turned serious, the sensuous mouth flattening into a straight line.

“Not a part, my dear. Unfortunate reality.”

And he had looked to be more sensible than Edward’s other guests! Incensed, she

turned and strode quickly towards the far door, throwing over her shoulder, “It’s time you
joined the other guests, sir. They will be missing you.”

“They don’t know me. In this house, the only person who knows me is you. Don’t

you recognize me, Cassandra?”

She carried on walking towards the door at the end of the gallery. His voice reached

her, more distantly now. “Last night you wept again and decided to trick your husband
into thinking you were enceinte. How can you be, when his drinking has long rendered him
incapable?”

She quickened her pace. She needed to get out of here and think. A shame the long

gallery  was  so—well,  long.    His  voice  came  closer.    How  had  he  reached  her  so  quickly
without  making  a  sound?      “Yesterday  you  wore  a  charming  gown  sprigged  with  little
flowers.  You bound your hair loosely and after making the arrangements for tonight, you
went into the garden.  Where I cannot follow you,” he added wistfully, “so I don’t know
what you did there.”

“I supervised the gardeners pruning some shrubs ready for winter,” she said,

without thinking. She stopped, turned and stared at him, wide-eyed with shock. “How do
you know? Have you been spying on me? Is this a joke you and my husband have
concocted between you?”

Black Leather, White Lace

He sighed deeply, his chest rising and falling under his white shirt. “No. I am the

ghost of this place. One of them, anyway. I’m allowed one day of solidity a year, on the
anniversary of my death, and this is the day. I chose to come to you.”

“I must be dreaming!” She cried and would have spun around and walked to the

other end of the gallery. No matter that it was entirely the wrong way to her bedroom. She
would go around. Anything to get away from this madman.

“Not so.” He stood in front of her again, blocking her way.
“Dear Lord, how did you do that?”
“Like this.” And before she could turn, he’d winked out and his voice came from

behind her. Cassandra turned, and saw him. Her legs buckled under her and she fell.

Lynne Connolly

Chapter Two

He was there before she hit the floor, supporting her with arms that seemed

surprisingly solid. Bending, he slipped one arm under her knees and the other around her
waist, lifting her up.

“I’ll be all right,” she mumbled, still recovering from the shock she’d just received.

“You can put me down now.”

He dropped a dry, soft kiss on her forehead. “Don’t speak. Let me get you

upstairs.”

He smelled of lavender, she realized when she laid her head on his shoulder. Old

lavender, as though his clothes had been in storage for a long time.  His coat was of country
wool, well worn, soft against her cheek.  It seemed natural, as though they had done this
before, for him to carry her up to her bed.  The impropriety didn’t occur to her at first, and
when  it  did,  she  decided  she  had  more  to  cope  with  at  the  moment  than  the  dictates  of
society. She closed her eyes.

When she opened her eyes once more, she lay on her bed. She stared up at the

crimson canopy above her head and blinked. “Well! I must be going completely mad!” she
exclaimed aloud.

“Not one bit. Are you feeling better now?”
She tried to sit up and nearly fell back when a fold of her gown caught in her elbow.

A supporting hand slipped around her back. A solid, male hand. She shrieked.

“What is it?” The note of alarm tensed his dark voice to wiry tautness.
“Pins! I’m stuck full of them!”
His chuckle began somewhere low in his chest, but bubbled forth deliciously. “I

think I know the lady this gown was made for. She was much larger than you.”

“Your wife?” She dropped her voice to a low murmur.
“No, my sister. She was no fairy. You, on the other hand are as light as a feather.”

He hadn’t moved his hand, except to ensure he hadn’t trapped any pins under it. “Shall I
help you out of it, or will you require your maid?”

“No.” She didn’t like to think what her maid might think, or what she would report

back to her husband’s cousin. She knew some of the staff spied on her for him and his
cousin, but she did nothing about it, because at least she knew which of the household she
could trust, and which she could not. Better than changing the staff and having to guess
who was telling tales. “You’d better help me. I’m decent enough underneath.”

“A pity.” She didn’t miss the wistfulness in his tone.
Together they worked through the folds of the gown where it was gathered at her

waist,  although  they  left  the  ones  holding  the  hems  up  in  place.    The  garment  was  a
separate bodice and skirt, with a removable lace collar, and they were particularly careful
when  removing that.  It  was  exquisite.   Cassandra  had  already  decided  to keep  it  for  her
own wear; with a little alteration it would go over some of her gowns perfectly.  After that,

Black Leather, White Lace

he made short work of the laces at the back of the gown. He certainly knew his way
around ladies’ clothing.

When the heavy outer gown had been removed, Cassandra was still decently

covered,  in  petticoat  and  stomacher.    He  took  the  gown  over  to  a  chair  and  draped  it
carefully across it, the bodice on top and the collar on top of that.  Cassandra found a little
porcelain pot and busied herself gathering up all the pins and dropping them inside.  When
she looked up, he was sitting on the bed again, gazing at her, his expression dreamy and
difficult to interpret. “Do you want me to leave?”

“Yes, no, yes–oh I don’t know! Tell me, talk to me. Is this real?”
She watched him wave his hand, and astonished, saw the candles in the branch set

next to her bed flicker into life. All at the same time. There was no rational explanation for
this. None at all. “Am I dreaming?”

“No.” He didn’t move any closer to her, but the hand on her back seemed to burn

through the clothes she still wore, as though he touched her skin.  She felt the heat through
her  body,  not  all  of  it  embarrassment  when  she  recalled  the  dreams  she’d  had  about  her
secret friend.

“That’s why I came to see you,” he continued in a voice dark as sin. “You know me,

Cassandra, although you never believed in me before.”

She knew it. All the times she had felt a companion by her side, the welcome she felt

when she entered the house after being outside for a while, the words she had thought she
had imagined. “A ghost? My only friend is a ghost?”

“I’m sorry to say that is true. I would vastly prefer to be alive for you, or failing that,

provide you with the friends you deserve. You’re a beautiful, loving woman Cassandra,
and it breaks my heart to see you like this.”

He drew her closer and she gave in. It felt so good just to lean on him, and his solid

strength. Still not entirely believing in this, she wanted it too much to resist any more.

“That’s my girl.” His voice was low, encouraging and entirely sinful. What did it

matter, if this was a dream? “Rest and let me talk to you instead. I’ve watched you since
you first entered this house, Cassandra, and ached for your pain. A child would have
helped, but that sot you married is incapable even of that.”

She couldn’t bear him seeing the many humiliations she’d undergone. “No, it

wasn’t like that!”

“Yes it was, my sweet.” The endearment passed not unnoticed, but accepted. He’d

called her that before, in her dreams.  “I never intruded, but when I heard what came after
sometimes, I couldn’t help but come to comfort you.  Not that I could do anything.”    The
last  words  were  so  bitter  she  felt  warmed,  even  though  she  also  felt  ashamed.    When
Edward  failed  to  perform  his  marital  duty  he  tended  to  blame  her.    She  had  done
everything  she  could  to  encourage  him,  but  still  it  had  been  her  fault  when  he  couldn’t
penetrate her, her fault, not the drink. “He won’t hurt you again if I can help it. That’s why
I came tonight.  I can establish a stronger bond between us.  Until tonight, I could only talk
to you occasionally. Afterwards, I should be able to reach you whenever you need me.”

“How?”
“Never mind. But it’s possible. Now. I couldn’t bear to watch it any longer. Your

secret is safe, my love. Just you, me and the other ghosts here.”

“Are there many?” It sounded so real now the voice wasn’t just in her head.
“Not really, considering the age of the house. Myself, my brother and a monk we

keep seeing but who has never spoken to us. Perhaps he’s taken a vow of silence.”

Lynne Connolly

“I thought you and your brother hated each other? You killed each other, didn’t

you?”

He smiled briefly. “We did, although we died months apart. He saved the estate for

the family. After I died petitioned Cromwell to retain the estate, although he knew the
wounds I’d given him would kill him sooner rather than later. He passed the estate to our
little brother when he died at Christmas.”

“You died on Halloween and he died at Christmas. How sad!” Instinctively she

moved closer to him. His arm curved protectively around her and for the first time in years
Cassandra felt safe.

“We didn’t mark the calendar at the time. It was only later we realized. Much

later.” His voice turned sad and dark.

Wanting nothing more than to comfort him, she lifted her head and pressed her lips

to his smoothly shaven chin. Before she could pull away, he turned his head and captured
her mouth.

The kiss seared through her body. She knew she should pull away, but half of her

still believed this was a dream, so what did it matter? And he felt so good, so right. His
other arm came around her, and she pressed herself closer, dreaming of what could have
been, what she might have had if she’d married a man even half-way decent. When she felt
his tongue flicker against her lips, she opened for him with a gentle sigh of surrender.

He caressed her gently, tenderly, his long fingers massaging her back as he held her

and ravaged her mouth. The kiss, at first gentle and tentative, turned wild, his tongue
plunging deep, caressing every inner surface.

What was happening to her? How could she give way to this madness?
Easily. When he pressed her backwards, she didn’t resist. She leant back on the bed,

only aware of his lips on hers, his tongue in her mouth, his hands, more adventurous now,
smoothing her body in long strokes of wanting.  She was not passive either.  Pushing the
soft cloth of his coat aside, she felt the hard planes of his body under his shirt, which was
slightly rougher than the fabric she was used to.  Perhaps the weaver’s art had improved in
the last hundred and sixty years.

It didn’t matter. Only this mattered, until he drew back and propped himself on his

elbows above her, panting a little from the intensity of their embrace.  “I’m sorry.  I only
came  to  comfort  you  and  to  establish  the  link.    I  want  to  look  after  you,  Cassandra.    We
can’t have any more than that.  After tonight, I’ll be as incorporeal as I ever was.  I won’t be
able to do any of this.”    His mouth was slightly open, his skin flushed with desire.  How
could she resist?

“I don’t care.” She lifted her hand to his neck and tugged.
“I do.” He stared at her, and she saw the unmistakable light of love in his deep

blue eyes. She caught her breath, and he smiled. “Yes, I have fallen in love with you. At
first I only wanted to keep you safe, but it’s more than that now. It doesn’t matter. There’s
nothing we can do, you know.”

“Yes there is.” She pulled again, and this time he obeyed her insistent summons,

sinking down to take her mouth once more.

Cassandra hadn’t known kisses could be so wonderful. The few times her husband

had  done  such  a  thing,  his  kisses  had  been  wet  and  entirely  distasteful.    Messy.    Vernon
wasn’t messy.  He kissed her with passion, with love and with sobriety.  His hands stroked
her breasts, and he caressed her through the thick material of her stays.

Cassandra pressed up against him, wishing they could be closer. She yearned to feel

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him, skin to skin. It was as though she’d known him forever. Perhaps she had. The voices
in her head hadn’t been her own imaginings, after all. And if this was madness, if she was
imagining all this, then it was far better than reality.

At last she had someone, someone of her own, even if that someone was a ghost.

Not  that  he  felt  like  a  ghost.    Under  the  soft  wool  of  his  breeches,  an  unmistakable
hardening  against  her  thigh  told  her  he  had  effortlessly  achieved something  her  husband
could only dream about these days.

She would never allow Edward into her bed again. Ever. It would be a travesty

after this.

Vernon kissed her, stroked her until she wanted more. Wanted it so much she knew

it had to be inevitable.

His lips traveled softly down her throat to the upper swelling of her breast.
“It unlaces at the back,” she murmured softly, burying her hand in the wealth of his

thick, shining hair, threading it dreamily between her fingers, feeling his mouth on her
skin, his erection pressing against her. She didn’t know if the gentle, but rhythmic shoves
were instinctive or purposeful, but they felt too good for her to care.

He lifted his head, his eyes burning with want. “I do love you, Cassandra, but be

aware that after tonight we will be the same as we were before. I want you so much, my
love. I’ve dreamed of it, if ghosts can be said to dream. It has kept me sane. But it isn’t
right, you know that.”

“Why not?” Fury rose quickly in her. “I’ve been good for six years. Always the

loyal, devoted wife and what has that got me? Nothing but bruises and insults. I tried; I
really tried to make the marriage a success. I’ve conserved his money, cared for his land,
all the things he should have done, and he takes it and spends it on whores, gambling and
drink. Why should I carry on trying?”

He lifted her fingers to his mouth and kissed each knuckle, touching them with his

tongue, taking his time.  “Perhaps,”   he said between kisses,”   perhaps it’s because you are
better  than  he  is,  more  resilient,  more  honorable.    Perhaps  that’s  why  I  love  you.”    He
sighed, his breath gusting warmly over her hand.  “If I hadn’t been so foolish as to rush off
and believe everything I was told about the king, I might have made a better job of my own
marriage, and not plunged the estate into war.  But I did, and there it is.  I can’t change it
now.”

She watched him, watched the pink tip of his tongue touch her knuckles and knew

he was right, but she didn’t care. “We have two hours until midnight. Are we going to
waste them in talk?”

He lifted his head, his eyes smiling wickedly into hers. “At least eight hours until

sunrise. That’s when I have to go, my love, at the start of a new day.”

“Love me, Vernon. Let’s not think about tomorrow. Just love me.”
For answer, he lifted her and held her closely to him, his hands busy at her laces.

She pulled his coat aside with both hands and pressed herself to his chest, feeling the
roughness of his shirt against her cheek.

He made short work of her stays, casting them impatiently aside, and drawing away

from her, his eyes downcast to take in what he had revealed. “I cannot say I’ve never seen
you before, but I did try to give you your privacy. I left when I saw you in your undress,
though I longed to stay. Now I may stay, yes?”

“Oh yes!” Her permission a benediction, he lifted his hand and pulled the

drawstring of her chemise. It parted with a soft whisper of fabric, and they watched

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together as the fabric slid away from her body.

His long sigh of desire told her all she needed to know. It should have been like this

with Edward; she had hoped so much, and at first he had tried, but it had been too much.
She had come to her senses two weeks after her wedding, when she’d caught him drunk,
servicing her chambermaid.

“Are you honest and true?” she asked, hardly realizing she spoke aloud.
“Yes, my sweet. I have always been so. You know I had a wife?”
“Yes.”
His hand caressed her waist, warm and real, a gentle touch of affection. “We were

friends.  It was an arranged marriage, but we made something of it.  That we failed to make
it better was my fault, not hers.  But I was never unfaithful to her, and I will never be so to
you.”  He looked up at her face and smiled.  “I’m speaking foolishly.  I’m hardly going to
have the opportunity, am I?”

“Are you real?”
“Yes, for tonight, I’m real. And I’m yours. Will you let me in?”
Without taking her gaze from his, she nodded.
Audibly drawing in his breath, Vernon shucked off his coat. Cassandra made

herself busy at his waistcoat, undoing the long line of buttons, and then her hands were on
his chest, only his shirt between them now.

That was soon disposed of. Vernon’s gaze drifted down to her breasts, and he

looked his fill, with her joyful permission. As he watched, she felt her nipples tighten, furl
into tight points.

That had never happened to her before. “Have you some magic?”
“No magic. Tonight, I’m just a man. Let me prove it.”
He lifted his hands to her shoulders and pressed her gently back into the softness of

her feather mattress.

His body was long, hard and when he moved she felt powerful muscles bunch

under his skin. Everything–no, no more comparisons, no more. Tonight was just the two
of them. Vernon and Cassandra, no future, no past.

Nothing but this moment.
His heavy wings of hair swung forward to shroud them in soft, silken warmth. She

chuckled. “You Cavaliers and your long hair!”

“A badge,” he murmured. “Once a fashion, then a badge. One day, I might get to

cut it.”

“Do you want to?”
“Yes!” He said the word with such fervor, Cassandra felt a shock of dismay. He

stroked the side of her face, his touch gentle. “It’s a symbol of what went wrong with my
life. It was foolishness, taking up a course that would destroy what we had built here. I
was taken with too many stories, too many lies and a mistaken sense of justice.”

“You sound like a Roundhead!”
He chuckled, low in his throat, his sudden flash of anger gone. “I wouldn’t go that

far.”

Seemingly losing interest, he caressed her lips with his, gently warming them,

allowing his tongue to flick briefly against hers, but by the time she had opened for him, he
had drawn back. “I could stay here all night with you, just looking, just touching. I have
imagined this so many times!”

“Vernon, why?”

Black Leather, White Lace

“I wanted to see you, and I am allowed this boon. I would not have come to you

before.  You tried so hard to make your sot of a husband into something worthy of you; I
could  not  interfere  with  that.    But  I  can’t  see  you  suffer  any  longer.”    He  pushed  gently
against  her,  his  cock  an  impressive  rod  against  her  thigh.    It  burned  her  skin,  made  her
eager for him.

“No more talking,” she gasped. She squirmed under him until his weight fell

between her legs, and deliberately, holding his gaze, she pushed up against the mattress.

He smiled. “No more talking.” He pressed his lips to hers once more, this time

opening his mouth and thrusting his tongue into her.  At the same time, he pushed below,
and she felt a groan reverberate in her mouth when he realized just how much she wanted
him.    Lifting  a  little,  he  slid  his  free  hand  between  them  and  she  felt  him  fumble,  then
position himself.

He pressed deep, not stopping, not lifting his mouth from hers, gradually parting

her  thickened,  wet,  flesh  until  he  was  completely  sheathed  inside  her.    His  body  stilled
inside  hers,  he  finished  the  kiss,  lifting  his  lips  slowly  away.    His  eyes  slumberous  with
passion, he gazed into hers. “Oh my love,”   he breathed.

Her instinctive action was to lift her bottom and press against him, opening her legs

wide until she felt her soft, sensitive flesh encounter the wiry hair at the base of his cock.
She moaned, allowing the sensation to course through her. “I want you to fill me up.
Never leave me, let me love you always.”

“If I can love you back.” He rose up, and thrust. With a smooth motion that spoke

volumes about his physical strength, he pushed up on his hands, rising above her and
changing the angle of his entry so she gasped in shock. Staring at her, he thrust again. She
felt his body, deep inside hers, and she shattered.

Her scream would no doubt go unheard downstairs, where whores and society

women  squealed  in  delighted  mock-horror  and  men  roared  after  them.    She  didn’t  care.
Cassandra  was  past  caring,  knowing  she  would  gladly  die  for  this  night.    There  was
nothing  left  to  her  but  the  man  she  was  made  for,  his  body  in  hers,  his  dark  blue  eyes
searing  passion  into  her  soul.    He  never  looked  away,  watched  nothing  but  her,  her
response, her need.  She felt his gaze like a caress, stroking her sensitized skin, making love
to her in every possible way.

As though he knew her thoughts, he spoke to her. “I love you; I will never leave

you, not from this day to the end of time. Believe it. Always believe it.”

Another surge hit her with the intensity of a lightening bolt. She arched up, gasping

his  name,  and  he  pushed  against  her,  bringing  them  impossibly  close,  stroking  her  so
deeply, in a place no one had ever reached before.  She hadn’t been aware it existed before
this  moment,  but  the  moment  his  flesh  encountered  that  unfathomable  part  of  her,  she
exploded, her legs lifting to hook around his waist, pulling him near, keeping him there. So
close, so wonderfully close.

This time, he joined her in her release. The pressure of her heels on the small of his

back seemed to trigger his explosion. She rejoiced when she felt the gush of heat, then the
wetness seeping between her thighs as he spilled over, flooding her with life and need,
wetness she knew was more than just her desire for him.

He stilled above her, powerful muscles taut and bulging with the strain of want,

then he groaned once, loudly and deeply, a sound wrenched from the depths of his chest,
reverberating through her body and his.

He collapsed, narrowly avoiding crushing her even deeper into the soft feather

Lynne Connolly

mattress.

They lay for long moments, recovering their breath, bodies still joined. When he

turned his head and opened his eyes, she was already watching him, reveling in the lean
planes of his cheek and jaw, beautiful against the snowy pillows.  His smile this time was of
a smug, entirely satisfied man.  She felt she could touch his desire, so palpably did it pulse
between them.

“Cassandra.” He lifted his hand to cup her cheek and bring her close for a gentle

kiss of thanksgiving, “It was worth it for this, every agonizing moment of the wait.”

“I feel the same,” she whispered back. “My coming here was worthwhile, after all.”
Her words seem to jerk him back to reality. He lifted his head and his eyes widened.

“No. Not for you. No longer will I stand by and allow him to abuse you. I will find a way
to stop him, I promise. I can’t bear it, nor should you have to.”

“It doesn’t matter. Not now.”
“It does!” His voice sharpened, increased in volume. When she winced, he sighed.

“I’m sorry. But I will find a way. You are mine now, Cassandra Rustead.”

“Yes,” she agreed, too happy to protest. “All yours.”
He slid to one side of her, his body reluctantly leaving hers, and took her into his

arms, drawing her close. She rested her head on his shoulder, lifting her hand to caress his
chest. “Cassandra, I can only come to you like this once a year. You know that?”

“Yes, I do.”
She wished he hadn’t said that. She wanted a night, one night of perfection, a night

she intended to commit to memory. She would not forget a single moment, not one breath
of it.

“I will come, if you want me. If you do not, I will know. One day you will want to

move on, and that is how it should be.” He sounded determined, as though he’d already
thought things through.

She hadn’t had that luxury, but she was sure. “No!” There was no one else for her

now. “When I saw you, I knew. I knew why I’d married Edward, defied my parents,
ignored what he is. It was because I saw you in him.”

“Cassandra, he is not of my get. I never had any children. None that I knew of,”
“I thought you said you were faithful to your wife?”
He laughed softly. “I was. Completely, but I was a healthy young man before I

married.  There were a few years before the war when I was actually carefree for a while.
The  world  seemed  rosy  then.    My  parents  indulged  me,  even  more  after  my  brother
defected to the Parliamentary side.  My father disowned him, said he was no son of his and
turned all his attention to me.”

Cassandra searched her mind, but couldn’t remember what had happened to

Vernon’s father.

“My father died before the troubles erupted into war. He took a fever.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.” He stroked her hair back from her face. “It was better that he didn’t

know  what  a  mess  we  made  of  things,  Nathaniel  and  I.”    Nathaniel  had  been–was–
Vernon’s  younger  brother.    “Our  youngest  brother,  my  father’s  third  son,  made  a  much
better  success  of  his  life  once  he  grew  up.    Nathaniel  safeguarded  the  estate  for  him,  but
Edwin  did  all  the  work  of  restoration  and  rebuilding.    He  worked  at  the  things  that
mattered.  He built a family, worked to restore the land, all the things we had forgotten in
our foolish struggles.”

Black Leather, White Lace

She leaned forward to bring their lips together and they shared a moment of perfect

peace and tranquility, sated, warmly snuggled up, their legs entwined, their arms about
each other.

This was how it should have been. This was how it would be from now on.
She opened her eyes, unwilling to lose a moment of seeing him for real, feeling him

with her.

“Tell me why you married your husband,” he suggested. “I only knew you when

you walked across the threshold of this place. I couldn’t understand why you married
him.”

It was all too clear to her now. “I saw Edward and I wanted him. But he was

moderately presentable then, and his family had made an effort to show him to me in his
best light.  My parents knew he drank heavily, but many young men do, and they get over
it.  My father made enquiries, but it seemed he was making a real effort to reform, and they
hadn’t the heart to disappoint me when I pleaded with them to let me marry him.  That’s
why I never went back to them when they were proved right.  They thought I was happy,
and they went abroad soon after.”

“They don’t live here?”
“No. Papa is in the diplomatic service. He’s in Vienna, with the other diplomats at

the Congress. I’ve been worried that he would hear how Edward is treating me and come
for me, and I would have to lie to him, but so far Edward is just one of many drunken
young men in society, and he hasn’t created any scandals out of the ordinary.”

“Perhaps it would be as well if he did. Perhaps it would be better for you to return

to your father.” Vernon drew her close and feathered kisses on her brow. “Couldn’t you
go back to him?”

“Edward would cause trouble. He still has enough money and enough influence to

make  things  very  difficult  for  Papa.    I’ve  ruined  my  own  life.    No  reason  to  ruin  anyone
else’s.    I  still  have  unmarried  sisters,  you  know,  and  hopefully  they  will  have  better  luck
than I did.  If I left Edward, the scandal might be too much for them.  Perhaps, when my
sisters  have  all  found  husbands,  I  might  be  able  to  do  something.    I  thought  of  getting  a
separation.  If Edward continues in this way, it will be perfectly understood by respectable
society by then. But I can’t leave this house now. I can’t leave you.”

He sighed, his breath warm against her skin. “I will not let him hurt you any more.

I swear it, my love. He will not touch you in anger again. He has struck you, hasn’t he?”

“Only when he doesn’t know what he’s doing. He’s a fool, not a bully.”
The possibility that Edward would touch her in lust remained unspoken between

them. At present, there was no possibility, but there might be, one day. Edward’s
impotence was intermittent, and he had managed a few times before, although his efforts
had lacked any finesse or consideration. But it was his right, as long as he remained her
husband.

She didn’t ask Vernon how he would achieve this feat. In fact, she doubted he

could, but she remained silent, knowing it made him happy to think it. “How can this be
possible? How can I fall in love with you without having met you?”

“That you saw something in your husband that you recognized? That we should

come together?”  He smiled, his lips curving against her skin.  “I don’t know.  If I ask, I’m
afraid it will go away.  I think you knew that I knew.  I felt it when you were born, but I
didn’t  recognize  the  feeling  for  what  it  was.    I  just  knew  something  wonderful  had
happened, and perhaps my time had come.”

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“Your time for what?”
He lifted himself up on one elbow, shoving his thick, dark hair back with one strong

hand.  “My time to change.  Love, I don’t know why I’m here, why my brother is here, even
why that monk is here, but I think we’re here for a reason.  And my reason is you.  Perhaps
I was kept here to care for you.  I think so.  I know so.  I will be here for you, always, to the
day you—”

“Die?” The idea wasn’t frightening to her any more. Now she had met him, her

love, her partner, she could almost welcome it. When she looked into his eyes, she knew
he’d caught her fleeting thought.

He bit his lip, frowning in anxiety. “Do not end your life in the hopes of joining me.”

His voice gained in volume, rough with concern. “You hear me?”

“I–would it not be right?”
“No. It would not. We may not be allowed any time together and we can only make

love when we’re like this, in a corporeal state. It would be to force something we are not
meant to force. And it is a sin. The only thing we can be sure of is that I will come to you
every year on this date, I will watch over you for every minute in between and that I love
you.”

“I love you too.” Staring up at him she knew it was true, knew with all the certainty

she was capable of.  It would be hard, but if they had this night every year, even that was
far more than she’d hoped for that morning, far more than she’d expected.  He had given
her  something  to  live  for,  this  dead  man.    “Will  you  love  me  when  the  gray  hairs  come,
when I put on weight, when my limbs become feeble?”

“Yes.” He said the word before she had stopped speaking. “I am sure of it. And I

will wait for you. Never doubt that.”

“I won’t.” And she wouldn’t. Lifting her hand, she pushed gently on his shoulder

until he lay down once more. It was her turn to make love to him.

Cassandra had never done this before, never initiated the act of love, but necessity

made her bold.  She wanted him too much for passivity, too much to accept his loving and
not give in return. She slid her hand over his chest, lingering at his nipple. He lay back and
watched  her,  his  hands  linked  loosely  around  her  waist.    She  felt  the  beginning  of  his
erection, gentle warmth turning to burning heat, his body lengthening and readying itself
for her.  His eyes gleamed blue fire.  “Do whatever you want.  You cannot displease me.  It
is an impossibility.” He smoothed his hands over her back, gently urging her on.

Cassandra bent her head to his chest and took his nipple in her mouth. It tasted like

heaven, his skin slightly salty from his previous exertions, his nipple puckering against her
tongue in a sweet parody of her own reaction.  When she sucked, she felt her own nipples
tighten where they pressed against his chest. She felt his body tighten with need, but he lay
passively beneath her, allowing her to do whatever she would.  Growing bolder, she kissed
across his chest, gave his other nipple the same wet welcome and felt heat blossom between
her legs.

She had never grown this wet for Edward. Was that why he’d sometimes hurt her?

She guessed so, but at the moment she couldn’t care less.  This was the man she’d mistaken
Edward  for,  and  the  reason  for  her  obsession  with  her  husband.    She  had  seen  the  brief
shadow  of  her  love  for  Vernon  in  Edward,  and  that  had  been  enough.    This  couldn’t  be
wrong.  Separated only by time, time that had joined in a blessed circle for this one night,
allowing him to come to her at last.

Pausing at his navel, she teased him with her tongue, darting it in and out, caressing

Black Leather, White Lace

in circle around the neat dimple, receiving a hoarsely grated, “Sweeting!” for her trouble.

Under his navel, a line of dark hair led down and spread, forming a nest of tight

curls around the base of his now fully aroused shaft. Strong and dark with want; she took a
moment to admire it, before cupping her hand around his balls and tracing the
unbelievably soft skin around the tip, exploring him, learning him. He twitched beneath
her and she opened her mouth wide to take him in.

His cry startled her, but she didn’t stop. One long suck and a swirl of her tongue

seemed to please him, especially when combined with a gentle massage.  She held him in
her  thrall,  her  hand  on  him,  her  mouth  caressing  him.    She  felt  his  hands  in  her  hair,
digging  deep,  his  fingers  curving  against  her  skull.    “Oh  Cassandra,  oh  sweetheart,  that
feels so go-ooood.”  The last word was long and drawn out, ending on a groan, rising to a
growl as his grip tightened, and he dragged her back up the bed.  This kind of violence she
would take as much of as he wanted to dole out. This was passion.

Blue eyes burned into her, his mouth lay open, panting with need, but still he held

back, still he gave her control of what they did. Cassandra felt strength pulsing through
her veins, power to control, to direct, and she loved it.

She came up on her knees, hovering above him, his cock straining up, but he

watched her, his full bottom lip caught between his teeth, his eyes still burning want and
need into hers. She put her fingers between her legs and spread herself apart. “Is this what
you want?”

His moan was balm to her soul. “Yes. All of it. Do it, just do it!”
Any moment he would begin to babble. Cassandra wanted to hear it. Balancing on

her  knees,  she  stroked  her  other  hand  down  her  body,  pausing  to  cup  one  breast,  and
tweak the nipple, caressing it for him.  She slipped her hand slowly down her body, feeling
the  curve  of  her  waist,  the  flare  of  her  hips,  and  then  traced  a  line  over  her  thighs  and
deliberately touched the hard peak of flesh between her nether lips, pinching it between her
finger  and  thumb.    The  resulting  jolt  of  desire  made  her  throw  her  head  back,  her  curls
tickling her shoulders. She gasped.

He was babbling. “Oh God! Oh God, thank you for this, thank you for allowing me

to see this, to feel this. OhGodohGodohGod!”

Cassandra opened her eyes and dropped her chin, at the same time lowering her

body to take him in.

“I can’t stand this.” Roughly he pushed her hand aside and took its place.

Cassandra concentrated on his hard, needy cock in her body, his fingers working her to a
climax she wouldn’t have believed possible before this night. She bucked, working him
deeply inside her, rocking on him until she found the spot deep inside that had felt so good
before. His voice, low and intense, hoarse with passion, added its own stimulation. “That’s
it, sweet, feel it, hold it there, take me exactly how you want me! Oh Cassandra!”

“Oh yes,” she whispered, her own voice dark with passion. “Yes, oh yes!” It was

her turn to babble, her sounds turning into incoherent gasps and groans, her body working
his relentlessly, using him to drive herself towards the light at the end of the tunnel, a light
she could see if she closed her eyes, brilliant and desirable. She felt him clasp her hip with
his free hand, but not to direct her, just to steady her as the swirling, sparkling pulses
conquering her body became one huge surge of release.

“Vernon!” Her voice rose to a scream. He continued to work her, driving her past

sensitivity to oversensitivity to unbelievable heights of pure sensation.

He caught her when she fell on to him, held her steady while he drove three times,

Black Leather, White Lace

Chapter Three

“How old are you?”
Cassandra lay across her lover, his hand curled around her back, holding her close.

They had separated, but only just, his slack, wet member lying just under her thigh, warm
and protected, reminding them both of the incredible pleasure that had pulsated through
them.

“How old am I now?”
“When you–when you―”
“Died?” He sounded amused, though Cassandra couldn’t imagine how he could

feel like that. “I was just four and thirty. Old enough to be tired of fighting. I advised my
superiors to talk to the Parliamentarians, try to come to terms, but they called me a traitor.
I wanted to go back to my home, but they said one more battle and the King would be
victorious. They were wrong, but I went home anyway.”

“Does it pain you to talk about this?” She pressed a gentle kiss to his shoulder, and

he turned his head and captured her mouth in a sweet loving salute.

“Not when I talk to you. You may ask anything you wish, and I promise to answer

the best I can.”

She pushed her unruly hair away from her face. It seemed to distract him from his

story.  He lifted his hand and threading his long fingers through her dark curls.  “I like the
way you wear your hair.  The curls make you look a little like an enchanting elf, especially
with  those  enchanting  eyes.”    He  smiled  into  her  face,  totally  relaxed,  totally  happy.
“They’re the greenest eyes I’ve ever seen. I want to see them many times in the future.”

“I shall likely never change my hairstyle, then,” she said, “Knowing you are

watching. Will you be watching?”

He nodded, his gaze never leaving hers. “I will be watching. Unless you tell me to

leave. I will be there, I swear it.”

She caught her breath, wondering if they could communicate in some way. Any

way. She was beginning to see how her life would be. Once a year she would come alive,
and she would have to be content with that. Fifty days instead of fifty years.

It was more than she hoped for, but she couldn’t help feeling a pang of what if?

What if they had been born at the same time? What if he could somehow join her–or she
could join him?”

He took her hands in his. “We have what we’ve been given. We have to be content

with that. I feel as you do. I want more. But we have this. Be happy.”

“I am. I never expected to be happy. I made my mistake when I insisted on

marrying Edward, and I was prepared to cope with it. Now I have you.”

“Yes you do.” He caressed her cheek with his open hand.
“Tell me about the duel with your brother.”
His face hardened, then relaxed once more when he gazed at her. “I will tell you.

Lynne Connolly

You  deserve  to know,  and  there  should  be no  secrets  between  us.    But  let  me—”he  lifted
her  across  him,  so  she  straddled  his  stomach.    She  sat  up,  and  when  she  realized  his
intention  slid  down  his  body,  allowing  the  wetness  from  their  loving  to  anoint  his  lower
stomach.  He was erect once more.  It was easy to lift up and let him in.  When she sank
down they both let out a sigh of satisfaction.  They were meant to be together, they could
only gain completion when they joined.  She leaned back against his uplifted knees, so they
could both look at the place of joining, where his pubic hair meshed with hers.

Neither moved, both savoring the sensation of joining, his body filling hers, just as it

should be. It felt perfect.

He lifted his hands and she put her own in them, twining their fingers together.

“Now you asked about the duel.”

“Yes.” She shouldn’t feel so comfortable like this, but she did.
“My brother is only a year younger than I am.” When he spoke, she felt his voice

deep inside her, at the core of her being, throbbing and rumbling through her body and his.
“We  grew  up  close  to  each  other,  had  the  same  tutors  and  were  brought  up  to  think  the
same things. But when the war came, he chose Parliament.  I was heir to the title and lands,
and Nathaniel had taken a seat in the Commons.  He heard all the arguments.  I was fired
with patriotism, as I thought, and I went to war.  We had a brother, a boy of seven, so my
father allowed me to go to war, since the succession was safe.”

He sighed, and she felt that too. Now she understood why he wanted them to be

joined when he told her the story that had ended his life.  She was with him, as much as she
ever could be without living through the experience with him.  “I went willingly.  It went
on for nine years, but I didn’t last that long.  I was in the war from Edge Hill to Naseby.”
He  paused,  and  Cassandra  felt  his  body  wilt  a  little  inside  hers.    She  didn’t  move.    This
wouldn’t be the right  time for stimulation.   Their joining seemed  more than sexual, more
meaningful, more profound. They needed to be together like this while he told her.

“After Naseby, it was obvious Parliament would win the day. It was brutal, as were

most of the battles.  Countrymen should never fight each other.  I went home, sick of war
and ready to accept what Parliament would dole out.  Nobody then expected that the war
would result in regicide.”  He swallowed.  “At least I hold no guilt for that.  Naseby was in
June.    The  war  had  wrecked  my  family.    Everything  valuable  had  been  sold.    My  wife
worked in the fields like any farmer’s wife.   For the first time I realized what I  had done
and I set myself to try to repair some of the damage.

“Nathaniel came back in October with a force of men. I didn’t see what he had

planned.  He never told me, and even if he had, I might not have agreed.  I was attainted,
they wanted to arrest me.  Nathaniel planned to take the estate to prevent its confiscation
by Parliament.  He would have returned it to me if he could.  But he failed to tell me.  So I
challenged him.”

He sighed, but she felt his erection harden within her. Men! Never happier than

when  they  were  fighting!    “My  swordsmanship  had  improved  immeasurably,  but  so  had
his.   He killed me, but I had wounded him  badly.”  He  swallowed.  “I was bound to the
earth, I thought, until he died, because it was obvious the wounds were bad.  Infection set
in and he was dead by Christmas.  He joined me, and neither of us knew why we hadn’t
moved on, but when I saw you, I knew. I just knew.”

She listened through the words, as he meant her to, into his agony. For a man to kill

his brother, especially one he was so close to, must have been too much to bear. Had he
atoned? She ventured to ask.

Black Leather, White Lace

His smile was gently understanding. “Yes, we have reconciled. We still argue about

the war, but whatever we did, both sides were in the right, and in the wrong, too. Who
knows, society might have evolved this way on its own, and there would have been fewer
deaths, fewer families ripped apart.” His smile broadened, his blue eyes gleaming. “But
for now, my sweet love, this is what we have.”

Grasping her waist he pulled her down on to his body then swung her so he was on

top. “This is ours now, ours to keep. It’s what I’ve been dreaming of since I first saw you.”
He jerked back and then drove in hard and deep.

Cassandra felt the passion arc through her and lifted her hips to meet him, her legs

lifting to cinch his hard body between her knees.  Her gasp ended in a wail of completion.
It didn’t seem possible, that he could bring her to climax so quickly.  But he could, and he
continued to prove to her why they should be together.  Every time she opened her eyes he
was there, staring into her face, tension firming the hard lines of his face into breathtaking
beauty.

He drove into her with such force, her body slid up the bed, her head coming up to

rest against the carved headboard. Neither of them noticed, so concentrated in the
sensations coursing from him to her and back again.

Every time he surged back into her body, she cried out to him, the incredible warmth

blossoming  from  her  womb  through  every  part  of  her.    Even  her  fingertips  tingled.    He
would  never  stop.    She  never  wanted  him  to.    Was  it  possible  to  die  of  satiation?    She
fervently wished it was so, that she would die at the point of climax and join him forever.

He was muttering to her now, gentle love words, rising in passion as his rhythmic

pounding increased in power and frequency. “Oh sweet love, this is worth everything!
You are so beautiful, so open to me!”

With one last, wordless cry, he plunged in deep, the deepest yet, and came.
His pulsing cock brought her to another climax and liquid heat flooded them both.
He fell forward and with his body still in hers, turned his head to take her mouth in

one last kiss before withdrawing, and then lay there, just watching her. “I’ve never seen
anything so beautiful in all my life,” he murmured. “Sleep, my sweet. I’ll watch over
you.”

Until then she had drifted, slowly moving to sleep but at his words her eyelids

snapped open. “No! We only have tonight, don’t we?”

“And next year. It will be dawn in less than two hours. I don’t want you to know

when I go, my love. I want your last thoughts to be happy ones. I don’t say goodbye, not
any more, and I won’t say it now. I will be here, never doubt it. Never doubt it.”

He smoothed his hand over her back in a series of soothing gestures. She allowed

herself to drift again, and soothed by his words of love and his body, warmly embracing
her, she fell asleep.

Lynne Connolly

Chapter Four

Christmas already. Cassandra placed her hand on her gently rounded stomach and

gazed out of the window of her cozy boudoir. It had all been worth it. Even if she’d been
forced to acknowledge her lie, it would have been worth it.

How are you today?
She felt his presence before she heard his voice in her mind. Now it was comforting.

Before she’d known the truth, it had been disturbing.

She leaned back against the cushions, savoring her presence. I’m very well.
The sickness?
All gone. It was never much. I am lucky.
Lucky?

She didn’t imagine the hint of bitterness in his tone. She felt it too,

sometimes, but she deliberately blocked it out.  Once a year was better than nothing at all.
How  many  perfect  moments  could  most  couples  have?    Perhaps  her  fifty  nights  would
amount to more than many married couples had in a whole lifetime.

We have this.
She still heard his melancholy. I want to hold you, my love, I want to be with you.
You are with me.
She could feel the effort it took him to control his feelings, but she didn’t comment

on them. It was his battle, and she couldn’t help. Yes, I am with you. Our connection is
stronger, just as I wanted it to be. It will be Christmas in a few days, will it not?

It will.
It will be the first one I have blessed for many years.
His sentiments warmed her. It was too early for any movement, but her breasts

were larger, her nipples darker, and her stomach, previously as flat as a washboard, had
rounded a little. She was pregnant, and it wasn’t Edward’s child.

At first Vernon had been horrified and guilty, but she had reminded him of her lie to

her husband, who already believed she was pregnant. She would bear the heir to the title.
The child was actually from a senior branch of the family, but would be indisputably the
heir. And he had given her new hope together with the new life burgeoning in her womb.

For once, she was looking forward to her husband coming home. He’d said he

would be back for Christmas and everything was in readiness for him. She had no faith in
his promises, so she would ensure her safety. And the safety of her child.

A movement in the still landscape outside her window attracted her attention and

she looked out to see not one carriage, but several, trundling up the long, winding drive
leading to the house. Her heart sank. He brought his friends. I should have expected it.

Emphasize your condition my love. Remind him you must be cared for.
Did she imagine the gentle caress over her stomach, or had he really touched her?

She didn’t question the feeling, choosing to believe in the sensation.  It was the way she had
survived the last two months.  Ten more to go before she could see him again, touch him
for real.  Until then she would last on her memories and her imagination.  And his voice,

Black Leather, White Lace

now with her whenever she reached for him. That was a lasting blessing brought by their
union. What had been intermittent before was now more reliable.

She got to her feet and laid her embroidery on a side table. A well-polished side

table, she noted with satisfaction. She went downstairs, taking her time, careful as always
and was in time to greet her husband when he crossed the threshold.

He threw his arms wide. “Ah, my dear!” She crossed the room and embraced him

briefly, drawing away as soon as she possibly could, aware of the odor of stale wine and
smoke Edward always seemed to carry with him. He had put on weight, and his eyes were
watery as well as bloodshot.

She felt a pang of sadness when she thought of what he could have been. “Edward,

I’m glad you got here before the poor weather. The sky is too overcast for comfort.”

He glanced behind him at the grey clouds, and the breeze, whipping up to a wind.

“By God you’re right, Cassie. Let’s get in. Is there a room with a fire?”

“Several. Since you gave me permission to hire what servants I wished, I’ve been

able to make the house more welcoming. Come in.”

She tried to inject warmth into her voice, and it seemed she was successful from

Edward’s warm smile, but her own expression froze when she heard a familiar, menacing
voice.

“Good afternoon, cousin.”
William, damn him, showed no sign of the dissipation he must be sharing with her

husband.    His  eyes  were  clear,  his  hair  glossy,  brushed  into  the  fashionable  Brutus  style.
There  didn’t  seem  to  be  an  ounce  of  spare  fat  on  him.    It  wasn’t  fair,  when  he  was  her
husband’s constant companion, leading him into all the gaming hells and whorehouses in
London.  She had been relieved to discover that Edward had abandoned some of the worst
hells.  Although she had no power of her own, she saw the bills, and while the ones from
jewelers, clothiers and vintners still poured in, it seemed Edward no longer played as many
games of chance as he used to.

“Good afternoon.” Cassandra didn’t articulate William’s name. She bowed to the

other people entering behind her husband and his friend, and silently counted.  Ten.  Not
too bad, and if her eyes didn’t deceive her, not a prostitute among them.  One or two of the
ladies had  considerably racy reputations, but that was better than the group Edward had
invited to share Halloween with them. They were at least nominally respectable.

One couple were new to her, and Cassandra didn’t imagine the look of disdain she

received from the female half.  They were introduced to her as Mr. Steven Lockwood and
his sister, Miss Deborah Lockwood.  She smiled her welcome, and felt her husband by her
side.  “My dear, Miss Lockwood–and her brother, of course, are particular friends of mine.
I hope to make them very welcome.”

Cassandra noticed a fine brooch adorning Miss Lockwood’s bosom and she

remembered the description as though it was printed out in front of her, as it had been not
so long ago.

A large sapphire surrounded by twelve fine diamonds. The whole enclosed in a setting of

silver, backed with gold.

She even knew the price. That was because the bill had arrived the previous week.

Not as much as some of Edward’s gaming losses, but steep enough.  This woman wore the
jewel that had cost her a chambermaid.  She’d been forced to let the girl go, to economize
yet again.

Well this week she would do her best to make Edward come to some realization of

his responsibilities. But first, she would see his mistress off the premises.

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When she tried to turn her back, she felt unseen resistance. She couldn’t move,

forward or backward. Just as she began to panic, she felt his voice in her mind.

No!
Angrily she rapped the question back. Why not?
Look at William Heatherington!
She lifted her eyes and glanced to where William stood just behind the Lockwoods.

She could only describe the expression on his face one way, gloating.  Then she knew.  In
some  way,  she  was  being  set  up  for  a  fall.    William  had  planned  something.    The  why
eluded her for a moment, but she used the time to bow to the couple and move on to greet
the next visitors.

Mechanically greeting and welcoming people she either didn’t know at all, or people

she disliked, she mulled it over in her mind.

Vernon got there first. The Lockwoods are respectable people. That’s why the more

scandalous of Edward’s acquaintance aren’t here this time.  Edward lost money to Mr. Lockwood on
the  card  table,  but  Lockwood  was  short  of  a  birthday  gift  to  his  sister.    As  far  as  she  knows,  the
brooch has nothing to do with your husband.  Edward merely paid for the jewel instead of paying his
winnings  in  cash.    William  facilitated  it.    Now  he’s  using  it  to  trap  you  into  behaving
inappropriately and preventing you discussing the estate with Edward.”

How do you know this?
I read William’s mind. Oh yes, and he has tender feelings towards Miss Lockwood. Be

careful, my love.

I will, I promise.

That was little short of diabolical. So William wanted to separate them further, did

he?      The  thought  crossed  her  mind  then,  for  the  first  time;  how  often  had  he  done  that?
How often had William separated them, been the cause of a dispute or a quarrel, serving to
drive them further apart?   It was true, Edward wasn’t the man she had imagined him to be
during  their  brief  courtship,  but  they  could  still  have  made  something  of  what  they  had,
had it not been for William constantly drawing Edward into his vicious pursuits.

She would watch him closely, her eyes open now.
During dinner that evening Cassandra watched William closely. She saw how

cleverly  he  managed  to  drink  less  than  the  others,  while  appearing  to  keep  up,  glass  by
glass.    She  saw  him  speak  to  people,  saw  the  curious  glances  directed  her  way  and
wondered what he was saying about her now.  After dinner, the gentlemen didn’t join the
ladies for a long time, and when they did, they were considerably the worse for wear.

Again, Cassandra was denied her opportunity to get her husband alone. Edward

wasn’t just mellow; he was roaring drunk. If she needed confirmation as to Miss
Lockwood’s respectability, she received it when the lady rejected Edward’s none-too-subtle
flirting with revulsion. Edward was no longer used to the company of respectable women.

Cassandra shuddered when she thought what a scene she would have caused in the

hall earlier by refusing the introduction. Miss Lockwood humiliated, William triumphant.
She would have to be very careful.

Even more than ever, now she was bearing Vernon’s child.
William handed her a plate of biscuits and murmured softly to her. “Are you certain

you’re in the family way?”

She paused before her response, ostensibly deciding between a ginger crisp and an

almond biscuit. She chose the almond before replying. “It’s only been two months,
William, but I’m as sure as I can be at this stage.”

Her response was a good one, if she could judge by the chagrin in William’s eyes as

Black Leather, White Lace

he met her own. “Then I must congratulate you. You might very well bear the heir to the
title.”

“Or his sister.” She smiled sweetly. That should do it. The doubt would,

hopefully, keep him at bay for a while.

Just for an instant he revealed what she suspected were his true feelings. Intense

dislike warred with a hot anger. At least, she interpreted it as anger.

He wants you out of his way. Be careful, sweetheart.
Really, you’re getting to be an old mother hen! Of course I’ll be careful! But he doesn’t want

me, he just wants me to provide a girl, so he will still inherit.

You’re wrong.

*****

Vernon watched his clever love observing what he could feel and coming to her own

conclusions. Although he could have helped her, he knew she would prefer to discover it
for herself. As always, he longed to be with her, to be by her side, to protect and love her.

Nathaniel’s hand settled on his shoulder and Vernon turned his head and smiled.

“You know where I want to be. But I would wish you to come with me.”

Nathaniel grinned. “That is not likely to happen. We will both watch over her.

Your son is likely to inherit the estate.”

“Yes.” They both knew the child was a boy. If it lived and if Vernon had anything

to do with it, his son would live to a good old age.

It hadn’t occurred to him until later that she might find herself truly with child,

instead of the phantom pregnancy she had tried to fool her husband with. When she had
realized, he’d wanted to swing her in the air, take her to bed and celebrate for days.

But he couldn’t. Incorporeal again, he had watched and shared his joy in the only

way he could; by communicating with her, giving her his support and love in full measure.
He  couldn’t  touch  her,  he  couldn’t  share  her  life  as  he  wanted  to,  but  he  didn’t  allow
himself to repine about that.  They had what they had, and that was a lot more than many
people.

It was important that Cassandra should see her husband at this time, but

unfortunate that he felt he needed to travel accompanied. This time he’d sent word, and
this time the company was fairly respectable, but as soon as the party had entered the great
hall, Vernon had felt tension in the air.

He had no compunction in reading as much of the minds present as were open to

him.    Some  humans  were  better  at  shielding  their  thoughts  than  others.    Sadly,  William
Heatherington  was  almost  completely  shuttered,  but  he  could  pick  up  the  stronger
emotions when he sent them forth.  Not so his lady love.  This new woman, Miss Deborah
Lockwood, believed William was in love with her.  She knew some of his plans.  Assuredly,
she knew about the brooch, and had been waiting for Cassandra’s snub with a mixture of
triumph and fear. No one liked being humiliated in public, but if the plan had succeeded, it
would have been Cassandra who would have had the ultimate humiliation.

“I think William is deceiving that young woman. I can’t read him clearly, but he is a

selfish person. If it suits his plans, he will drop her as quickly as he took her up.”

“I agree.” Nathaniel sounded thoughtful. “I don’t think this will be the only plan

William has for this holiday. The brooch was his opening salvo.”

“I fear you are right. I don’t want to leave Cassandra for one moment.” He turned

to confront his brother, graver featured, lighter in eye color and with the short-cropped hair

Lynne Connolly

of the Roundhead, but unmistakably his brother. They shared the long, aristocratic nose,
the high cheekbones and the full mouths of the Heatheringtons.

Nathaniel smiled, thin lipped. “Never fear. I will follow him, and observe. He

means evil, and this house has seen too much of that.”

Reassured, Vernon turned back to his love. Pregnancy had brought a bloom to her

face,  or  perhaps  it  was  the  certainty  that  had  done  it.    She  would  have  someone  to  love
now, something of him.  She had whispered as much to him one night before she slept, and
choked with tears, Vernon had stayed watching her all night.  Ghosts didn’t need sleep.  He
never  slept,  or  took  any  rest.    Perhaps  this  melancholy  joy  would  fade  a  little,  but  he
doubted  it.    Sad  that he  couldn’t  be  with  her,  overjoyed  that  he’d  had  the  opportunity  to
love her, and that she now knew for sure that he loved her.

*****

Cassandra’s efforts to lure Edward into the study met with failure throughout the

Christmas  period.    On  Christmas  Day,  when  he’d  presented  her  with  a  gaudy,  too
expensive necklace of diamonds and topazes.  She had thanked him, then asked him once
again for five minutes of his time, but he had declined, moving on to joke and drink with
his friends.

William kept her husband inebriated all day, dragging him into discussions, dances

and even an impromptu ball, with musicians hastily employed from the village, and just as
hastily dismissed when it became apparent that they didn’t know what a waltz was, much
less play one.

They were due to leave on the day after Twelfth Night, on to another house party

not so far distant. It might as well have been the moon for all the chance Cassandra had of
getting her husband to sign the all important document that awaited him in the study.

William had left Cassandra alone, apart from the occasional sneer, and assiduously

applied himself to Miss Lockwood, who, as it turned out, was a considerable heiress.
Cassandra had that relief, at least.

There had been a few incidents, but none she hadn’t spotted and neutralized. A

slippery rug at the top of the stairs, a chair with a loose leg, but that was all. Now she knew
for sure that William meant her harm, she was on her guard.

After a raucous, exhausting Christmas and New Year, Cassandra determined to get

the all important signature. Accordingly, she sat up late, waiting for the sounds of revelry
below to cease, or at least pall. By two in the morning, the racket continued unabated, and
Cassandra reached for her robe.

Already in her nightwear, the robe was old, heavy and shabby, but it covered her

from head to foot. She didn’t need to wait long before her husband staggered out of the
dining room, bleary eyes and with his arm around one of the female guests.

When he saw Cassandra, he pulled the woman closer. “Evenin’ m’dear. Lolly here’s

just seein’ me to my room.”

Cassandra gave Lolly an indifferent glance. Another blowsy woman with a deep

cleavage and skimpy muslin gown. Married to a member of society, but a whore for all
that. She’d seen too many of them in her house for another to evince much interest.

“I would appreciate a few moments of your time first. Don’t worry–I won’t keep

you long.” It didn’t matter who he had his arm around. The chances of him performing
tonight were less probable than they had been when she’d seen him last.

Black Leather, White Lace

Edward waved her away. Fury took her. His lack of simple courtesy, his disregard,

his lack of any consideration, all seemed designed to drive her to anger. Well finally, it had
succeeded.

Without considering what it might do to her current plans, she angrily strode

forward and shook her finger under his nose.  A shame he was considerably taller than she
was,  but  in  this  mood,  she  cared  for  nothing.    He  had  struck  her  before,  but  if  he  did  so
again she would strike back. Whatever it cost her.

“Don’t take that tone with me! I’m your wife and I deserve a little respect, especially

now! Edward Rustead, you will come with me now and sign what I need you to sign.
Then you can do what the hell you like, but you will sign the documents you promised to
before you leave this house!”

He stared at her, bemusement filling his soft, brown eyes. The bloodied streaks

leading  from  them  across  the  whites  of  his  eyes  were  deeper,  she  thought,  and  perhaps
permanent  now.    Her  anger  ebbing,  she  felt  sorrow  for  what  might  have  been.    At  heart,
Edward  was  a  gentle  man,  easily  led,  but  with  the  stubbornness  of  the  weak.    She  could
have  been  the  one  to  help  him,  not  his  cousin.    If  she  hadn’t  been  so  young,  so  taken  up
with her own disappointment in him, she could have made something of this marriage.

The failure was partly her fault. Instantly she heard the voice in her head. You never

stood a chance, my love. William had his claws into Edward long before you arrived.

Why hasn’t he killed him already?
The thought came from somewhere deep inside herself, something she had never

even thought of before.

Because William’s father was alive then,

came the instant response. William depended on

him and he was an honorable man.

William’s father had been dead for seven years now.

Cassandra realized time was short.  He’d been leading his cousin into dangerous situations
for  all  that  time,  and  there  wasn’t  much  time  left  before  Edward  would  succumb  to  an
infuriated  husband,  a  challenge  on  the  gaming  tables,  or  illness  brought  on  by  excessive
drinking.

She grabbed Edward’s free arm and tugged. To her relief he followed her, allowing

her to lead him like a lapdog. They left Lolly behind, staring after them, her face twisted in
an emotion Cassandra didn’t care to interpret.

His study was on the same floor as the dining room, but at the other end of the

corridor. At one point, Cassandra felt him pulling back, as they passed from the bright
light to the dimmer light beyond, but he jerked, as though pushed, and stumbled after her.

Under her hand his arm felt soft and flabby, very different to the firm muscle she’d

felt on his ancestor on her one night of glory. Determinedly pushing the thought aside she
led her husband into the study where lights already burned in the pair of candlesticks on
the desk. Without letting him go, she crossed the room to the desk and pulled out the top
drawer where the papers lay ready.

“You have to sign these, my dear, then I’ll help you to your room, if you wish.”
“What are they?” he mumbled.
She dipped a quill in the inkpot and handed it to him. He folded his plump fingers

around the stem unsteadily.  “I need to order feed for the cows on the Home Farm.  That
kind of thing.”    She thrust the first paper under the pen and he scrawled his name.  She let
out  a  breath  and  guided  his  hand  to  the  second  place,  silently  praying  that  he  was  too
drunk to read. He scribbled once more.

Five signatures later they were done. Cassandra finally released her hold on his left

arm, and dusted sand over the wet ink. “Thank you my dear. I’ll be able to meet your bills

Lynne Connolly

now.”

She had no compunction in lying to him when she remembered the tiny being lying

in her body. Her child, boy or girl, would be able to salvage something from the wreckage.

She watched Edward weave his way across the room and leave. Only when the

door had closed behind him did she say, “Did you see that? You saw him sign the
documents?”

“Yes, my lady.”
A maid and a footman moved away from the heavy drapes, where they had been

concealed.  Cassandra had bribed them by promising she would continue to employ them
once they were married.  That wasn’t usual for servants, but she was glad to offer jobs to
loyal and hard working people.

She dipped the pen in the inkwell and they signed under Edward’s name, witnesses

to  his  signature,  making  the  documents  legal  beyond  doubt.    At  least,  that  was  what  the
man  of  business  she  had  consulted  last  week  had  told  her.   A  local  man,  not  the  London
lawyer  Edward  usually  employed.    She  would  send  copies  to  the  London  firm  in  the
morning,  the  copies  Edward  had  unwittingly  signed,  but  the  originals  would  be  safely
concealed.

She was safe now, as long as Edward lived, but his appearance this time had

shocked her. He was a wreck. His flesh trembled, his mouth hung slackly, his complexion
was marred by signs of dissipation, pimples from lack of proper food, lines from too many
late nights, mottled from the heavy drinking that was slowly destroying him. She feared he
wouldn’t last much longer.

When he was dead, William would turn on her. She knew it. I’m afraid he will, but

you will not be alone. What you have done tonight will help you and our child immeasurably. We
will be here, my love. Always.

We?
Nathaniel is here, too.
Yes, of course.

She was glad he wasn’t alone, but she wanted to be the person to be

with him.

One day. Every day their reunion crept closer.

Black Leather, White Lace

Chapter Five

Edward had unknowingly given Cassandra power of attorney. She now had the

means to improve her life and plan for the future. She would have reminded him of his
promise, that when she began to increase he would give her more control of the household,
but she knew William would never allow it. These days, Edward discussed everything
with his cousin.

When she heard of the impending nuptials of William and Miss Lockwood, she used

her pregnancy as an excuse not to travel to London for the wedding, but she couldn’t
escape the bridal visit.

This time it was just the three of them. Edward, William and the new Mrs.

Heatherington.

Cassandra stood in the hall to receive them while Vernon and Nathaniel stood by

her  side.    She  couldn’t  sense  Nathaniel’s  presence  at  all,  but  Vernon  assured  her  he  was
present.    The  only  sense  she  had  of  Vernon  was  his  voice  in  her  head.    Nothing  else,  no
feeling  when  he  was  nearby.    She  wasn’t  sure  if  that  made  matters  better  or  worse.    To
know when he was close and not be able to reach out for him might be torture past bearing.

Edward shambled in behind the newly married couple, who entered as though the

house was theirs already. Cassandra made a point of greeting him first, and the servants,
who were now all her own, the spies dismissed, followed her lead.

Edward beamed at her. “You’re looking well, Cassie. Been keeping well?”
“Yes, very well.” She watched the surreptitious glances at her softly rounded belly.

The  new  style  for  flat  fronted  gowns  that  were  fuller  at  the  back  gently  accentuated  her
pregnancy.  She had invested in some new clothes, but they were not extravagant, like the
silks Mrs. Heatherington sported.  For all that, Cassandra was the countess, not William’s
wife, and if she had anything to do with it, that would be how it continued.

“Not doing too much?”
“No indeed.” Warmth spread through her when she realized Edward’s solicitous

words  were  the  first  concern  he  had  shown  her  for  years.    He  had  killed  the  love  she
thought she had felt for him, but friendship might be possible.  If she could separate him
from his cousin.  If he lived long enough.  Perhaps she could use the child to draw him to
her side.

A pang of jealousy swept through her and she knew it was not entirely her own.

Hopelessly she wondered how they would cope, but she forced the thought aside. Her first
thoughts these days were always for her child. No melancholy, no malingering. She had to
be strong for him, or her.

She felt a slight withdrawal, and wondered why, but she couldn’t concentrate on

Vernon now. After placing her hand on her husband’s flabby arm, she drew him forward.
“Welcome home, my lord. Do you stay long?”

“Not long. I’m lending the happy couple the lodge in Leicestershire for a while, so

Lynne Connolly

we decided to drop in here on the way to see how you were doing.”

Something perked up in her mind. There was something wrong with this casual

disclaimer. At the same time she heard in her mind, William is planning something.

She turned slowly and greeted the happy couple, doing her best to remind them

they were guests here.

It didn’t help. Over the next few days, the new Mrs. Heatherington must have

examined every inch of the house.  More than once Cassandra had cause to thank the fact
that the servants were now hers, and either loyal or indifferent.  No doubt after her guests
had left she would have to re-examine them and see who William had bribed.

She came across the lady in an upstairs corridor, far from the guest bedroom she had

allotted them.  One of the large doors to a linen cupboard lay open and Mrs. Heatherington
held  a  pillowcase  in  her  hand.    Cassandra  caught  her  breath.    That  cupboard  was  full  of
delicate crystal, which the servants had packed away the moment they had seen the crested
carriage in the drive.

“Can I help you?”
The former Miss Lockwood turned with an acidic smile, her blonde curls artlessly

bouncing against her cheek. “No, thank you. I wanted to see how well the house was run.
The last time I visited, it seemed a little–uncared for. Now the house is well cared for.”

There was no reason she couldn’t be frank about this. Only this, though. Cassandra

took the pillowcase and folded it carefully, restoring it to the cupboard.  She must not seem
too  eager  to  close  the  door.    “My  husband  told  me  I  could  only  take  control  of  the
household if I bore him a child.  Well, now I am bearing him one, so he has allowed me a
little more authority.”    She closed the cupboard door. “He wants an heir.”

“He has an heir!” The lady lost all pretence at friendliness. “My husband is his

heir!”

“For now.” Cassandra did her best to hide her contempt. “I may have a girl, but

even then, I’ll have a claim on the estate.” She paused and moved away a little. “Don’t
count your chickens, Mrs. Heatherington. I hope you married your husband for love.”

To her relief the lady walked by her side, away from the cupboards where the

precious crystal and china lay. “I did. He is an interesting man. He swept me off my feet.
Did you marry the earl for love?”

The corners of Cassandra’s mouth quirked up involuntarily. “In a way.” She

quickened her pace. “I would like to see him happier and more settled in his life, however I
have little influence over him at present. Perhaps, after the child has come, he may wish to
visit more regularly.”

“Why do you not come to London?”
“He does not wish it.” Her mouth showed no inclination to smile now. For the

first time she had no wish to leave Rustead Abbey. Vernon could not leave, so neither
would she.

Your devotion is admirable, my love, but there is no reason why you should not pay a visit to

London if you wish. I will be here when you return.

I need to speak with you every day. I need you close.
His love warmed her all the way through.

*****

Vernon slammed his tightly clenched fist into the door frame. It passed through

without resistance and he nearly lost his balance. “I cannot touch her, she cannot feel me,

Black Leather, White Lace

she can only hear my voice! Why?”

“I have no idea, my brother, but it must have been meant.”
“Meant?” Vernon spun around to face Nathaniel as the two ladies walked away

from them. “Who would be so cruel? I thought appearing to her, touching her would
make us closer, I thought she would be able to see me, if not to touch me!”

“Some mortals have not the power. I think she is such a one. The barrier between

her thoughts and her powers is strong and she will not be able to reach them.” Nathaniel
put his hand on his brother’s shoulder, the only being able to touch him.

Resisting the urge to throw himself into his brother’s arms, just to feel something

real, something solid, Vernon took a breath and regained control of his wayward emotions.
It was something he wished he had done during his life. “I don’t know what I would do
without your support, Nat. How would I cope without you?”

“I feel the same.” Nathaniel removed his hand and turned away. “Perhaps one

day we shall learn why we are here and how we can move on.”

*****

Going down the stairs to dinner that night, Cassandra stumbled. The old carved

wooden  Tudor  staircase,  while  beautiful,  made  far  too  much  noise  and  some  previous
inhabitant had long since muffled it with carpet.  The carpet was worn, but Cassandra had
not the money to replace it, but it wasn’t yet in holes.

She hadn’t realized the carpet was in such a bad way until she tripped and pitched

headlong down the stairs.  Panicked, she grabbed for the banister but the newly polished
wood  slid  under  her  hand  and  she  lost  her  balance.    The  plunging,  sickening  swoop
increased the horrible feeling at the bottom of her stomach, until, at the bottom of the stairs
something thumped the back of her head and she knew no more.

When she came to, she lay on her own bed, Edward leaning over her, his bleary eyes

for once filled with anxiety. “Are you all right, old girl? Quite a fall you took there.”

Cassandra blinked, trying to get her balance, recover her equilibrium. It was

important, but she didn’t realize why until she turned her head, wincing at the pain, and
saw William on the other side of the bed. His wife stood at the footboard, like an avenging
angel. Cassandra wet her lips.

“The–the baby?”
“Quite all right.” She didn’t imagine the bitterness in William’s tone. “It seems the

child doesn’t wish to appear yet.”

“Too early.” Her voice was thready and hoarse. She felt terribly weak, and her legs

hurt.

“You rolled the last few steps and hit your head on the newel post.” Edward

straightened up, but she could still smell the brandy on him. “Shook me up, old girl. But
you’ll be fine now.”

“Yes. Don’t let me hold back dinner.”
“Splendid!”
Cassandra had meant it sarcastically, but her husband had no subtlety and he took

her at her word.  She watched, agape as Edward crossed the room and held the door open
for William and his wife.  With one last, venomous glance, Deborah Heatherington crossed
the floor and left.

A long sigh of relief left her when the door closed behind them. Her maid came

Lynne Connolly

through from the dressing room and bobbed a curtsey. “Are you hungry, my lady? Shall I
fetch you something to eat?”

Her first instinct was to refuse. Her head swam, and she wasn’t sure she could keep

anything down. But she had to think of the baby. She forced a smile. “Thank you, Smith.
A little broth or something of that nature, with some bread and butter and tea will do
nicely.”

“Would you like me to help you to sit up, my lady?”
“Perhaps when you get back.”
The maid left and immediately Cassandra heard his voice in her head. Are you sure

you are well?

If I rest, I will be. I won’t get out of bed for a day.
I’m holding you, my love. I’m lying next to you, my arms around you.
She choked back a sob. I want to feel you!
I know, sweetheart. I want you to feel me, I want you to see me, but we have this. It’s better

than nothing and perhaps, when I’ve visited you again, we will be granted another sense. Lie back,
remember how it feels.

She remembered. A solitary tear trickled down the side of her face. It was wonderful.
It was. It is.
She lay still, remembering that one night. Thinking of the night to come, still so far

away. Vernon?

Yes?
Did you see what happened?
He sighed. Yes.
It wasn’t an accident, was it?
There was a pause before he said. No. Someone had loosened a stair rod. It came

completely away when you trod on the carpet.

Her heart beat harder in her chest. She rested, knowing he was still with her,

allowing her panic to subside. It was true, then. William and his wife had plans for her
early demise.

It would be good for them if you died before the babe was born, but with Edward alive, there

is always the chance he will sire another one.

William has been driving Edward towards the grave since our marriage. I never saw it

before, that’s all. I thought Edward was driving himself there, but it has been all William, hasn’t it?

Yes, sweetheart, it has. Edward was weak, but he had no debauchery in him before William

led him there.

She wanted to feel the safety of his arms around her, his broad chest supporting her

head, the warmth of his body surrounding her. She did her best to imagine it.

We will find a way to protect you. Do not leave this room again until they have left.

Promise me!

I promise.

*****

Vernon strode the length of the parlor, spun on his heel and turned back. His

brother moved aside to let him pass.  In the world they inhabited, the parlor was as it had
been  in  their  time,  hard  couches  softened  by  cushions,  a  bare  floor,  the  walls  paneled  in
dark oak.  In Cassandra’s time, the paneling had been replaced by paint and pictures, the
furniture more comfortable and elaborate in design.  Vernon wanted to be there, with her.

Black Leather, White Lace

“What can we do?” His voice lifted to an impotent howl of rage. “How dare they try this?
I will destroy them first!”

“There are ways, brother.” Nathaniel stood quietly, his hand stroking his shaven

chin thoughtfully. “We can do some things.”

“We will never leave her alone. We must be there at all times.”
“We will.”
Vernon stopped his restless pacing. “What can we do? What do you mean?”
“I mean we have practiced our skills and they are improving. We must try to

improve them further.”    Nathaniel put his hand on his brother’s shoulder, gripping it hard
for a moment before releasing him.  “We have practiced moving objects.  She can hear you,
and perhaps in time she will be able to hear me, too.  We can materialize to certain people.
Perhaps we could try that.”

Vernon stared at Nathaniel, new hope dawning in his eyes. “You think?”
Nathaniel shrugged. “Why not? Go back to her now. I’ll see what I can do.”
“No.” Vernon grinned tightly. “She is asleep. Go and watch over her for me. I

will try. If I fail, I will come to you.” He turned back, his hand on the doorknob. “I want
to do this, if I can.”

He knew where William and Deborah Heatherington slept He found them; sweaty

bodies entwined, sheets tangled around them, and knew jealousy. He allowed the feeling
to add to his fury and then channeled the energy, focusing all of it on the task in hand.

“Awake!” he tried, but no sound emerged. He tried something else, remembering

his brother’s words. A single candle burned on a small table by the bed. Next to it sat a
tinder box. He concentrated.

The box moved. With a crow of delight, Vernon redoubled his efforts, moving the

box with the power of his mind.

It hit the floor with a clatter, the tin it was made of making a substantial noise.
William started awake and moved his wife away from him with an impatient shrug.

“What was that?”

“What was what?” his wife mumbled, pulling the sheet up over her body.
Vernon moved forward and concentrated on materializing. Some people had the

sensitivity that his Cassandra lacked, the ability to see spirits. Praying William was one of
those people, he glided across the room to stand by the bed.

“Who are you?”
He hadn’t thought that William’s response would be irritation.
Vernon smiled gently, and allowed himself to fade a little.
William’s eyes widened and he shrank back  against his  wife.  “Deb–Deb,  wake up

for God’s sake!”

The urgency of his tone woke his wife, who blinked twice before staring up and

through him. “What is it, Will? I never realized you were so fidgety at night! I’ll think
twice before I agree to share a bed with you again.”

Then she stared up at Vernon, her jaw dropping.
Two of them. They stared, until William found his voice. Vernon moved around the

bed, to stand next to Deborah, making sure the room was visible through his corporeal
body. He spoke. “Leave this place before it is too late!”

“Jesus!”
Without a thought to his wife, William leapt out of bed and made a grab for his

clothes. Sliding across the sheets, Deborah joined him. Naked, she seemed larger than in

Lynne Connolly

her clothes. She must have her stay laces drawn very tight, unusual in this era of soft
clothes. Vernon lifted one arm and pointed at them. “You will be cursed!”

Anything else he might have said was drowned in the screams. He watched them

head for the dressing room, pushing each other out of the way to get into the room first, a
grim smile wreathing his features.

They left the next day, taking a confused Edward with them.

Black Leather, White Lace

Chapter Six

By April Cassandra felt tired a great deal of the time and took to having afternoon

naps. She lay in bed, secure in Vernon’s arms. She couldn’t feel him, a source of constant
sadness to her, but she never allowed him to know that, never allowed herself the luxury of
releasing her distress unless she knew for sure she was alone.

Six months’ gone now and there was no mistaking her condition, but she hadn’t yet

reached the elephant stage.

You are so beautiful like this, my love.
You would think so. It’s your fault I’m like this.

Warmth seeped through her at his

response to her gentle teasing. I’m huge and I’m tired all the time.

This is the waiting time, sweetheart.
Their gentle internal murmurs stopped when the door opened and the housemaid

entered. She bobbed a curtsey. “The earl has arrived home, your ladyship.”

Her heart sank. “Has he brought a very large party?”
“He is alone, my lady.”
“Very well. Tell him I’ll join him in a moment.” Ponderously she lifted herself up

on her elbows.

“No need,” said a voice from the corridor outside, and Edward entered the room,

shoving past the maid. From behind him, the girl lifted her eyebrows and shrugged.

“Tea up here, please, Smith,” she said, lifting herself up and reaching forward to

smooth her skirts. She knew Vernon was sitting, also, but she was used to pretending now.

Edward perused her closely, allowing his gaze to rove over her swollen body.

“Blooming, my dear!” He smiled. “Not altogether useless then, am I?”

She frowned. “Has someone called you useless?”
He shrugged. “Frequently.” His smile returned, possession filling his gaze when

he looked at her. “Glad you’re doing well. Sorry I won’t be here to see the birth.”

“What?” Somehow she had assumed he would be somewhere nearby when his heir

was  born,  even  if  he  was  drunk  downstairs.    Edward’s  expression  was  full  of  meaning,
though she didn’t know what that meaning was.  She wouldn’t have been surprised had he
tapped  the  side  of  his  nose  with  a  finger  in the  slightly vulgar knowing  gesture  common
hereabouts.

“Decided to repair the family fortunes, what? I helped to spend them, so I’m going

to make a little fortune for the heir.”

Apprehension gripped her heart. If it weren’t that the house and estate were

entailed, she would have worried even more. “What have you done?”

I’ll kill him.

The grim statement reminded her she was no longer alone. A little of the weight

lifted from her mind.

“Joined up.”

Lynne Connolly

“What?”
“Bought a commission.”
Thoughts whirled dizzyingly through her brain. She couldn’t have heard right,

could she? “You’ve what?” She desperately needed a few moments to get a grip on her
thoughts, but there was nothing here.

Edward tilted his chin and grinned at her. “I had quite a good run at the tables last

week so I decided to invest. Got my horse, got my uniform and the price of the
commission. I bought a captaincy. Figure I won’t need more than that.”

Was she missing something here? “What do you plan to do?” Europe was in

turmoil after the depredations of Napoleon, who had only just been sent to his exile on
Elba. There must be years of reconstruction ahead.

“Get my share of the booty, old girl. I’m attached to Wellington’s staff, near enough

to be out of danger, far enough away to pass his notice. Going to ship over to Holland to
join the regiment. I’ve joined the Guards.”

She found some of her senses. “Are you completely mad?”
Edward frowned at her and took a step towards the bed. She shrank back against

the pillows, but then sat up again. He wasn’t inebriated, so he wouldn’t strike her. The few
times he’d struck her were when he was drunk and he had been immediately sorry. Still,
her first thought was for her child.

He won’t touch you.

She believed Vernon instantly. He would find a way to protect her and their child;

she knew it without a doubt.

Edward stared down at her. “I’ll forgive you, Cassandra, because you are only a

woman,  and  you  are  not  aware  of  such  things.    There’s  booty  to  be  had,  and  I  intend  to
have  some  of  it.    It’s  the  best  way  to  repair  my  fortune.”        Even  if  he  did,  Cassandra
doubted  she  would  see  any  of  it.    “Napoleon’s  safely  under  lock  and  key,  and  there  are
fortunes to be made.”

A flash of understanding hit her. “Did William put you up to this?”
He smiled without humor. “You’ve never liked old Will, have you? He’s coming

with me, old girl. I only came to tell you because I thought you’d care.” He leaned back,
watching her reaction.

Cassandra carefully kept her face calm. She understood now. “Well keep yourself

safe, Edward. I have your signature so I can look after matters for you while you’re gone.”

“More important that you keep safe, m’dear. I wanted to send William’s wife to you

while we were gone, but she’s devoted to William, won’t be separated from him. So she’s
coming to Holland too.” He smiled. “Taking little thing. Full of fun.”

Cassandra didn’t like to think what that might mean. It wouldn’t be the first time

Edward and William had shared a woman. He made sure she knew that a bare month after
his wedding, Edward had accompanied his cousin to a fashionable brothel. It had hurt
terribly at the time, but Cassandra felt nothing but regret now.

On an impulse she leaned forward and touched the back of his hand. “Take care,

Edward. Come back safely.”

To her surprise, his face creased into concern and he sat heavily on the bed next to

her,  his  weight  rocking  the  frame.    “We’ve  made  a  bit  of  a  botch  of  things,  haven’t  we?
When we married, I was very fond of you, Cassandra.  Very fond.”    He turned his hand
and took hers in a warm clasp.  “I don’t know what went wrong, but when I come back, I’d
like to think we could have another try.”

Oh if only this had happened before last Halloween! It had been what had kept her

Black Leather, White Lace

going for six years, the hope that one day Edward would tire of his dissipations and return
to her.  Now it was only too clear why he had not, and she knew William wouldn’t let go of
him until he was ruined or dead.  Last year she would have taken on the battle and fought,
perhaps gone to Holland with him, but she had to think of the babe now.

She realized Vernon had left her and she felt a pang of loneliness. This was wrong, it

was  all  wrong.    She  had  the  child  of  a  different  earl  to  the  one  she  was  married  to.    Her
child would still be a Heatherington, but not the man she had promised to stand by.  His
behavior did not excuse hers.  She was wrong.  There and then she decided that if Edward
returned to her she would ask Vernon to leave, or perhaps take Edward away to another of
their houses, so they could make a new start. If Edward did reform, she owed him that.

“Yes, my dear,” she said, meeting his soft gaze. “If you return safely we will try

again. But on our own, just we two.”

He said nothing for a moment, but his hand caressed hers, his thumb stroking gently

on her palm. “Yes. Just the two of us. I’ll keep myself safe, and I’ll come back to you with
enough money to pay the bills and give us a fresh start.” He got to his feet, releasing her
hand with reluctance. “I’ll write, shall I?”

“Yes please.”
He left just as the maid walked through the door with the tea. “Never liked that

stuff. I’ll see you at dinner, my dear, and leave first thing in the morning. Enjoy your rest.”

Her tea tasted like ashes. She had sinned, and she would bear the burden for the rest

of her life.  She loved Vernon, she would always love him but she owed Edward more than
reparation.    She  hoped  the  child  was  a  girl.    That  way,  her  firstborn  wouldn’t  be  able  to
inherit the estate.

*****

“She wants me to leave.” Vernon lowered his head into his hands.
“Has she said so?” Nathaniel sounded much calmer, but the tension thrummed

behind his words.

Vernon looked up. “What we did was wrong. I loved her, but I shouldn’t have

made love to her. I haven’t told her she’s carrying a boy. It would devastate her. I only
hope when she sees the child, she will love him. I must withdraw.”

Nathaniel put his hand on his brother’s shoulder, the gentle pressure coming as a

comfort to Vernon. “What happened was inevitable. She was unhappy, she needed you
and you did what was necessary to bring her back to life. It’s too late repining now. It’s
done. Now you have to face it and cope with the situation as best you can.”

Vernon met his brother’s eyes, on a level with his. “What should I do?”
Nathaniel smiled grimly. “You can’t do anything wrong while you’re in this state.

So stay with her and look after her until the child is born. Then you must take your cue
from her.”

Tears glimmered in Vernon’s eyes. “I cannot bear it.”
“Yes you can. Pray she leaves this place, because it could get worse.”
“A reconciliation? I cannot hope for it, but her husband seems determined to make

a new start.”

“Then you must let him.”
Vernon smiled shakily and lifted his hand to cover his brother’s. “You were always

the righteous one and you are right now. He is her husband, and he must take precedence.

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If she wants me, she will call.”

“Don’t abandon her. Stay with her. She cannot sense when you are present until

you speak to her, so stay silent. She will call you if she needs you.”

Vernon dropped his hand and turned away. “I will do as you advise. But don’t

expect me to do it with a glad heart. I love her, Nathaniel. She is the love of my life–and
my death.”

Black Leather, White Lace

Chapter Seven

Cassandra tried very hard to be good. She wrote to her husband, and read his

infrequent letters with interest. He really did seem to be trying to turn over a new leaf. But
try as she might, she could not love him and knowing the weakness of his nature, she
doubted she ever would.

When she called, he was there. She suspected he’d never left, but he never intruded,

never came to her unless she asked.

Is there something I can do for you, my love?
No. Just be here, be my friend.
I am always that.
She smoothed her hand over her now swollen belly. The baby kicks.
I wish I could feel it, too!
Vernon, I’m sorry I did this to you.

Speaking to him, mind to mind, was as easy as

speaking out loud now. She could hardly tell the difference any more.

I’m not. You made me very happy, and while I know it is wrong, I cannot help feeling

overjoyed. I never had a child before.

Before he could censor it, Cassandra felt his deep melancholy. You have one now. I

am glad that if this is a boy, the heir to the title will at least be a Heatherington. But I want a girl. I
want to give Edward the chance to father his own heir.

I understand.

His tone was neutral, but Cassandra didn’t push him to explain his

reticence. He probably already knew the sex of the child, but she didn’t want to know,
feeling that these last two months before the birth were precious, her last moments with
him.

Now that monster has escaped from Elba, Edward tells me he’s on active duty. You know

what that feels like, don’t you?

Only too well.

He didn’t hide the grim tone of his voice. However, more soldiers survive

than perish and they may recapture Bonaparte before he forces a battle.

I do not think so.
She heard a gentle gust of wind, a ghostly sigh. Neither do I. Whatever happens, you

know I’ll be here for you.

Will you be allowed to stay once the baby comes?

It wasn’t a question she wanted to ask,

but she needed to know the answer.

I do not know. Perhaps this is why I’m still here, to see you safe until the babe comes or

perhaps I am here for the rest of your life. I want to be here, waiting for you and I pray I will be
allowed to do so.

Now her body filled with gentle warmth, comforting and tender, cradling her in his

embrace. She allowed herself to slide into sleep, feeling his gentle love.

*****

Lynne Connolly

Vernon didn’t leave her until he was sure she slept soundly, then he returned to the

parlor in his own part of the house. He entered and then froze.

“What are you doing here?”
Shock lanced through him when the monk spoke. He’d never spoken to them

before. “Your brother requested it. There is little time, if what I have been told is correct.”

Vernon frowned. “Little time for what?”
His brother stepped forward, and gave him a bleak smile. “I have been trying to

find a way to unite you with your ladylove. Apart from your personal concerns, there is
the child to think of.”

“It is yours?” The monk asked. He was dressed in a plain, brown robe. Vernon

watched him lifted gnarled hands and throw back his hood.

He’d never seen the monk this close before. Dark, deep set eyes framed by thick

eyelashes, heavy eyebrows above. A thin, ascetic mouth, and pale skin, lined with middle
age. He’d thought the monk older.

“Aye, the child is mine. There is no doubt.”
The monk’s mouth straightened in disapproval. “You sinned.”
“She is the wife of my heart.”
The monk stared at him in silence for what felt like hours, but could only have been

a minute or two, his eyes shrewdly assessing. “The child has given you a chance. Do you
repent your sins?”

“I repent all of them except comforting her and loving her.”
“You must repent that, too.”
“Why?” he shot back. “I cannot repent bringing her comfort, and I cannot repent

making love to her. It was the very best thing that every happened to me, and I will take
the memory with me to hell, if I have to.”

The monk looked away and took a short turn around the room, his long robe

sweeping across the rushes on the floor.

“Brother Anselm has noticed your distress, and he came to me with an offer of help,”

Nathaniel said, low voiced. “He was here when this parlor was dedicated to the abbot of
this place, and he won’t tell me why he died, or why he is still here. Likely he doesn’t
know, any more than we do.”

“That is correct.” The monk stopped his pacing and turned to face them again.

“My concern is with your immortal soul. There is one way you can amend your sins, but
we must be quick.”

Vernon exchanged a speaking look with his brother, who shrugged in a gesture

saying he had no more idea what the monk meant, either.

“You have committed adultery with this woman, and this is the only sin of which

you do not repent,” Brother Anselm said. “There is a way of putting this right. At this
moment, the husband of your lady is lying on a foreign field, mortally wounded. He is
reconciled to God, and in a few moments he will leave this world.”

Vernon’s heart soared and sank in the same moment. She would be a widow, but he

was in no case to ask for her hand. Why did he always forget his state?

The monk watched, his hands folded at peace before him. “You may take over his

body.”

“I thought you said he was mortally wounded!” Nathaniel exclaimed before Vernon

could speak. “You are asking my brother to die!”

“By sharing the body of Cassandra’s husband, you will share in the sacrament of

Black Leather, White Lace

marriage and expiate your sin.” The monk paused. Vernon stood completely still,
holding all his feelings inside him. “There is a chance he could live. A slim chance. You
may take that, if you wish.”

“Otherwise?”
“Otherwise you will carry on as you are.”
Vernon turned away, no longer able to keep his emotions from his face. “If I

accept?”

“You will wake up in the body of the present Earl of Rustead. You will then be

human, without any of the powers you have enjoyed recently. You may die, but your sins
will have been expiated and you will go on to the life beyond.”

“And leave Cassandra alone?”
“Not completely alone, Vernon. Brother Anselm and I will do our best for her,” his

brother reminded him, making him feel guilty for even raising the subject.

Vernon bit his thumb, his habit when thinking. “How is his cousin?”
Brother Anselm sighed. “He is well. He was the cause of the earl’s injury. He

worked for the Duke of Wellington, as a galloper, but he deliberately failed to get a
message to the earl’s company. This meant they obeyed the Duke’s previous order to
attack, when they should have waited for reinforcements.”

“The bastard!”
“I was a bastard.” The calm tones of Brother Anselm did a little to quell Vernon’s

incandescent rage. “I was a son of a duke, but he sent me to the Abbey.”

“Did you transgress?” Nathaniel, trying to give Vernon a moment to calm down.

He had reason to know Vernon’s temper only too well.

“I did, or I would not be here. I have learned a little more than you, which is how I

learned the news today. You have not long, I suspect, before the earl gives up and passes
on to a better life.”

“Is there anything else I need to know?” Although his voice shook a little, Vernon

was back in control of his emotions.

“You cannot come back until after the anniversary of your taking human form. You

cannot communicate with anyone in this house in any way for any reason until after that
date. If you survive.”

“I have to tell Cassandra.”
“There is no time. If you wish to go, you must go now.”
Vernon knew how to make a decision when he needed to. This was his chance–his

only chance–to join Cassandra in a meaningful life.  If he could persuade the body to live,
then  he  could  join  her,  spend  every  day  in  her  company,  and  work  to  rebuild  the  estate,
something he had longed so badly to do for the last hundred and some years.

“I’ll do it.”

Lynne Connolly

Chapter Eight

The world went black, for how long Vernon had no idea. The first sense that came

back to him was sound. A cacophony of shouting, the clash of metal on metal, the whistle
of bullets, the thunder of hooves.

He knew those sounds. The sounds of war.
Then he became aware of the smells. He smelled blood, fresh blood, unmistakably

fresh. Mud, earth churned up by hooves, turned into mush by rain. To a man
unaccustomed to war it would be overwhelming. To Vernon, it was like coming home.

He hated it. When he opened his eyes, it was to the alarming sight of the belly of a

horse, in the act of vaulting over him. He lay still, hardly moving until the beast had
passed over him.

Then the pain, the last sense of all to return. Agony, shooting through him. He’d

been shot or cut or both–impossible to say which. The pain occupied his whole body,
invading every pore, every single blessed inch.

The fleeting thought that it wasn’t worth it, that he should just give up and follow

the previous occupant of this body shot through him, immediately to be dismissed.  It was
worth  it.    It  had  to  be.    He  deliberately  planted  the  thought  in  his  head,  set  it  there,  so
whatever was to come he would not forget.  There was a reward to be won at the end of all
this and he would win it.

“Captain!” The voice above his head shocked him more than the horse. That

someone should see him, recognize him. He would have smiled, had his teeth not been
gritted from the pain. Captain Lord Edward Heatherington, Earl of Rustead. Not Captain
Lord Vernon Heatherington, Earl of Rustead. “I’ll be back, sir, just you bide there.”

What else would he do? Smiling slightly, though even that hurt, he closed his eyes.

*****

When he opened his eyes again darkness shrouded his surroundings. He was still in

the  open  air,  still  lying  where  he  had  fallen.    And  the  pain  still  racked  his  body.    He
wondered  how  he  had  fallen  asleep  then  realized  it  had  been  less  sleep,  more
unconsciousness.  He moved, or tried to, and groaned aloud when pain shot through him,
worse  than  before.    It  was  too  enveloping  to  decide  on  the  origin.    Where  all  had  been
screams  of  agony  from  men  and  horses,  interspersed  by  shots  and  yells,  now  there  was
silence, broken only by a few moans and unidentifiable rustling, probably from rats.

He could still die. He would die if someone didn’t find him soon, and he knew he

would  not  be  allowed  back  to  the  Abbey  and  his  brother.    That  part  of  his  existence  had
stopped when he’d agreed to occupy this body.  Either he would haunt this desolate place,
or he would move on.  Either way, he would still love Cassandra.

Her name reminded him why he was here, and added to his determination. After

Black Leather, White Lace

trying  all  his  limbs,  he  discovered  he  could  move  his  left  arm  a  little.    Mud  squelched,
oozing between his fingers when he clenched his fist, and sucked at his arm, unwilling to
let go.  Battling in the mud must be a nightmare, the soldier in him considered.  It would
clog the horses, make it hard to drag the cannon into position, and muffle the orders yelled
by the commanders. Terrible.

As feeling returned to his shattered body, Vernon realized another fact. He was

naked. When he’d previously woken, he’d been clothed, he was sure of it. In any case,
someone had recognized him, probably from his insignia of rank.

Scavengers of the human variety had removed everything from him. All

identification, all signs of him. They must have thought he was dead. He was nearly so.
Only the memory of Cassandra, sweetly lying in his arms, had sustained him thus far, and
he would fight to the bitter end.

Which might not be long in coming.
A noise near him made him turn his head sharply and then cry out with the pain.

An uneducated male voice opened up close to his ear. “Oy, stretcher bearers! There’s a
live one ‘ere, and by where e’s lyin’, e’s one of ours!”

Vernon could only moan his thanks.
“Wot’s yer name, mate?”
“Vernon.”
“Awright, Mr. Vernon, we’ll ‘ave you out of ‘ere quick as winkin’. ‘Old on jus’ a

couple more minutes.”

Vernon held on, but when hands grasped his legs and shoulders and lifted, he

screamed his pain and a black mist descended on him again.

*****

He awoke in what was clearly a field hospital. He lay on a rough cot, covered by a

single sheet, and someone had dressed him in a nightshirt. He blinked.

“Awake, are you?” Another male voice. A face swam into his vision. “The orderly

said you were called Vernon. Is that right?”

Vernon nodded.
“Well then. You’ve been wounded on your hip. The cut is very deep, and it might

well  fester.    You’ve  also  got  a  bad  wound  on  your  leg,  but  nothing’s  broken  except  for  a
bone in your wrist, which I’ve set.  We’ve cleaned you up and bound your wounds.  They
will be unbound and examined every day, and if they fester, we’ll cauterize and drain them
and  hope  you’ll  fight  back.    If  you  have  anything  to  live  for,  think  hard  about  it  now,
because you’ll need every ounce of strength you’ve got.  If the hip wound heals, we’ll think
about amputating that leg.”

Vernon lay back and thought hard, wondering what to do, how to get word to her.

A letter. When he was well, he would send her a letter. He couldn’t enter the Abbey until
after October, which was four months away, but perhaps she could come to him. If he
survived. A letter, that was it.

When the fever began, he was still thinking of Cassandra.

*****

Cassandra was at first not in the least alarmed when she couldn’t contact Vernon.

Lynne Connolly

They had been days before when he couldn’t get through to her.  Neither knew the reason
but  since  they  eventually  re-established  contact,  they  had  ceased  to  worry.    In  any  case,
Vernon did everything he could to prevent her concern.

But as the weeks passed and June turned into July, Cassandra became increasingly

concerned.  She had never been able to contact anyone but Vernon, and that with difficulty,
before he’d come to her.  Perhaps something had burned out, or perhaps her condition had
something to do with it.  Desperately she tried not to worry, but it ate at her, gnawed away
at the back of her mind until she thought she might go crazy.  The only thing that kept her
going was the baby, now vigorously exercising inside her.  Until, in the middle of July, the
letter came.

My Dear Cousin,
It is with great regret that I convey to you the awful news that Edward died at Waterloo.

There is no kind way of saying it. He died valiantly, leading his company on a charge that was,
unfortunately, doomed to failure from the outset. I saw him fall, but I could not reach him. When I
returned, I found a man who had seen him lying there, but we could not find him, and then the area
was cleared.

Edward lies in a mass grave on the field of battle, but when I return I will arrange a

permanent memorial in the family chapel.

I am at present in Paris, undertaking the arduous duties that remain to the victors. I will

return as soon as I am able. Take care of yourself and the precious life within you.

William Heatherington.

He’d used the seal of the Earl of Rustead, but at least he had not assumed the title.
Cassandra read over the lines several times before she truly absorbed their import.

She was a widow. Her only hope remained inside her, the child she had conceived with a
man not her husband.

Her maid discovered her, the letter loosely in her hand, tears rolling down her face.

*****

Cassandra felt a gentle melancholy at her husband’s passing, and genuine regret that

they  had  not  had  an  opportunity  for  their  second  chance.    She  ordered  her  blacks,  but
decided  not  to  wear  them  except  when  in  public.    It  seemed  hypocritical,  when  she  was
bearing another man’s child.  That thought weighed on her, too heavily, and with no one
she could share her worries with, the concern got worse.

No Vernon, no Edward. Perhaps that was her punishment. To be deprived of them

both.

After a week of mooning around the house, feeling deeply sorry for herself,

Cassandra  managed  to  pull  herself  together.    Vernon  hadn’t  contacted  her  at  all,  and  she
hadn’t felt his presence, or the presence of anyone else, for that matter. Perhaps his brother,
the  shadowy  Nathaniel  had  tried,  but  she  hadn’t  noticed  anything.    She’d  spent  hours  in
the  Long  Gallery,  staring  at  Nathaniel’s  portrait,  the  companion  to  Vernon’s,  in  the  hope
that she could reach him, but there had been nothing.

Now she came to study them closer, the resemblance between the brothers was

obvious.  Not just hair and eye color, but the way they proudly stood, and the fearless way
they  stared  out  of  their  respective  paintings.    She  wondered  if  they  were  ever  painted
together.  Children often were.  And Vernon had said he had a sister.  What had happened

Black Leather, White Lace

to her?

The estate office contained many old volumes. Fired by a new thought, Cassandra

turned away from the Gallery and headed downstairs, to the office.

One of her first innovations had been to get rid of the useless steward and engaged a

new one, the son of a local man of law, who had known the estate intimately all his life, her
man of law now. Oldmeadow was ambitious, intelligent and loyal. The previous steward
had darkly threatened legal action, but the elder Oldmeadow had seen him off with little
trouble.

Now the young man looked up and smiled at her entrance. He hastily got to his

feet, but she waved him back down and took the seat opposite him, so he would not feel
obliged to stand again. “It is a hot day, is it not?”

“It is, my lady. Should I ring for some lemonade?”
She shook her head. “No, although in my state I do get even hotter. I became

interested in something while taking my daily airing.”

She saw the wariness enter his expression, and knew exactly what he was thinking,

because  she  would  have  thought the  same.   Was  she  about  to  interfere  and  countermand
his orders?  She considered that an asset in her new estate manager.  Any man who took
pride on his work would feel the same.

“I looked at all the portraits in the Gallery and realized I know little about the

previous Earls of Rustead. Only general matters. I wondered if you would help me
discover old letters, journals, family papers that I might read while I am confined.”

“You mean to enter confinement?” It was old fashioned, but many women still went

into seclusion just before and after childbirth, only to be seen by their closest attendants.
Sometimes even the father to be was denied his wife’s presence.

She smiled. “Not strictly. I do not think it is good for the baby. I will continue with

my daily airings, but I won’t be able to go far, and I need more rest these days. To be frank,
Mr. Oldmeadow, the constant rests and pauses are tedious. I think this would occupy me
well in the time before the birth. Could you help me locate the papers?”

“It would be a pleasure, Lady Rustead.”
Instead of Vernon’s presence, she might be able to find letters he’d written, and

discover more about him. That would help. Surely that would help?

Lynne Connolly

Chapter Nine

The baby came on the first Sunday in August. Cassandra had given up attending

church  in  the  village,  when  her  bulk  became  too  large,  but  had  received  a  pastoral  visit
from the vicar every week, usually on a Wednesday.  Therefore, most of the household was
at  church  when  she  became  sure  that  the  regular  pains  weren’t  cramps  or  kicks,  but  the
actual birth.

Excited at the thought of seeing her baby and relieved that the long wait was finally

over,  she  made  some  of  the  preparations  herself,  pausing  when  a  contraction  hit  her.    By
the time her maid returned from church, Cassandra lay on her bed, freshly made with thick
blankets and old sheets, dressed in a fresh night-rail, a pile of garments stacked on the chest
of drawers.  Her flushed face told the whole story to the perceptive woman, and she sent
immediately for the doctor, who replied that he was on his way, but had a number of visits
to make before he arrived.  He had previously sat down with Cassandra and told her what
to expect in great detail.  An unusual move, but she was husbandless, and had only herself
to rely on.

Two hours in and Cassandra was straining. No doctor. Her pains were increasing,

and try as she might she could not stifle her groans.  By then her personal maid, Smith, and
two housemaids were in attendance.  One put a hot steaming cup of tea by the side of the
bed when she leaned over to place her hand gently on Cassandra’s taut belly.  “My sister
birthed  her  third  in  two  hours  last  year,  my  lady,  but  I  fear  you’ll  have  to  wait  a  little
longer.

Cassandra strained, and waited until the pain passed before she replied. “Why do

you say that, Dorcas?”

“You need to be open before the baby can pass through the birth passage, and you

are about half open.”

Cassandra had long passed the stage of embarrassment, becoming used to gentle

fingers examining her every half hour or so. Dorcas was an asset. Although she was single,
she came from a large family and had assisted at five births before this one. Indeed,
Cassandra felt safe in her care, and almost wished the doctor would arrive too late.

She sat up against the stack of pillows at her back and took a long drink of the

fragrant brew. “Tea never tasted so good.”

“It will taste even better when your travail is over, my lady. Her maid, bustling in

with a pile of fresh sheets, smiled reassuringly. “The doctor has sent his journey details in
case we need him, but I think everything is as it should be. It is your first, my lady, so it is
likely to be some time yet.”

In fact, it was another two hours. Suddenly her pains increased and became more

urgent. Cassandra wasn’t aware of gripping Dorcas’s hand when she strained, but saw the
deep half moon nail marks afterwards, and tried to apologize.

“If that is all I have in my life, I would thank the good Lord for it. Come, my lady,

Black Leather, White Lace

another push if you please.”

One girl held her shoulders, giving her something to push against, and Dorcas

stayed  below,  calling  out  encouragement  and  praise.    Cassandra  realized  how  basically
animal this was, and strangely, took comfort in it.  She was doing what animals in the field
did  every  day,  and  they  survived,  even  went  on  to  birth  more.    It  wasn’t  as  bad  as  it
seemed.

It might be. The pain racked her body, driving it to exertions she wasn’t sure she

would survive. When she did, she was briefly thankful, before another pain wrenched her
muscles into pushing, pushing.

The doctor finally arrived. Striding into the bedroom he paused to strip off his coat

and roll his sleeves up, only pausing when Dorcas shrieked. “Doctor, go and wash! You
have come in from your daily visits. You do not touch my lady until you have washed
most thoroughly. There is hot water in the can by the door!”

Smiling sheepishly at his error, the doctor obeyed, and returned to the bed a few

minutes later bringing a pleasant odor of lavender with him, from Cassandra’s best soap,
which he must have found in her dressing room. A brief look, and he lifted his head, his
round face wreathed in smiles. “You are doing splendidly, my lady. You don’t really need
me at all.”

While she could, after one contraction and while another was building, Cassandra

gasped, “If it is a boy, please announce that there are twins.”

The three maids and Dr. Waters exchanged puzzled looks. Cassandra gathered her

strength. “I believe my brother in law has designs on the title. I have thought of a plan.”

She gasped the outline of her plan, knowing everyone in the room would carry it

out, or hear from her.

Half an hour later, her baby was put into her arms. Her firstborn, her love.
Her son.

*****

William Heatherington strode through the door of Rustead Abbey, noting absently

how quietly the great front door swung back on its hinges. The interior seemed better
maintained than he remembered, as well. Not prosperous, but certainly cleaner, and the
staff moved with a purpose he hadn’t noticed before. With regret, he noted that most of the
maids he saw were dressed modestly and neatly. He enjoyed a little slovenliness in a maid.

He stopped to offer his arm to his wife, and she smiled graciously and accepted his

support, handing her pelisse to a maid. Autumn had arrived, after a rainy summer, and a
chill had begun to invade the days. William turned to the butler. “Where is her ladyship?”

The man glanced at the tall clock that stood by the door. “At this hour, sir, she will

be feeding the baby. I will inform her that you have arrived.”

Without being invited, William walked through the hall to the great oak staircase.

“Kindly have refreshments served in the Gold Saloon.”

“Sir, I regret the Gold Saloon is presently not available. Her ladyship ordered a

thorough cleansing, and the State Apartments are under Holland covers. If it pleases you,
the Green Drawing Room is ready.”

The Green Drawing Room was a comfortable room on the first floor, the scene of

many a long, debauched evening in Edward’s day, when William ran tame in the Abbey,
helping himself to its treasures to finance his expensive pleasures. He sighed heavily.

Lynne Connolly

Those were the days.

Deborah was an asset, but hardly a cozy armful in bed. She couldn’t wait for him to

finish, not the behavior he expected of his bedfellow, and not one he was used to. Soon
after his wedding, he’d taken up with his old acquaintances. More discreetly, it was true,
out of respect for Deborah, but he suspected she didn’t care very much whose bed he went
to, as long as it wasn’t hers.

He remembered where the nursery was from his childhood, when his mother had

been  a  poor  relation  here.    Now  she  had  remarried,  she  was  at  least  out  of  his  aegis  and
under  the  protection  of  her  husband.    But  although  the  Rusteads  had  been  very  kind  to
them  both,  William  had  always  felt  his  status  keenly.    His  resentment  had  been
instrumental in his subsequent behavior, so that dragging Edward down to the worst hells,
the most iniquitous brothels, was always deeply satisfactory to his bruised spirit.

Strangely, now he’d gone, William still felt resentful. The damned baby. Once that

was gone, he was sure he would feel much better. He didn’t want to be here. When he was
the earl, he would live somewhere else. The apparition he’d seen at his last visit was some
kind of warning, he was sure.

As they stepped through the doorway, they were met with a sight straight out of the

Sunday  sermon.    A  blooming  Cassandra,  her  bodice  still  a  little  askew,  affording  him  a
glimpse of her deliciously deep cleavage, was in the process of handing a softly wrapped
bundle  to  a  nursemaid.    She  made  sure  the  child  was  safely  ensconced  in  the  nurse’s
embrace before she turned.

The natural, sweet smile froze on her face. “William!” She swept forward, the skirts

of her black gown sweeping the polished boards. “And Deborah, how nice!”

“Indeed, sister-in-law.” William forced a jovial smile. “And this is the new Lord

Rustead!”

“Yes, this is he.” She fixed him with a look that was suddenly firmer, her pointed

chin firming, the expression in her soft eyes hardening. “Say good day to your nemesis.”

“Why, Cassandra, how can you say that, even in jest?” William kept his smile in

place, and peered into the crumpled face of the new earl when the maid brought him over.
Destined not to achieve his first birthday, poor little mite.

Deborah cooed over the baby. “So sweet! But you have to go through hell to get this

far!”

“Especially when it’s twins.”
Slowly, William turned to face Cassandra. “No,” he said flatly.

*****

“Oh yes.” Triumph curled through her whole body. This was what she had

planned for, this moment. It would keep her baby alive. “I had two boys, William. The
other is with a wet-nurse.”

He looked around. “Here? This nursery only seems to have one cradle.”
“I sent him away. He will be returned to me in time, but I hadn’t the milk for two

and the wet nurse the doctor found for me could not live in.” She added a smile. “It
happens from time to time, and the woman was a good, clean nurse. Sadly she had to
follow her husband.”

“Where?”
“The Americas.” Gleefully she watched the horror William could no longer hold

Black Leather, White Lace

back. “The lady is the wife of a sea captain, and she sadly lost her own child. I agreed to let
her care for—” she paused, realizing she had left one part of her plan vacant― “Peter—”
she extemporized “―until their return.”

“When do they plan to return?”
She saw the skepticism, and invented a little more. “When I tell them they may. The

lady is a distant relation of mine.  They have a small business in Boston and they may wait
a few months before they return.  But that should be of no interest to you.”    Just to inform
you that should you attack my baby, there is another one waiting to take over.

William studied the child, then turned his attention to her. “I find one baby more

than enough.” She smiled at Deborah, who gave her a sympathetic smile in return. So
that was the way the wind blew.

She had successfully diverted attention from her baby. Now, with William’s baleful

eyes upon her, she realized she had to look out for herself.  There was no one else.  All her
attempts  to  contact  Vernon  and  Nathaniel  had  ended  in  failure,  and  she  could  only
presume that their gifts had been removed from them.  Perhaps they had moved on.  She
should feel glad for them, but she could not.  There was still a great void in the centre of her
being  that  would  never  be  filled  this  side  of  the  grave.    Until  she  could  join  him,  having
discharged her duties here on earth. To their son.

*****

Since the world of spirits was closed to her, Cassandra had been forced back on her

own resources, in the world of men.  Her faith in the doctor and her man of business had
not been unfounded, and when she had confided her fears to them they had not treated her
as a weak, imaginative woman, but as a sensible person.  Mr. Oldmeadow Senior had laid a
false  paper  trail,  indicating  the  mythical  baby’s  travels,  and  the  doctor  had  provided  the
necessary corroboration that was necessary for their plan to succeed.  When the danger was
over,  if  it  was  ever  over,  the  mythical  child  would  succumb  to  a  disease.    A  necessary
conspiracy, aimed at making safe the current holder of the Earldom of Rustead.

Cassandra was determined William should not benefit from his sins, but was

dismayed to discover, on the reading of her late husband’s will, that William was named as
trustee. It was a blow. So was William’s determination, despite the protestations of his
wife, to remain at the Abbey for the foreseeable future. “While you are attending to the
Earl, my dear,” he said, unbearably unctuous, “I will see to his lands.”

She smiled and lowered her lids over her eyes, which she was sure were blazing in a

tell tale manner.  “You are very kind, cousin.  I am so glad Edward left you a token of his
regard. Should you not be seeing to your own estate, rather than caring for Vernon’s?” She
had called her baby after his father.  After all, Vernon was a family name.  While it hurt for
her to voice it, it was also a delight, to see his beauty in living flesh.  His eyes had matured
to a deep blue, exactly like his father’s, and his mouth had a certain pout she remembered
from that memorable night.

As September matured, Cassandra found herself anticipating Halloween, hoping

against all reason that he would keep his promise and come to her again. He swore he
would come. If he could, he would. She knew it.

With the threat removed from her son, William tried to punish her, his wife proving

an eager accessory to his taunts and insults. Edward had made William his trustee, along
with his man of business, and he had already given orders to halt the improvements she’d
ordered to the Home Farm. Edward’s signature giving her power of attorney was no

Lynne Connolly

longer valid, now he was dead.  When she tried to protest he waved an airy hand.  “Tailors
have to be paid sometime, my dear, or they won’t give you more credit.  Not being a peer,
like  my  esteemed  nephew,  I  risk  being  thrown  in  debtor’s  prison  if  I  don’t  give  them
something.”

“I don’t think that would be considered as a proper use of estate funds,” she

commented.

“Neither is re-thatching that old barn. It’s falling to pieces in any case.”
“Very little work will bring it back.” She lifted her head from her stitchery,

regarding him closer. “You’ve ridden around the estate?” She would bet her next quarter’s
pin money that he hadn’t been welcomed.

William shrugged. “There is little else to do here.”
“Then why do you not return to London and let us be?”
There, she had said it. If he returned, she could resume her previous duties as head

of the house and estate.  The profits she could make from increasing the farm production
would help to pay for any expenses, even if William refused to allow any extra.  And she
would prevent his further depredations on her son’s fortune, such as it was.  The sad fact
was that there was little left.  Just enough to form the basis for rebuilding the fortune, but
not if William and Deborah continued to spend money like water.

“As soon as we can afford it, we will return,” William sneered at her, his mouth

curling  unpleasantly.    “I  have  the  right  to  stay  here  now,  to  oversee  my  nephew’s
upbringing, and I will report any wrongdoing I see.  Since we’re alone, there should be no
harm in my telling you that the minute you remarry, you’ll be out of my nephew’s life, and
the  minute  you  spend  a  penny  above your quarterly  allowance  on  your  own  fripperies,  I
will protest. I intend to make your life a living hell for what you did.”

Astonished, Cassandra blinked up at him. “What did I do?”
“You had a child. Children. You didn’t even have the courtesy of taking a lover. I

have asked, believe me I have asked.  Anything to cast doubt on the children’s paternity,
but there was nothing.”    He frowned down at her.  “You see, on the night you claim your
sons  were  conceived,  I  was  with  Edward,  in  the  company  of  a  particularly  inventive
whore.”

She stared at him, masking the horror she felt, and decided to go on the attack. “You

had a whore in my house?”

He shrugged. “She’s married to a member of society, but to all intents and purposes

she’s a whore.”

Cassandra stood, carefully putting her embroidery aside. “I don’t care to continue

this  conversation.    While  I  am  mistress  here,  no  such  gatherings  will  take  place.    My  son
will not be subjected to any corrupting influences and this is his home.  So you will not be
the only one to suffer.  Moreover, I will have the town house closed down until I need to
use it on his behalf.  You will have to find somewhere else to live.  You are his trustee, and
until he reaches school age, he is to remain with me and his day to day care will be mine.
Edward left that provision in his will.”

He snarled at her, a cornered dog. “I’ll prove he’s not Edward’s son.”
“He found time to visit me for just long enough. Were you awake all night?”
“Pretty much.”
“Then in the time you slept, your supplanter was conceived. Both of them.”
Having said enough, she left the room.

Black Leather, White Lace

*****

Halloween arrived, and it was very different to the last one. No guests, except

William  and  Deborah,  now  almost  completely  ignoring  Cassandra.    She  preferred  it  that
way.  Her father had written, saying he was returning to England at Christmas, and he was
delighted  to  find  his  grandchild  safe.    He  approved  of  Cassandra’s  scheme  to  invent  a
second baby, and again asked her if he should come.  It had warmed her that he had been
prepared  to  leave  the  center  of  the  world  at  this  time,  where  all  the  leaders  gathered  to
decide  the  fate  of  Europe  after  Napoleon,  just  to  be  with  her,  but  she  could  not  allow  it.
He’d worked for this all his adult life, and she couldn’t deprive him of his triumph. But she
was delighted that she would see him before the end of the year.  With his help she might
be able to rout William and Deborah for good.

She had burned the letter, because of the admission of her scheme. Only Mr.

Oldmeadow Senior had her statement of the truth, tucked in his safe in his office. She had
to be very careful not to leave anything anywhere else.

Tonight was hers. Pleading exhaustion, she retired soon after dinner, and when her

maid  had  helped  her  to  undress  and  brushed  and  braided  her  hair,  she  dismissed  the
woman.  As soon as the door had closed she began to unwind the braids, brushing her hair
to  shining  perfection.    He  would  come.    Although  it  had  been  dark  for  hours,  he  hadn’t
come  to  her  before  when  the  sun  went  down,  only  later  in  the  evening,  and  they  would
have until sunrise.

This was the second day of her life.
Cassandra stood and crossed to the window, pushing back the heavy curtains.

Unlike last year, dust didn’t rise from the heavy drapery, because she’d had them cleaned
and beaten, and her room was well lit and warmed by a fire that crackled cheerily in the
grate, instead of letting smoke billow into the room. Because of him she had hope. Because
of him she knew what it was to love. Because of him she knew what it was to be a mother.

Perhaps that was his task, his purpose, and now he had passed on. She had hoped

against all hope when he had stopped coming to her, that he would be allowed this.

She would never forget how safe and complete she felt in his arms, how all her

worries melted against his hard chest, for an hour or two. She couldn’t believe she would
never feel that again. However true it might be.

It was better if she stared out of the window, she could imagine him standing just

behind her, ready to touch her shoulders and turn her into his arms. Any minute now.

She stood until her calves ached, and when she checked the clock on the mantelpiece

it said shortly before twelve. She’d stared out the window for an hour and a half, dreaming
of last year, waiting.

He wasn’t coming. Dropping to her knees by the side of the bed, she murmured a

short prayer for the salvation of Vernon’s soul. He was gone. She should be happy for
him. Perhaps, in time, she could be.

*****

When Vernon found her, she lay in bed fast asleep, her hair spread over the pillow.

One hand on the bedpost, he gazed at her, watching her chest rising and falling
rhythmically as she breathed. He could stay there all day, watching her. There was no

Lynne Connolly

hurry, now.

Instead of waking her as he’d planned, he turned the fireside chair towards the bed

and sat down, careful not to make any noise. It had been a long journey to get here, but it
was worth every mile.

She woke up suddenly, shortly before eight in the morning, and sat up, still half

asleep. He watched the adorable way she blinked, and watched her when she noticed him
for the first time.

Her first reaction was to clutch the sheet. Her second was to drop it and open her

arms. “Vernon! I fell asleep, I’m so sorry! What time is it?”

He rose, and crossed the room, taking her into his arms. “Just after eight.”
“Oh God, we have so little time!” She blinked, taking in the light seeping through

the curtains at the window. “Vernon—” she paused when she sank her fingers into his
now shorter hair. “Vernon―oh no!”

With a deep breath she drew back. “Edward!”
He didn’t let go. He couldn’t. “Both, sweetheart, both.” He gazed into her face,

drinking in the beautiful sight of the woman he had done all this for–and would do again.

She stilled. “What do you mean?”
He smiled. “I’m Edward and I’m Vernon. When Edward lay dying on the field of

Waterloo, I was given the chance to enter his body. There was no guarantee that I would
live, but Edward had decided to move on, and I wasn’t ready.”

“I can’t believe it.”
“I’ll make you. I have to. I have some of Edward’s memories. Not his personal

ones, they passed with him, but I know about this world, and enough of his life to pass.
But I am Vernon. The man inside is Vernon, the man who loves you.”

She stared up at him, joy dawning deep in her eyes. “Your eyes are blue. Edward’s

were brown. Tell me again.”

He felt her tremble under the thin fabric of her nightdress, and he held her close,

warming her against his chest. “I wasn’t allowed to enter or communicate with anyone
here until after dawn on the day of my appearances. It’s about half an hour after dawn
came, and I’ve been here since then. Just watching you.”

“How long can you stay?”
“A lifetime.”
Her voice shook. “This isn’t true, I’m dreaming. Tell me about it–tell me everything.

I need time to—”

“Take it all in,” he finished for her, his tone soothing. “I’ll tell you everything.

When  they  found  me  on  the  field,  I  was  naked.    The  vultures  had  done  their  work,  the
people who haunt battlefields and strip everything from the dead.  Only I wasn’t dead.  An
orderly found me and I was carted away to the nearest medical post.  They despaired for
me, and I went into a fever shortly afterwards, so they thought I would die.  But I didn’t
die.    I  pretended  to  lose  my  memory  for  a  time,  it  was  easier  that  way,  while  I  explored
what I knew about myself, and this new world.  Otherwise they would have contacted you,
and that was forbidden.”

“Why?”
He dropped a kiss on the end of her nose. “I don’t know, but I didn’t want to take

any chances.  I needed to plan.  I wanted to find your tormentor and kill him, but he was
here, too, so I couldn’t.  It took me a month to begin to recover.  I’ve suffered a leg wound,
sweetheart,  and  it  was  bad.    One  slash  on  the  hip,  another  on  the  leg,  and  a  blow  to  the

Black Leather, White Lace

head which seemed to support my story of a memory loss. They didn’t amputate, because
the hip wound was thought the more serious, but the lack of attention to the leg wound has
left it pretty ugly, I’m afraid.”

Her voice sounded stronger, and he was glad to hear it. “I still use a cane, I might

always  have  to.    But  I  wouldn’t  have  cared  if  they  had  amputated,  as  long  as  you  could
have coped with it.  I had entered your world and survived.  I left at the end of August, but
I was far from recovered.  I had no money, so I lived on a pension until I knew beyond a
doubt that I was to stay here, that I would survive.  I’ve been accustoming myself to living
again, and waiting impatiently for you to leave this house. But you never did.”

“Where did you live?”
He took a moment to savor the feel of her in his arms. So sweet. Worth it all, worth

double what he’d suffered.  “In Derby.”    Derby was the nearest large town.  “I found a
position  as  a  clerk,  and  rode  over  whenever  I  could,  waiting  outside  the  gates,  but  you
never  left.    I  know  some  of  what  has  been  going  on  here,  but  not  all,  and  not  from  your
sweet lips. Tell me, love.”

She opened her mouth, but before she could speak, someone rapped sharply on the

door. “My lady!”

Without waiting for a reply, the door opened to admit a woman dressed as a nursery

maid, a bundle in her arms.

Vernon’s eyes filled with tears, although he hadn’t been aware of their imminent

arrival. The maid shrieked, but kept a firm hold on the bundle.

Cassandra pushed away from him. “Yes, it is the earl come back to us, Felicity, is it

not wonderful news? Come in and close the door. Let his lordship see his son.”

The maid crossed the room, staring doubtfully at Vernon, and his shop-bought

secondhand clothes. “He looks like the earl, my lady, but―”

“Until yesterday my memory had quite gone from the blow I had received at

Waterloo,” Vernon said, having prepared his story. “I remembered late yesterday
afternoon and visited Oldmeadow to set matters in train. Please, er–Felicity, do not tell
anyone. Not yet. I want to tell them myself.”

A wicked grin spread over Felicity’s round features. “Yes, my lord, as long as I may

be there when you do!”

“You have my word on it.” Vernon grinned. “Now let me see my son.”
The squeaking, chirruping noises from the shawl-clad bundle increase and Vernon

was eager to see the boy. His son. The maid lowered the shawl and he took the child in his
arms for the first time.

His heart ached and tears ran unchecked down his cheeks. The creased, pink face of

the newest Heatherington, the eyes as blue as his own, stared back at him. The mouth
pursed, trembled and opened on a shriek so powerful he nearly dropped him.

He passed the baby to his wife–his wife! And watched her feed their son, gently

lifting him to her precious breast, the nipple darker and larger than he remembered it.  The
boy  latched  on  as  though  coming  home.    As  Vernon  wanted  to  do,  but  not  for  the  same
reason.

It was the most beautiful sight he had ever seen. It was all worth it for this. For this

moment, watching the two people he loved most in all the world. He had fallen in love
with the baby the moment their eyes had met.

When the child fell off the nipple, sated to the point of slumber, Cassandra handed

him back to the nurse. “Remember, no word to anyone.”

Lynne Connolly

“Yes, my lady,” the nursemaid replied with a conspiratorial grin, and she left the

room, carrying the child with her.

Cassandra lifted a finger and touched his cheek, wiping away the wetness that

lingered there. “He has your eyes.”

“He has his own eyes.” Vernon wasn’t ashamed of his tears, but this was no time

for weeping. “Oldmeadow told me of your subterfuge. I was never more proud of you,
my love. What a clever way to ensure the baby’s safety!”

“I named him for you, so your name will live on.”
“Have you forgotten?” He lifted her hand to his lips, kissing the tip of each finger.

“Every heir is named Vernon. It’s a family tradition. That means...” He paused, waiting
for her.

She didn’t take long. “Vernon Edward Heatherington. You’re still Vernon! But

what shall we call the baby?”

“Did you not give him another name?”
She smiled. “Vernon Nathaniel.”
“Nathaniel. It will be good to be able to call someone Nat.” Another lump formed

in his throat but he determinedly swallowed it away. “Kiss me, sweetheart.”

The world fell away when she brought her lips to his and he held her safe in his

arms once more. When she burrowed beneath his clothes, tugging at the fastenings, he
helped her.

The shabby waistcoat, shirt and breeches were rapidly discarded, to join her

nightdress on the floor, and they soon lay naked in each others’ arms. He dragged back the
covers. “I want to see you, love. I’ve missed you so much!”

“I missed you too!” Now it was her turn to cry, in great, heaving sobs. He cradled

her close, feeling her soft warmth against him, thankful he was here to comfort her, at last.

He kissed her tears away when the storm had subsided, feeling the drops salty on

his tongue, sweetly welcoming to his soul. When she lifted her face to his, he kissed her
lips, soothing her with his mouth and tongue, feeling her soften against him, unmistakable
signs of arousal to one who knew her well.

Long, drugging kisses gave way to feverish caresses. He wanted to learn her all over

again and the differences carrying his child had made to her body. Next time he would be
there, every minute.

Next time. While it sounded sweet to his ears, he found signs on her that she would

never have told him. Slight swellings and a few fine lines. He would not turn her into a
baby farm, he decided. Therefore when he lifted himself over her, no longer able to wait,
he knew what he would do.

His decision was nearly driven out by the delirious sweetness of her body

welcoming  his,  the  way  her  body  molded  around  his  erection,  receiving  and  welcoming
him.  He lifted up on his elbows and gazed down into her sweet face.  Her eyes were open,
her soft brown eyes staring into his with the love they shared. And would share forever.

“I missed you so badly, but I dared not risk contacting you. A few months means

nothing compared to what we have now. Can you bear a lifetime of this?”

Her soft lips tilted in a smile. “Oh yes. Yes, my love, always.”
With one hard thrust he filled her, and his soul overflowed with delight. He lost his

mind in the next few moments, his body relishing her touch, his senses filled with her
presence. She smelled of lavender and springtime, for all it was winter, her hair caressed
him when he lowered his body to feel the sweet pressure of hard nipples pressing against

Black Leather, White Lace

his chest. When she cried his name at the height of her ecstasy he held her close, felt her
breath hot against his cheek and dragged himself out of her body, spending himself on her
belly.

When he slid to one side, he reached for his discarded shirt to wipe them both clean.

He turned to see a question in her eyes, and answered it before she asked. “I don’t want to
overtax your strength, my love. You’ve only just had one child.”

“He’s three months old,” she murmured, snuggling in when he held out his arm.

“Isn’t that what I’m here for? The heir and the spare?”

He chuckled. “You’re here to love me, and to let me love you. That comes first, and

for that I need you in the best of health. It’s a small thing, sweetheart. We will have other
children, but not yet. Not just yet.”

“I can’t believe you’re here for good.”
“You’d better.” He lifted her chin and gave her a soft kiss. “Sleep now, sweetheart.

We’ll take our time getting up, shall we? And when you wake up I’ll be here. Not like last
time.”

“No,” she murmured, her voice heavy with slumber. “Not like last time.”

Lynne Connolly

Chapter Eleven

When she woke up, he was still there and smiling down at her, his blue, blue eyes

brimful of love. She smiled back, knowing her eyes reflected the same emotion. He bent
and kissed her. “Welcome back.”

“You look better by daylight.”
He’d drawn the curtains while she’d slept and the golden winter sun streamed in,

spilling over their bodies. The room was warm, as well, and when she glanced over at the
fireplace, it was to a comfortable blaze.

“I let a few of the servants into our secret.”
She clutched his wrist in sudden panic. “They accepted you?”
“They did. They were actually pleased to see me. Considering Edward’s reputation,

I was a mite surprised, but apparently, William has been making their lives a misery, trying
to drive them away. Now a manservant is readying some clothes for me, so I may take you
down to dinner and see their faces when they realize they have been choused of everything
they’ve been aiming for.”

She relaxed, and lifted her hand to trace a pattern in the hairs on his chest. “So

William knows, too?”

“No, sweetheart. I told them not to say anything, on pain of instant dismissal. Your

excellent butler knows, and the housekeeper, with a footman and your nursemaid.”    His
eyes  flashed  in  sudden  arousal  and  he  bent  to  kiss  her.    “When  you  touch  me  it’s  like  a
spark to the fire.  I thought of getting up now and facing the terrible two, but we definitely
have  a  little  time  yet.”        He  bent  and  kissed  her,  bringing  her  delicious  warmth,
surrounding her with care and love.  During her months alone, Cassandra had proved to
herself that she could manage, and it had done wonders for her self esteem, but she was so
glad she didn’t have to be so self reliant any more.

She responded to his kiss in full measure, opening her mouth under his to receive

the caress of his tongue. When he lifted himself over her, she realized she was as hot as he,
ready for him. One kiss and she was his.

He slid inside her, coming home, filling her with himself. “It’s all yours, love,

always. You feel better than I could have imagined, better than I deserve.”

“No, you’re wrong!” She could only imagine what he’d been through in his time

away from her, and it was far, far worse than the agonies she’d suffered.  “Ah!”  She could
say no more when he drove, hard and long, deep inside her, forcing her to arch off the bed
and  press  close  to  him  as  he  withdrew  and  thrust,  withdrew  and  thrust.   He  slipped  one
hand  under  her  waist,  dragging  her  up  to  meet  his  thrusts,  as  she  pushed  and  strained
towards the joint objective.

The sheets stuck to her back and then creased under her body, gathering themselves

into the parody of the rising knot inside her, which rose and loosened with every stroke.

Until he shouted, she screamed and everything released in a single moment that

Black Leather, White Lace

went on for eternity.

Panting, laughing breathlessly, he rolled to one side, taking her with him. “If we

continue in this fashion, you’ll be in the family way again far too soon!”

She wasn’t in the least worried. “I think we will have to take our chances, love.”
He pressed his lips to her forehead. “You’re probably right, but I’ll do my best to

behave.”

After a short rest, he roused her and got out of bed. “I’ll go to wash and change.”

He lifted his hand to his chin.  “And shave.”    He turned to look at her, his smile rueful.  “If
we don’t confront William and Deborah now, it could be days.  Let’s rid ourselves of them
and then carry on where we left off.”    Reaching out, he touched the back of her hand, very
gently.  “I’ve had months to accustom myself to this.  It must be unbelievable to you, my
poor darling.”

“No. Just all I wished for.”
He leaned forward and kissed her, gently and lovingly. “Don’t go down alone. I’ll

come for you in a little while.”

*****

Don’t go down alone.

Unlike the months before, and the years before that, when

William  had  left  her  to  go  down  to  London,  to  drink  and  debauch  and  waste  his
inheritance.    There  wasn’t  much  left.    She  hoped  Vernon  wouldn’t  mind  that.    For  it  was
Vernon.  His body was Edward’s, but thinner, more toned, much more like Vernon’s than
Edward’s. Apart from the hard scar on his upper leg that pitted deep into the skin, forming
an ugly slash.  The muscle had knitted tightly, but he could still ride, still walk.  Not that
she would have minded, except for his own sake.

Her maid entered and without comment began to wash and dress Cassandra. When

she drew out the black dinner gown, Cassandra waved it aside. “My husband is alive.
There is no need for that. Find the blue. It may be old fashioned, but it is more cheerful
than that one.”

The maid almost dropped the gown. “My lady, I know you have been–entertaining

today, but that man cannot be the earl. He died months ago.” She spoke kindly, as
though to an imbecile.

“Wait until you see.” Cassandra smiled at her own reflection in the mirror. Her

cheeks glowed with health, where they had been pale before, and her lips were rosy from
his kisses. “He was wounded on the field, but lived, without his memory, which he has
now recovered. He is without doubt, the earl, so my son must be content with the courtesy
title.”

The maid gripped the black fabric. “Are you certain, my lady? This is not some

impostor?”

Cassandra shook her head. “He went to see Mr. Oldmeadow yesterday and was

confirmed in his claim. If anyone challenges it, he will be able to stand firm. It is he.”

She hoped she would never have to avow it in a court of law, but should she be

asked, she would confirm it without any doubt.

If this was Vernon, come back to life, then he had a superior claim to the title, as a

senior member of the family. If it was Edward, then he was the earl. Either way, the Earl of
Rustead had returned to his ancestral home.

Lynne Connolly

*****

When Smith saw Vernon, she was convinced. Although Vernon’s eyes had

miraculously changed color, in every other way he was the Earl of Rustead. Fitter,
stronger, but the earl, as he was when his father died, rather than the debauched sot of a
few years ago. Dressed as befitted his station, but in clothes a few years’ old, since
Edward’s more recent outfits were made to suit his increasing girth.

They went down to dinner together. Dinner was at six, ‘country hours’ that William

had comprehensively sneered at, but as Vernon wickedly murmured into Cassandra’s ear
outside the drawing room; “I can’t think how I’ve worked up such an appetite!”

So she was laughing when the footman opened the door to her, and since she

preceded her husband into the room, she was the first person William and Deborah saw.

“Really, Cassandra, in colors so short a time after—” Deborah’s voice trailed away

when she saw Vernon, but her mouth remained open. All the floridness drained from
William’s face.

“Good evening, cousin,” Vernon said, executing a small bow.
“Dear God, how did you–it’s so good to see you!” cried William, flinging his arms

wide and striding across the room.

Vernon moved closer to Cassandra. “Do you say?” he said, one brow quirked.
William stopped half way across the room. His hands dropped to his side. “Yes, of

course. I despaired when I heard you were lost. I came in search of you afterwards, but I
could not find you.”

“How soon after? They discovered me when they were clearing the bodies for

burial. I was naked, and nearly dead when they came across me.”

William frowned. “You were lost at the farmhouse, and that is where I went. The

bodies were thick on the ground, but none were naked.”

“Really, gentlemen, do we have to talk about this now?” Deborah trilled. “Edward

it is wonderful to see you again.” She perused him slowly from head to foot and back
again, lingering at the more intimate places. “And looking so well! My dear, have you lost
weight?”

“A considerable amount,” he replied. “Perhaps you should try sending William into

battle, fail to deliver the message sent by the general to wait for reinforcements, then leave
him wounded and near death to shiver in the open air for a few hours. Follow that with a
month or two of recovery and memory loss, and that should do it.”

“Dear God!” Deborah’s hand flew to her mouth and her eyes widened in horror. “Is

that what happened to you? My poor darling!”

Cassandra felt Vernon’s arm muscles tighten under her hand. “Not your darling.

My wife’s.” He turned his head and bestowed a particularly sweet smile on her. She
smiled back.

William smirked, but still looked uncomfortable, not meeting Vernon’s direct gaze

when he lifted his head and regarded his cousin. “Pleasant that you’ve reconciled, cousin.”

“If it weren’t for you,” Vernon said, slowly articulating each word, so that menace

overshadowed his words, “I would never have left Cassandra in the first place. You
deliberately kept us apart, and then did your best to kill me with excess.”

“So our games have to stop?” Deborah went on the attack, gazing at him from

behind lowered lashes. “Surely you remember how cozy we were, especially on the night
your so-called son was conceived?”

Black Leather, White Lace

“I remember.” Vernon shot Cassandra an apologetic glance. “There seemed to be

time, however, for me to pay my wife a brief visit. Your attentions must have given me the
inspiration to sire the child which has supplanted you from the succession.”

“Children, surely! Did your lady wife not tell me she gave birth to twins?”
“Ah yes.” Cassandra’s smile was decidedly mischievous. “I expect we might hear

some bad news soon about the other twin. Poor boy!”

William growled. “You mean there never was another! I suspected as much, and

given a few months I would have proved it!”

“We would have been away from your jurisdiction if you had ever proved any such

thing,” she murmured. “But now you don’t have to worry. The chances are that another
child will follow in due course. We can’t leave poor Nathaniel without siblings, can we?”

Deborah frowned. “Nathaniel?”
Vernon took a pace into the room, taking Cassandra with him. “Ah yes. I’ve

decided, as a sign that I intend to reform my way of living, to use my first name, instead of
my second. So I’ve asked Cassandra to call me Vernon, and the baby will be known as
Nathaniel, to avoid any confusion.”

“What was wrong with Edward?”
“It reminds me of things I would rather forget.” Vernon helped Cassandra to sit,

just  as  though  she  was  a  helpless  female.    Strangely,  the  gesture  pleased  her,  where  it
would  have  annoyed  her  had  anyone  else  done  it.    Vernon  straightened  and  faced  his
cousin.  “I feel my wife and I would like a little time alone with our son.  Therefore, I would
ask you to leave in the morning.  The coach will be at your disposal, of course, to take you
where you wish to go.”

William turned to his wife. “London, I think.” He gave Vernon a smooth smile,

while his wife still stood, her face mottled with the fury she was unsuccessfully trying to
suppress. “You won’t mind if we use the town house?”

“Actually, I will.” Vernon exchanged a glance with Cassandra. “I mean to

conserve what is left of the family fortunes and rebuild. That will mean the town house
will remain closed unless we need to use it, and I don’t think you’ll see us in town again
this year.”

“Then where are we to go?” William almost wailed.
“Anywhere you please. You have a modest house of your own. Why not go there?”
“Very well. Come, Deborah.”
Deborah stood, hands clenched by the side of her fashionable, low cut jonquil gown,

face blazing with anger.  “William, I married you because I thought you were to be the earl
soon.  Now all your plans have gone wrong, and I have to put up with you for the rest of
my  life?      I  think  not!    Vernon,  Edward,  whatever  you  want  to  call  yourself,  you  said  if
William died first, you’d deal with Cassandra and marry me!  Do you mean to renege on
that?”

“I mean to ensure Cassandra lives for many years to come.” Vernon raised his

head. “I doubt I would want to marry again if she did precede me, and I doubt if I ever
wished to, my choice would fall on you. You, madam, are vulgar in the extreme and your
reputation is one that Harriette Wilson would envy!”

At the name of the popular courtesan, Deborah’s face became an even more

alarming shade of red, bordering on the purple.

Cassandra thought she was about to explode. Vernon held out his hand for her. “I’ll

give the necessary orders, but I think my wife is tired. We would be better dining privately

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in our chambers.  You will excuse us.”    It was usual to ask, but he didn’t even pretend to
do  that.    He  helped  Cassandra  to  her  feet,  took  her  hand  firmly  in  his  and  left  the  room
without a backwards glance.

The crash of china against the closed door made him turn and address the footman,

still standing by the doorway, no expression at all on his face.  “Good man!  If you will, try
to get them out of here without too much damage.  They  will be leaving in the morning.
Post  a  guard  outside  their  rooms,  and  make  sure  they  don’t  leave  except  to  walk  to  the
coach.”

The footman smiled and bowed, just as another crash rocked the door. “It will be

my pleasure, my lord.”

*****

Later that night Vernon found a robe and made his way up to the Long Gallery. He

held a candlestick, which he lifted to illuminate the portrait of his brother Nathaniel,
proudly staring out of the canvas for eternity.

“Nat, I can’t hear you any more, and I can’t see you, but I know you’re here. Know

that I’ll always be grateful to you.  I swear to you and to Brother Anselm that I will never
betray your trust.  I’ll work for the rest of my life to make amends for what I did before.  I’ll
restore  the  estate,  care  for  my  family  and  love  my  wife  until  the day  I  die.”       He turned
away, but on an impulse, turned back.  “And if I end up in heaven, I’ll put in a good word
for you both.”

He could have sworn he heard a ghostly chuckle as he made his way downstairs to

snuggle into bed with his beloved wife.

Lynne Connolly

Chapter One

2005

The ghost of Nathaniel Heatherington, fourth Earl of Rustead, stood next to the

ghost of a cowled monk and watched the bustle in the Great Hall of Rustead Abbey, which
had never seen anything like this before.

The Hall was a late medieval hall with a hammer beam roof, one of the best

survivals  of  its  type,  if  the  authority  on  vernacular  architecture,  Pevsner,  was  to  be
believed.  It had seen great banquets, uncountable tenants’ balls, and had once been filled
with makeshift beds filled with wounded soldiers.  For twenty years, high-pitched girlish
laughter from the prestigious girls’ school founded there had filled the rafters, giving both
the resident ghosts headaches it took years to clear, but not this.

It was astonishing how much equipment could be dragged out of two medium sized

vans.  One had contained television equipment, and now cables looped their way around
the pillars and up the great staircase, with monitors and lights so blinding Nathaniel had
thought  they  had  brought  the  sun  indoors.    The  other  contained  equipment  of  a  more
esoteric nature: sensors, monitors and even cartons of fine white powder.  All to catch the
ghosts of Rustead Abbey.

Strange, then, that nobody had noticed Nathaniel and his companion. He wondered

idly if they’d be caught on film.  It had been known in other places, but not here, not yet.
The TV set in the staff quarters had been constantly tuned to the cable station hosting the
successful program, Hosts to Ghosts and they had heavily trailed the New Year’s Special, to
be  filmed  at  Rustead  Abbey.    They  were  combining  the  ghost  hunt  with  a  ‘drama
documentary’  about  the  lives  of  the  third  and  fourth  Earls  of  Rustead.    A  family  legend.
There  was  even  talk  of  a  film  based  on  the  story.    Nathaniel  had  learned  a  lot  from  TV.
Before its arrival, he’d listened to the radio, but there was nothing like the moving pictures
on the small screen for instant learning.

Nathaniel sighed, as he always did when he remembered his sad history. Pique had

driven  him  to  join  the  Parliamentarians,  a  foolish  action  he  still  wasn’t  ready  to  discuss
with anyone.  Not that he had much opportunity to do so these days.  He’d returned to the
Abbey a victor, to find his Cavalier brother trying to restore the failing family fortunes.  If
Vernon  hadn’t  attacked  him  on  sight,  he  might  not  have  defended  himself  so  vigorously.
He might not have killed him.  However, Vernon had had his revenge.  Nathaniel himself
had been dead by Christmas, from the wounds Vernon had inflicted on him.

The TV company had no way of knowing the end of Vernon’s story, a blissfully

happy ending, but it meant Nathaniel was left alone, except for the laconic Brother Anselm.
And he was lonely.

He watched the activity around him; even stepped aside a couple of times to avoid

someone  walking  through  him,  half  hoping  that  this  time  someone  would  contact  him.
They  had  tried  before,  in  the  various  spiritual  revivals,  but  nobody  had  succeeded.    He
wished they would.  Even though this time any success would turn the house into a media

Black Leather, White Lace

circus, he wished they would. It was so damned irritating, listening all the time without
being able to say anything in reply, to join in.

“I feel something.” A woman dressed with neatness, propriety and absolutely no

imagination said suddenly. She lifted her chin, staring around her and extended her hands.
The room fell silent, or at least, quieter. Idly, Nathaniel wondered how she managed to live
without constant electric shocks, she wore so much artificial fabric. Easy care, easy iron,
but definitely not easy on the eye. Didn’t they make trousers to flatter any more?

Oh but they did. His attention was caught, as it always was, by Sylvie

Heatherington.

The current Countess of Rustead entered by a side door and although she did

nothing to draw attention to herself, her entrance didn’t go unnoticed by anyone. Putting a
slender finger to her lips, she frowned at the people who started in her direction, glancing
at the medium.

Tall, slender and dark haired, Sylvie had bowled Nathaniel completely off his feet

when she’d arrived at the Abbey four years earlier. She was an American, and she’d met
the current earl when he was on one of his less dangerous assignments. Always a man of
impulse, he had married her in a fortnight, and now she was chatelaine here, as well as the
keeper of Nathaniel’s heart, did she but know it.

She was dressed casually today, in t-shirt and jeans, but the fine fabric of her top

caressed  her  breasts,  outlining  their  soft  shape,  and  the  jeans  hugged  her  backside  as
though they had been tailored for her.  Nathaniel would have given anything to be able to
cup those rounded cheeks, to caress her with the intimacy he knew she was made for.

Reluctantly he tore his gaze away from her and back to the medium. His fingertips

were tingling.  Could this dumpy woman succeed where so many others had failed?   He
glanced  at  Brother  Anselm,  who  was  still  standing  by  his  side,  hands  tucked  into  the
sleeves of his brown habit, hood drawn up over his head.  Brother Anselm’s hood moved
very slightly. He’d shaken his head. Nothing.

“I can feel him,” the medium intoned. “He says his name begins with a V –“
“Vernon!” said one of the cameramen. He winked at his colleague, standing nearby.

Not a believer then.

“Yes!” The woman stared into the air, her face a picture of rapt desire.
Nathaniel sighed heavily and moved around the room. The woman didn’t follow

him as he threaded his way around the people to reach Sylvie. Only Sylvie moved very
slightly, sending her own delicious scent to him in a gentle waft of eau-de-cologne.
Nathaniel absorbed the smell. It was almost as good as touching her. Almost.

Sylvie, I’m here.

He watched her smile, the only indication outwardly that she’d heard him. Good

morning, Nathaniel. Have they found you out?

He chuckled, a sound heard only by Brother Anselm and in Sylvie’s head. No. They

can’t see me.

She moved further into the room, and Nathaniel moved away.
“You are truly in love with her.”
Nathaniel had been watching a lot of TV recently, and felt like saying “Duh” to

Brother Anselm, but he doubted the monk would appreciate it, or even understand what he
was saying. Instead, he contented himself with a simple, “Yes.”

“It is a great shame. You must not succumb, my son. You are allowed to take

earthly form once a year, but you must not show yourself to her.”

Nathaniel swallowed. “I know that.” He’d been tempted, but he could not. She

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was  married,  but  she  had  come  to  some  reconciliation  with  her  present  life.    It  would  be
unfair, as well as immoral, to present himself as a temptation she couldn’t have more than
once a year.  Nathaniel had seen where that led when his brother Vernon had approached
the woman he’d fallen helplessly in love with.  Had matters turned out differently, Vernon
would  have  made  two  people  desperately  unhappy,  not  one.    So  Nathaniel  knew  the
medium was either deluding herself, or she was deliberately playing up for the camera.

He watched the nearest cameraman uncap his lens and lift his camera. Just in case,

Nathaniel moved back, well behind Sylvie.

The woman lifted arms clad in a pale blue jumper, and stretched out her fingers.

“He is here!” she said dramatically.  “He is sad, so sad.”    Nathaniel remembered the last
time he’d seen his brother.  There had been nothing sad about him.  “He regrets his action,
even though his brother betrayed him.  He says―“ she caught her breath in a dramatic little
gasp    “—he  says  there  is  great  danger  here  for the  present  earl.   The  evil  earl,  Nathaniel,
will wreak revenge for his premature death. He will cause the present earl’s death!”

“What nonsense!”
A cool, well modulated male voice cut across the medium’s slightly flat vowels.

Nathaniel was close enough to see Sylvie’s shoulders tense slightly, but it was the only
indication she gave of hearing the voice. Everyone else turned to see who had spoken.

*****

“Hello, Nev. Nice of you to call on us.”
Only when she’d spoken did she turn around. Sylvie hated it, but she still needed a

moment to catch her breath before she looked at her handsome, faithless husband.  She still
had feelings for him, although for a long time she’d been battling against them.  Ever since
she’d  found  him  in  bed  with  two  lively  young  women  with  more  sense  in  their  inflated
breasts  than  they  had  in  their  heads.    She  could  still  see  his  faint,  amused  sneer  at  her
shock. She’d see it to her dying day.

Married on impulse, abandoned almost as quickly, Sylvie refused to play the part of

the  wronged  wife,  turning  instead  to  Rustead  Abbey  to  provide  her  raison  d’etre  and
shrugging  whenever  a  member  of  the  press  chose  to  inform  her  of  her  husband’s  latest
exploit.    No  one  knew  how  much  it  still  hurt,  and  no  one  ever  would.    Apart  from  the
shadowy  presence,  she  sometimes  saw  at  night,  and  occasionally  even  spoke  to  in  her
mind. But he wasn’t going to tell.

Everybody was watching them, so she put on her best supercilious veneer and said,

“What, all alone? No little friends?”

He shrugged. “Not today. Who gave permission for all this?”
She lifted her chin. “I did. I have the right.”
He turned, a haughty look adorning the clear features, the deep grey eyes cold.

“Whatever got into me to marry a bloody Yank, I’ll never know. Media crazy, the lot of
you.”

How typical of him not to care who was listening! He didn’t care who he hurt. But

that particular comment didn’t hurt her. It was too stupid. “From what I’ve seen the
British aristocracy can give any American a run for his money. Lions, tigers, funfairs, you
use every blade of grass to turn a profit.”

He raised a dark eyebrow. “Some of us don’t need to.”
“Others do.” If it hadn’t been for his ancestor’s judicious investments in London

Black Leather, White Lace

properties and the newly emerged railways, Nev would be in as tight a financial spot as his
compatriots were.  As it was, the estate and house were well funded, and Nev’s glamorous,
dangerous  job  brought  him  enough  to  live  on  very  comfortably.    Sylvie  took  what  she
needed from the estate profits, paying herself a modest salary.  She wouldn’t take a penny
of his money, but as manager of the Rustead estate, she figured he owed her something.

Nev smiled. “I never cared much for the old place. I didn’t spend much time here.

You can do what you want.” He glanced around, taking in the two cameramen, the sound
technicians, the tangle of cables on the floor, and the medium, who had miraculously come
out of her trance so she could take in every inch of his finely toned body. His smile
broadened when he passed on to the younger medium, now standing next to the producer.

Jo Goodman was a well-groomed, well-shaped blonde, tits thrust out to meet all

comers,  her  plunging  top  revealing  a  generous  view  of  her  Wonder  bra’d  cleavage.    She
smiled back, all gleaming teeth and steaming desire.  Sylvie knew it when she saw it.  She’d
looked at Nev that way herself, once. Before she discovered just what a shit he really was.

The producer walked forward, her high heels clicking on the tiled floor, her hand

outstretched. “I’m Angela Murdoch, the producer of ‘Hosts to Ghosts.’ I’m so pleased to
meet, you, er ― “

He wrenched his gaze away from the medium. “Nev,” he said hastily. “I don’t use

the title.”

“Yes, of course, Nev,” she crooned. Even practical Angela Murdoch wasn’t immune

to Nev’s charm.

It wouldn’t hurt so much to see women throw themselves at her husband if he didn’t

take advantage of it, but Sylvie knew for sure Nev wouldn’t be alone tonight. Sheer hatred
arced through her, hatred for herself that she should still care.

He took Angela’s hand in both of his, caressing the smooth skin before he released it.

“Perhaps it was worth dropping in, after all,” he murmured. The blonde medium hovered,
smiling sweetly.

People were staring at her, speculation, even sympathy in some gazes. She raised

her brows slightly before turning away.  “If you find yourself with a spare minute, Nev, I
need a few signatures. I’ll be in the office.”    She kept her walk steady and measured as she
crossed  the  great  expanse  of  the  hall  floor,  very  careful  not  to  trip  on  any  cables.    They
might assume the wrong thing if she stumbled. They might think she cared.

*****

Her office was in the east wing, a long walk from the main hall. A walk Sylvie

appreciated, as she could blink her stupid tears away and clear her mind.  But once in the
room,  sitting  at  her  desk  with  its  view  of  the  rolling  green  parkland,  she  found  tears
choking her once more.  Groping for the box of tissues, she grabbed a couple and angrily
dragged  them  across  her  face.    She  had  put  on  make  up  in  honor  of  the  TV  people  and
black mascara stained the tissues. She threw them away and grabbed more.

Gently, my love, please don’t hurt yourself.
The voice in her head again, a gentle, male voice. At first, she’d thought she was

going mad, but now she didn’t care. At least she had company.

Over time, the voice convinced her it was coming from outside her. He told her

things  she  didn’t  know,  and  once  guided  her  to  a  cache  of  letters  from  a  long-dead
Countess of Rustead, a cache no one knew existed.  She was writing the biography of the
countess  now.    She  had  to  believe  in  him.    He  was  a  person,  with  his  own  thoughts  and

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emotions, totally outside her invention.

“I’m sorry. He makes me so angry. People think he’s a hero, but he’s nothing of the

kind.  Nev is an adrenaline junkie, that’s all.  And he loves the attention his job brings him.
A  war  photographer  gets  to  mix  with  serious  people,  but  he  doesn’t  care  about  causes,
where  he  is,  or  what  it  means.    He  takes  pictures  of  starving  Africans  with  the  same
expertise and emotion he uses for vicious terrorists.”    Tears forgotten, Sylvie stared into
space.    “He  has  no  heart.    All  he  sees  through  his  viewfinder  are  subjects,  interesting
compositions. God, he really has nothing inside.”

Silence met her comments for a full minute. Then she heard the voice. I fear you are

right. What will you do?

Did she imagine the note of apprehension in the voice? “What is it, what’s wrong?”
Another long pause followed, until he said, I don’t want you to leave here. If you

divorce him, you will go away.

“Not necessarily. I could stay on as manager here.”
Would he do that? More importantly, do you want that? You are young, Sylvie, you

should find happiness, and it won’t come here. We can never be anything to each other, other than
friends. You know I love you, but we can never touch, never kiss.

“You’d be alone.” She felt a pang of sadness for this being who couldn’t leave.

He’d  told  her  he  couldn’t  leave  the  house,  and  it  was  true  that  whenever  she  left  she
couldn’t hear him any more.  She missed him when he wasn’t around.  She knew she loved
him, but he was right.  There was nothing either of them could do about it.  If only once,
just once, she could touch him, look at him, share an evening with him the longing she felt
might diminish.  Or it might grow.  How could she love a ghost, someone she hadn’t been
sure existed when he first spoke to her?

His voice came firmer, more decisive now. Forgive my moment of weakness. I’ve been

alone for a long time, sweetheart, so, a little longer won’t hurt me. You mustn’t stop your life
because of me. My life is over, you have most of yours before you. Besides, I have a companion.

“Who?”
“Talking to yourself?”
She had been so engrossed in her conversation, she hadn’t noticed the door opening.

Typical of Nev to come in without knocking.  She stared at her handsome husband.  Tall,
dressed in tight, black leather pants and an equally tight black t-shirt, Nev Heath, otherwise
Nathaniel Edward Vernon Heatherington, Earl of Rustead, knew exactly how handsome he
looked, and the effect  his clothes and attitude had on the women  he invited into his bed.
Not to mention his job.  Photojournalism had many admirers, especially when done with
style.

She steeled herself to face him. “It helps sometimes. Here.” She pushed a small

stack of papers across the desk. “They’re all routine. You can read them if you want to.
Sure you don’t want to give me power of attorney?”

He laughed. “You’re joking. Nobody takes control away from me. Least of all

you.” He gave her a look that said she meant nothing to him. Who would have thought
he’d once looked at her with love and warmth, had told her nobody else meant anything to
him?

Sylvie castigated herself every day for letting Nev take her in, but never more than

on his rare visits. She took a deep breath, careful not to let it show. “How about we
divorce and I stay on as a salaried manager here? It won’t cost you any more than you’re
paying me already.”

He laughed in her face. “If you want a divorce, you’ll have to do it yourself, baby.”

Black Leather, White Lace

He sneered the endearment, turned it into an insult. “I won’t do it. You’re too convenient
for me. They all know I’m not available. Saves all that tedious hanging on.”

“Why did you marry me in the first place?” She hadn’t meant to ask, and she could

have kicked herself once the question left her mouth. It made her sound so needy.

“Because I was in love with you.” A mocking smile curled the corner of his mouth.

“The trouble is, I’m never in love with anyone for very long. I get restless. We married in
three weeks, and had a good month before I went away. It was good, wasn’t it, while it
lasted?”

He shoved his hands in his pockets and strolled to the window, staring out at the

green peace beyond.  “I don’t seem to be able to keep an interest in anything for long.  I’m
even  bored  with  the  photography.”      He  swung  around  to  face  her  walking  back  to  the
desk.  “I’m going to try a few society pictures for a while.  It pays well, and I should get my
name around.  Earn something before I decide to move on to something else.”   He picked
up the pen and scrawled his signature on the papers.

“Like what?”
“How do I know?” He lifted his hand and shoved it through his thick, dark hair. It

was  longer  than  usual,  the  ends  touching  his  shoulders.    “God,  Sylvie,  I  keep  hoping
someday  I’ll  meet  someone  who  will  make  all  the  difference,  or  find  something  I  can  get
really involved in!  I thought it was you.”   He spun around to face her, an expression she
had  never  seen  before  on  his  features.    It  looked  like  distress,  completely  overlying  his
customary self satisfied expression, but it was so foreign to him she couldn’t really be sure.
“I really thought it was you,” he said in a gentler tone.  He came across to her and reached
for her hand.  “I never mean to hurt people.  I just do it, without thinking.”   He gazed at
her,  his  grey  eyes  soft.    “You  know  why  I  came.    The  family  needs  an  heir.    We  agreed,
didn’t we? I’ll give you the heir you want.”

“I’ve changed my mind.” What she’d seen in the hall earlier had turned her off the

idea.    What  made  her  think  she  could  couple  with  this  man  with  only  the  thought  of
making another earl?  Once he got her into his bed God knew how she’d manage to lock
him out of her mind again.  It was hard enough the first time.  She might know what a shit
existed  inside  that  delectable  body.    For  he  was  still  possessed  of  a  delectable  body,  the
muscles firm and well defined, the skin achingly touchable.

“Why?”
“Because you want Jo Goodson. It was bad enough having the media come to me

every time you took somebody new to bed, but not in this house, not while I’m here!” She
lifted her head and met his gaze. “I can’t do it, Nev. I’m not that promiscuous.”

A sybaritic smile curled his lips. “Are you sure? Jo won’t mind sharing. She wants

exclusive use of me, but she’ll do what I want, if I ask her.”

“Bastard!”
The smile broadened. “You’d enjoy it, Sylvie. If you once took that poker out of

your ass you might enjoy life more.”

She’d heard that before. It wasn’t in her nature to share the man she loved with

anyone.    The  man  she  had  once  loved.    It  was  enough.    It  was  true  she’d  half  heartedly
agreed to let him come back to her bed, just to see if they could make a child.  The earldom
needed  an  heir,  and  she  longed  for  a  child.    Her  biological  clock  had  begun  its  fateful
countdown.    But  it  wasn’t  enough.    She  couldn’t  live  with  this  any  longer.    “I  want  a
divorce, Nev.”

He lost the smile. “Sylvie, you don’t really want a divorce, do you?”

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Pain twisted inside her. Sylvie sprang to her feet, pushing him away, making him

stumble.  “It’s a game to you, isn’t it?  You don’t care who you hurt, what you say just as
long as you get your own way.”   She stared at him, wondering how she could have ever
allowed  him  in.    The  only  thing  that  would  wrench  her  heart  now  was  leaving  Rustead
Abbey, but now she could bear that, too.  “Forget it, Nev. I’m leaving you, leaving this, just
—leaving.”

“Without giving any notice?”
God help her, he still thought this was funny. She heard the amusement in his voice.

Her anger would only provide him with a few moments’ entertainment.  She had to leave
this  place,  put  this  terrible  experience  behind  her.    “Without  any  notice.    Nothing.    The
place will run itself until you find someone else.  But you’ll have to find her, Nev.  I’m done
here.”

She turned to leave but he was too fast for her. With a mouthful of expletives

proving he’d spent too much time around soldiers, he slammed out the door, with a final,
“I’ll believe it when I see it!”

*****

“My friend, they all leave, you know that.”
Nathaniel nodded. He knew. But he felt heartsick, watching Sylvie packing to

leave.

“Is this different?”
Nathaniel nodded again. Drawing on his considerable resources, he smoothed his

features and stood up straight. “This one is special. It sounds foolish, but I love her. I love
her very much.”

“You loved before.”
He waved an ethereal hand. “That was different. I knew that was wrong from the

start. I couldn’t have her under any circumstances, and it made my resolve easier,
somehow. This one, this one is different. If I were corporeal, there would be no reason
why I shouldn’t pursue her. One thing, just one little thing.”

“Not so little.” The monk’s voice was deep and strong, but Nathaniel was the only

person who could hear it.

“No. I know.” He swallowed. It was everything. “I brought this on myself.

Perhaps it’s fate, coming back to claim me. Perhaps, at last, I’ll be allowed to move on.”

The monk lifted his head as though listening. His hood fell back on to his shoulders,

and his keen, eagle-eyed features came into sharp focus from the light streaming through
the window. Winter sunshine seemed much more accurate, picking out the crow’s feet at
the corners of his eyes, the furrows etched into his forehead.

Nathaniel watched Sylvie fold a sheer nightdress, and his mouth watered. He was a

gentleman; he had never allowed himself the luxury of spying on her, but sometimes it had
been hard. Especially when she flourished garments like that. He looked away, back to the
monk.

Eventually, after what seemed like an age, Brother Anselm turned his head and

looked directly into Nathaniel’s eyes. His own were dark, and sharp enough to miss
nothing. “There is a way,” he said.

A chill went right through Nathaniel. Brother Anselm had said the same thing once

before, on the day Vernon had left them to find his destiny and the love of a lifetime.

Black Leather, White Lace

Could it be the same for him?

He waited, watching Brother Anselm gather his thoughts, and come to a decision.
“The earl is about to die.”
“How?”
The monk tucked his hand into his wide sleeve in a characteristic gesture. “He is

riding his motor bike. It will overturn and throw him off.”

“A tragedy. There is no heir.”
A sharp pain, almost a physical one, pierced his throat. Sylvie! How would she

cope?    She  had  seen  her  husband  off  with  sharp  words,  and  Nathaniel  knew  she  would
regret it for the rest of her life, even though it wasn’t her fault.  Perhaps she would decide
to stay now. He could hope.

It was a blow, nevertheless, to realize the earldom would die today. Part of him

would die, too. He turned to Brother Anselm with eagerness. “Is this the end? Will I pass
on with the earldom?”

Brother Anselm sighed. “No. It is not enough. You must atone for your sins.” He

paused. “I believe there is a way.”

If he’d had corporeal form, Nathaniel would have taken the brother’s shoulders and

shook him.  “Tell me!” In all the years he’d languished here, Nathaniel had never shown
impatience before.  What would be the point?  But now–now there might be a chance.  He
could move on.  He had been too long in this place, far too long in this time.  He turned and
watched  Sylvie,  the  clean  line  of  her  cheek,  the  gentle  curves  of  her  body,  and  a  pang  of
regret shot through him at the thought of leaving her.

“You may take the earl’s place.”
“What?” The word came out in a hoarse croak. He whipped his head around to

study the monk. It could not be possible, surely? It had happened before, to his brother,
but only at a great cost and in particular circumstances.

Nathaniel knew his sins, but they couldn’t be changed now. He had killed his

brother, as his brother had killed him. Pride had forced him to join the Parliamentarians,
not principle. How could he redeem these things?

Brother Anselm spoke in measured, deliberate tones and Nathaniel listened

carefully. “There is unfinished business. The earl should not have died today. I cannot
explain, I only know. And I know you have this chance.”

Nathaniel frowned. “Explain yourself.”
“I cannot, I know no more. There is something on the mortal plane left undone,

something that needs to be completed. If you do not, the earl will appear in this plane, with
us, in a few days’ time.”

Another companion! But Nathaniel hated the present earl for what he had done to

the woman he loved. He couldn’t bear the thought of living with him for eternity.

“You have a week to try to complete the cycle, and if you do, you will both pass on

to your heavenly reward.”

“Why can’t you go too?”
Brother Anselm’s expression twisted in grief and agony. “It is not my story. I doubt

I will be allowed to go now. I don’t know how my story will be resolved.”

“Would it not help to tell me, to share your story? You know by now I can keep my

own counsel.” Nathaniel longed to help the grief stricken religious man. He prayed every
day, but his prayers were not answered, but his faith had remained as firm as it ever was.
Nathaniel envied Brother Anselm’s certainty. His had gone long ago.

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“It would only double the burden. But you have a chance. You may go on, and that

may help to atone my sins. If I help you, and this earl, it might just be enough.”

“So I will be helping you, as well?”
The monk nodded. “If you wish it. I will not condemn you if you refuse the

challenge.”

Nathaniel turned away, biting his lip. “But it’s so vague!” he burst out, turning

back, twisting on his heels.

“I know. I am telling you all I know, all I am allowed to understand. Finish the

cycle.”

Nathaniel stared at him. “Is there any penalty?”
“Only that if you fail, we remain here with one more companion.”
Punishment enough. The fickle, tortured, selfish Nev Heath would make their

existence more miserable than it was already. At least they had achieved a kind of peace,
this last century, despite the turmoil going on in the world beyond.

“I swear this is all I know. You must enter the body for a week, and leave it on the

dawn of Christmas Day.”

“What then?”
The monk frowned. “I do not know. I have told you everything, I swear it. We are

in limbo here, neither one thing nor the other. I know you wish to go, as do I. If you
succeed in your task, I believe you will be allowed your wish. I envy you.”

Nathaniel smiled. “Isn’t that a sin?”
The monk’s mouth twitched, almost breaking into a smile. “If it is, I shall do

penance. It would be a worse sin to deny I felt anything. That would be a lie.”

“If I don’t accept this challenge?”
All trace of humor fled. “Then evil will have the victory.”
“It seems I have no choice.”

Black Leather, White Lace

Chapter Two

Sylvie lifted her pen to sign the letter to the contractors. There was always work to

be done on the estate, and this time it was the drive, due to be resurfaced in the spring.  She
sighed,  mentally  calculating  how  much  money  she  would  have  to  raise,  when  a  muffled
sound made her lift her head.  She listened, but there was nothing more.  Probably just a
noise from the people upstairs.

She was about to turn back to her work when she caught a movement out of the

corner of her eye. She looked up. And caught her breath.

A shadowy shape stood by the bookcase on the other side of the room. It was as tall

as a man, but shapeless, as though covered by a mantle of some sort, like a monk’s habit. A
ghost.

She felt no fear. Was this the owner of her voice, the man who had become her

friend in the past few years? Or was she going completely mad? The fine hairs at her nape
prickled, and goosebumps rose on her skin, despite the warmth of the fire crackling in the
grate.

A voice, a whisper, shushed in the still air, the sibilants unnaturally emphasized.

“You must go to him.” The sound slid across her sensitized skin, raising the hairs on her
neck.

“Who? Go to who?”
“Walk up the drive towards the gate. You will see.”
The vision slowly melted away.
A trick of the light, or her tired brain playing tricks on her. She was almost sure.
What harm would there be in making sure of it?  A walk in the fresh air would be

welcome, in any case.  She pushed back her chair, walked over to the door and grabbed the
jacket hanging from the hook.  Shrugging into the fake fur lined denim, she left the office
and locked it, pocketing the key.  The papers inside were boring, but confidential, and she
would give nobody any opportunity to call her careless or inefficient.

Her heart lifted when she let herself out of a side door, and strode into the crisp,

clean air. Time to walk, time to think.

She was leaving the place she loved, but putting a miserable marriage behind her. It

was Christmas in a week’s time, so she would leave afterwards. Start the New Year in a
new place, with a real future. She owed it to herself.

Although she would be here for a week or so yet, she felt free already. The decision

had freed her, and she could think of the future. With her experience of managing a large
estate and house, packed with valuable antiques, she could find a job with one of the large
agencies, the National Trust or English Heritage. It might be fun.

Walk up the drive,

the apparition had said. She grimaced. Was she completely mad?

Well, it didn’t matter where she walked; the air was much the same everywhere.

The drive curved in a picturesque sweep, designed so that about half a mile out,

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anyone approaching got their first, spectacular view of the Abbey. Unfortunately, that
meant the drive was uphill, but it was a gentle slope, and Sylvie ran up it every morning
when she exercised, so she hardly noticed it now.

She hadn’t expected to run today, but when she turned the corner, she broke into a

fast sprint.

A short distance away, a motor bike lay on to its side, its wheels still spinning in the

unnaturally still air. Closer still, she could see over the bulky vehicle to the body lying
supine beyond.

Nev! Oh God, Nev!
Forgetting everything except the scene before her, Sylvie leapt over the machine and

knelt next to Nev.  No blood.  That  was the first thing.   His eyes were closed, his helmet
fastened  tightly  under  his  chin.    He  wore  the  heavy  leather  suit  made  for  cycle  riding,
padded at elbows, knees and shoulders.  Hopefully that had helped reduce the severity of
any injury.

Trying desperately to recall the first aid she had learned so long ago. What was it–

yes! ABC–Airways, Breathing, Circulation. Chanting the trilogy under her breath like an
incantation, she leaned over him, placing her cheek next to his mouth. A puff of warm air
rewarded her. He was breathing, he was alive!

Desperately fighting to control her panicked response, Sylvie sat back on her heels

and took a couple of deep breaths.

She mustn’t take his helmet off, because of the dangers of head injuries. His arms

and legs splayed out, but they didn’t seem to be in an unnatural position. She breathed out
in relief.

Dear God, had he got away with this as well as all the other close calls in his life?

Nev  had  followed  the  troops  into  Afghanistan,  Baghdad  and  Jerusalem,  and  come  out
without a scratch.  To die here, on his own estate, would be an irony not lost on the media.
But he was breathing, he didn’t seem to have any broken bones.  He’d done it again.  Sylvie
didn’t  know  whether  to  be  glad  or  disgusted  by  him  pulling  off  another  narrow  escape.
She reached into her jeans pocket for her mobile phone.

After the call, she felt better, more in control. The ambulance was on its way. All

she  had  to  do  now  was  wait.    She  examined  Nev  more  closely  for  non  life  threatening
injuries.    There  were  no  obvious  signs  of  injury,  but  his  eyes  were  still  closed  and  his
breathing shallow.

There was something wrong, though, she felt it. She glanced at the bike, Nev’s pride

and joy, and her breath caught. Her pace quickened, and she reached out to snag the
gleaming thread on the ground.

A fine, nylon thread, glistening in the winter sun, a fishing line perhaps. She pulled

it between her fingers to test it, and cut her forefinger slightly when it didn’t break. A very
strong thread. Her heart missed a beat.

This was no accident. Someone had pulled the thread tight across the road, too fine

to be noticed by a speeding motorcyclist. Someone wanted to kill Nev. Her throat
tightened, and she found it hard to breathe.

By the time her heart had regained its usual rhythm, the ambulance had arrived and

Sylvie was relieved to watch the paramedics to take over. She’d cut the thread from the
tree and shoved it in her pocket. She would tell the police, but there was no sign of the
local force yet, and if she left the thread, she was afraid whoever put it there would return
and remove it. Then there wouldn’t be any evidence it was anything but an accident.

Black Leather, White Lace

The paramedic went completely still. “Nev Heath,” she breathed, before she went

back into action. Nev always had that reaction on people, awake or asleep, mesmerizing
them for a moment, giving him a split second’s advantage on them.

After a brief check of his limbs, they strapped him on to a board and loaded him into

the ambulance, careful not to move his head and neck more than they had to. Sylvie held
back, not knowing what to do, but the medic had recognized her, too. “You’d better come
too, my lady.”

It took her a moment to realize they were talking to her. “What? Oh–yes, yes.”
Sitting in the ambulance next to her unconscious husband, Sylvie felt heat surge

through her veins. Anger simmered inside her, but this time totally unwarranted. Still, she
felt it.

How could he? She had so nearly gotten away this time! She’d tried before, but Nev

had always drawn her back with promises of fidelity and even more control over the house
she loved.  It was as though he’d come off his bike on purpose.  She couldn’t walk out on
him now, the press  would have a field day, and her conscience wouldn’t let her go.  Not
until she knew how he was, if he’d survive.

Besides, this was attempted murder, and she couldn’t walk away from it.
Silently, she prayed. Let him be all right. Please let him be all right.
Her mind went back to the brief time after they married when everything had

seemed  right.    He’d  been  charming,  loving,  completely  devoted  to  her,  for  about  three
weeks,  until  the  next  project  had  emerged, the  next  passion.    She  suspected  he  had  some
kind of disorder, but he was happy with it, he didn’t want to change.  She’d wasted enough
time on him, but now, if he was seriously injured, it would get worse.

Sylvie hadn’t realized the ambulance had its siren going until they reached the

hospital, and dimly recognized her reaction as shock. Slowly, the world came back into
focus, but the anger simmered deep inside. He’d done it again. He’d won again.

*****

Groaning, Nathaniel came awake. Pain assaulted him all over his body, something

he hadn’t felt in centuries. He almost welcomed it. Almost.

Keeping his eyes firmly closed, he let his surroundings slowly seep through his

being. Smell came first, an unpleasant smell, strong, tangy and metallic. He hadn’t smelled
anything similar before. He winced, happy if he never smelled such a stench again.

But there was something else, a floral perfume, much more pleasant. Eau de

cologne.

He opened his eyes and blinked at the bright light directly overhead. He was lying

down, between cool, clean sheets, in a room he’d never seen before, and he knew every
room in the Abbey intimately.

The transformation had worked. He could feel, really feel. He’d missed that so

much, the everyday tactile sensations he’d taken for granted while he’d been alive. Well
now he was alive again, if only for a few days.

“Hello.”
He knew the voice, soft and feminine, with a delicious American edge. “Good–

hello,” he corrected himself from using the old form of greeting. He knew perfectly well
what had happened, at least if it had been as Brother Anselm had told him, but he said
what he was supposed to say. “What happened?”

Lynne Connolly

“You had a bike accident. You’re in hospital, but they say you should be fine. A few

bruises, that’s all. One of the doctors said it was a miracle. You hit your head so hard you
should have died.”

She didn’t sound sorry. Nathaniel couldn’t blame her, but he would have given

anything for it to be otherwise. “Can I go now?”

“After you’ve had one more test. They want to give you another CT scan to make

sure your head’s all right. The first scan was quick, and you were unconscious. They want
you awake this time.”

“How long will it take?”
“Not long. They’ll take you down soon.”
He bit his lip. It had better not take long, he hadn’t much time. Cautiously, he

moved his limbs. They felt fine. He moved his feet, enjoying the sensation of toes against
freshly laundered cotton. “Was I unconscious for long?”

“Overnight. The blow to your head knocked you out. I’ve been home and changed.

I’ve brought you some clothes. They had to cut the ones you were wearing off you.”

When he tried to turn his head, he found they had strapped him down in some kind

of harness so he couldn’t move. “Can you come here, where I can see you?”

He heard her stand up and move across to where he lay. No rustling of petticoats, or

tap of heels on the floor, such as he would have expected from the women of his time, just a
gentle susurration of cloth. Taking a deep breath, Nathaniel closed his eyes and opened
them again. And she was there. The woman he loved.

He could see her, he could smell her. Nothing between them, no gauzy veil of

ectoplasm, no barrier of any kind. If he wanted to, he could reach out and touch her, really
touch her, and not watch his fingers pass through her. She smelled like flowers, with a
subtle undercurrent that was pure woman. And she looked like heaven.

As he watched, a pink flush spread over her cheeks. “What are you looking at?” she

demanded, her voice huskier than usual.

He told her the simple truth. “You. I will never get enough of looking at you.”
Even her frown was attractive to him. “Don’t be an idiot, Nev. I’m staying here

until you’re well, but then I’m going. It’s over, just like I told you earlier.”

Now it was his turn to frown. “Did he upset you again?”
Her frown deepened, but this time into puzzlement. “What are you talking about?”

She bent down, and he felt her breath on his face. “There’s something wrong with your
eyes.”

“What? I can see you, and that’s all I need.”
She drew back, straightening up. “Don’t do this, Nev. It worked once, but I’m not

completely stupid. It won’t work again.”

He ignored her comment. “What about my eyes?”
“Nothing. It’s probably the light in here. Are you wearing contacts?”
“What are they? As far as I know all I have on is this tasteless hospital gown.” He

knew what it was; he could feel the slick surface. One of the cleaners at the Abbey loved
hospital dramas and as a result, he’d seen quite a few. He cursed inwardly. She meant
contact lenses. Why should she think that?

The frown returned. “What are you talking about?” She studied him closely, and he

lay quietly, enjoying the sensation of her attention. After a moment, her face cleared. “Oh,
you were hit on the head. I suppose you’ll be shaky for a while, although they say if you
do have concussion, it’s very mild.”

Black Leather, White Lace

She bit her lip. “Your bike was very badly damaged, you know.”
“Was it?” He didn’t care, and she frowned again. Nev must have loved his bikes.

Well  he  wasn’t  Nev,  and  he  didn’t  particularly  want  Sylvie  to  think  he  was.    It  didn’t
matter.  If he could get her on his side, he might be able to achieve his objective easier.  But
telling her would be difficult.

Her thoughts were interrupted when the nurse came in to take him down for his CT

scan. He reached out his hand and to his relief Sylvie took it, walking by the side of the
trolley where he could see her.

They pushed through a set of double doors and then Nathaniel saw it and

remembered what a CT scan was. The gleaming white machine waited to take him.

He couldn’t do it.
He was in Nev’s body, so there wouldn’t be any differences for them to see, but it

wasn’t that.  There was a word for the way he was feeling, but he couldn’t remember what
it was.  Panicked, for sure.  Scared, almost witless.  His throat dried to the consistency of a
prune.

“Don’t put me in that thing,” he said, very quietly.
The nurse leaning over him gave him a reassuring smile. “It won’t hurt. Just a few

minutes.”

“No,” he croaked. “I can’t go in there.”
Presumably, he wasn’t the first patient to have this reaction, because the nurse

glanced away to someone behind him. A male voice answered her. “We could give him a
mild sedative.”

“Get me out of here. I won’t go in there.”
“Mr—my lord―” came the quick correction–“With your injuries it would be highly

advisable to allow us to do a scan. We need to know what is happening, and if we find it
now, we can most likely correct it. Leave it and it might be too late.”

Very soon, it will all be too late,

Nathaniel thought, grimly, and realized it didn’t

matter.    It  would  probably  be  the  cause  of  the  earl’s  death  on  Christmas  day,  a  death
Brother  Anselm  seemed  to  think  was  inevitable.    Nathaniel  had  no  reason  to  doubt  the
monk.  He would have to remind himself constantly of this, especially when faced with his
greatest temptation–Sylvie.

Nathaniel lifted his hands up to his head and fumbled with the fastenings, but a

nurse quickly moved to stop him, putting warm hands over his. He growled. “No. I can’t
go into that machine.”

“We could sedate you—“ someone began.
“No.” If they sedated him, he would waste even more time. He needed to be

awake and alert, to do the job he’d been sent here for. “Give me some pills to take home
with me.” He had no intention of taking them.

“Nev― “ Sylvie’s voice trailed off.
“Get me out of this thing. I won’t go in there and that’s final.” They moved the

trolley towards the tunnel and he felt the sweat break out on his forehead. Sheer panic
seized him, unreasoning and unreasonable.

“Nev?” This time she sounded bewildered and lost.
Nathaniel fought with the straps holding his head steady. It was no good, he

couldn’t do it, he couldn’t do it unless he was stupid with drugs, and they would take too
long to clear from his head.

After a shocked silence, a male nurse came forward and began to rip off the straps,

Lynne Connolly

which weren’t buckled, as he’d thought, but pressed in some kind of velvet set-up. Once
he realized it was easy, he ripped the straps from the rest of his body and sat up, swinging
his legs over the side of the trolley.

“Get me out of here.”

*****

After an hour of arguing and signing forms, he was out. Sylvie had brought him

some clothes, a pair of jeans and a t-shirt in some wonderfully soft, finely knitted material,
and a denim jacket. The zip fascinated him. He’d seen it in use, of course, but never had a
chance to use it himself. Later he would give himself the pleasure of examining it closer.
Mechanical objects had always fascinated him.

With the threat of the CT scan behind him, Nathaniel’s confidence grew, and every

step he took away from the building added to his feeling. Just as they left the front door, a
flash blinded him and something was shoved in his face. “How are you now, Nev?”

Sylvie only just stopped him lashing out, grabbing his forearm as he moved. Still

blinking, he stared at the small woman with the microphone. He was too dazzled to read
the label attached to it. “Fine,” he growled, and moved on.

“Only the local press,” Sylvie murmured, running to catch up with him. “But they

can be worse than the nationals.”

“I wouldn’t know,” he said, before realizing yes, he would know. Photojournalists

knew all about the press. Damn!

She took him to her car, a Japanese SUV. He climbed in the passenger seat,

wondering if Nev Heath was macho, or stupid enough, to insist on driving, and deciding
he didn’t care.

They drove back to the Abbey in silence, until he saw the tip of the North Tower

above  the  high  hedge  separating  the  estate  from  the  road.    It  had  been  literally  centuries
since  he’d  had  this  view  of  his  home,  and  nothing  much  had  changed.    The  road  was  a
better, smoother one, but the trees and the hedges looked the same.  They’d passed some of
the landmarks he remembered.  The old Norman church was still in the village they passed
through, the same sheep, or their descendants, grazed in the fields and the rickety farm still
seemed as though it was on the verge of tumbling down.

He became aware Sylvie was slowing down. She pulled the car in to the side of the

road and cut the engine. “Now,” she said, turning in her seat to face him. “Perhaps you’ll
tell me who you really are?

Black Leather, White Lace

Chapter Three

Sylvie studied the man claiming to be her husband. He looked like Nev, but he used

his body differently, in subtle ways she couldn’t have explained but she knew, as sure as
she knew her own name this wasn’t the man she’d married.

His clear, blue eyes widened, then his gaze settled on her. “Tell me how you knew.”
It was true, then. She hadn’t believed it when she first suspected, but she had to

challenge him, otherwise she would wonder for the rest of her life.

She looked him straight in the eye. “Your eyes are blue. Nev’s are grey. No amount

of bangs on the head are going to make your eyes change color.  That’s why I asked you
about  contacts.    If  you  were  wearing  them,  you  should  have  taken  them  out  and  if  you
weren’t–well,  the  possibility  was  unbelievable.    I  didn’t  know  if  I  was  seeing  things,  but
then your reactions were all wrong.  Nev gets defensive and angry if I try to get too close.
He does it with everyone.  You didn’t do that.”   She paused.  “There are other things, too.
The  only  things  in  the  world  Nev  truly  loves  are  his  motor  bikes  and  his  cameras.    You
weren’t worried the bike was badly damaged, and you didn’t even ask about your cameras.
They  were  destroyed  in  the  accident,  by  the  way.”      She  studied  him,  biting  her  lip  in  a
gesture Nathaniel knew was instinctive to her.  “You touched me.  You touched my hand,
and when you did, I felt something–this is going to sound stupid, but you felt different.”

He smiled and reached for her hand again, taking it gently and turning it palm up in

his. Sylvie felt it again, that difference, that connection. Her very skin tingled at his touch.
He spoke gently, staring at the lines on her palm. “No, it doesn’t sound stupid. You know
me, Sylvie. You’ve been talking to me for the past six years.”

A violent shock of recognition almost paralyzed her senses. She knew the voice. It

was the same as Nev’s, but a little lower, and softer. “I’m going mad,” she murmured. She
daren’t move, daren’t even move her hand in case something shattered. She felt like a piece
of fragile eggshell, afraid to move, in case this all shattered away before her.

“No, you’re not mad.” When he lifted his face and met her eyes again, she knew.

She just knew.

“You never gave me a name.”
“Nathaniel Heatherington, fourth Earl of Rustead. Usually called ‘Rustead’ or

‘Captain Heatherington.’ By the time I inherited the title, I wasn’t an army captain any
more.”

She watched him, recognition sparking slowly in her mind. He waited for her. “The

Roundhead earl!”

“You know I’m telling the truth.”
Reaction rushed in on her, like a freight train at high speed. Incredulity and belief

warred within her. Every instinct assured her he was telling the truth, but her reason and
logic told her it couldn’t possibly be true. He was talking. She must listen.

With her hand still lying in his, she heard him tell her. Nev was dead, and wouldn’t

Lynne Connolly

return. This was a usurper–that was what he said, a usurper–come to take Nev’s place
until Christmas Day. “I know I’m here to do something,” he continued. “The trouble is, I
don’t know what it is.”

Realization came in a rush. “I might know.” Before she could persuade herself she

was mad, she carried on. “You–Nev–were murdered.”

His dark brows lifted, but he said nothing, his expression encouraging her to

continue.

“I found a line strung across the road, as though someone had deliberately intended

to  cause  the  accident.    The  trouble  is,  I  lost  the  line.”      Tears  of  frustration  burned  in  her
eyes  when  she  remembered  her  abortive  interview  with  the  police  last  night,  but  she
blinked  them  away.    “I  shoved  it  in  my  pocket,  and  then  I  must  have  lost  it  somehow,
because when I looked for it, it had gone.  I didn’t want to leave it, because it was the only
evidence  there  was.   And  the  murderer  would  be  bound  to  come  back  to  retrieve  it.    I’m
sorry,  I  should  have  left  it.    The  police  said  they’d  look  at the  tree  and  the  bike,  but they
think  I’m  making  it  up,  I  know  they  are.”      She  gestured  vaguely,  a  sure  sign  she  was
distressed.  She always waved her hands about when she was upset.  “They gave me the
‘There,  there,  dear,  here’s  a  nice  cup  of  tea’  approach.    I  wanted  to  hit  them,  but  that
wouldn’t have helped.”

He covered her hand with his, stilling their restless movements. “I believe you.”

He smiled, and she forced a shaky smile in return.

“You do?”
“Of course I do. I was sent here to right some wrong. It all makes sense. I have to

find who tried to murder Nev Heath.”

A tremble quivered through her, then another. Overwhelmed, she wanted to turn

away, lock herself in her office until things made sense. She couldn’t stay here or she’d fall
apart.

Sylvie pulled herself together with a mental snap. She would cope, she always did.

This wasn’t Nev, she knew it wasn’t, so what he was saying must be the truth. He was Nev
right down to the eyes, and they were the eyes of a man in a portrait, a man she’d thought
she’d studied because the painting was by a famous artist.

Except it had been the sitter, not the artist, who had fascinated her. His eyes always

drew  her,  his  careless,  elegant  stance  and  the  vulnerability  the  artist  had  drawn  in  every
line.  She’d always wondered why he’d seemed so damaged, so hurt.  Now she could ask
him, if she wanted to.  Once,  she’d touched the painting, something strictly forbidden by
the conservators who worked on the paintings at the Abbey, and felt deliciously guilty for
doing  so.    But  all  she’d  felt  was  shiny,  hard  oil  paint.    Not  the  human  flesh  she’d  half
expected to touch. Yearned to touch.

“If I discover the murderer, and bring him or her to justice, I can move on,” he told

her quietly. Move on!  He made it sound so prosaic when her heart sank a the thought. She
had just found him, and she would have to pretend to be glad when he ‘moved on,’ for his
sake.    “I’ve  been  here  for  far  too  long.    I  repented  my  sins  long  ago,  almost  as  soon  as  I
made them.  My brother passed on and now I’m alone, apart from Brother Anselm.  Sylvie
will  you  help  me?    Do  you  believe  me?   I will  die  on  Christmas  Day,  no  doubt  from  this
head  injury,  and  you  will  be  a  widow.    That  might  be  easier  for  you,  but  it  would  be  so
much  better  if  I  had  at  least  one  ally.    Will  you  help  me?”  He  bit  his  lip  and  just  for  a
moment  she  saw  something  in  his  eyes  that  looked  like  regret.    So  he  wasn’t  so  eager  to
leave as his speech made him sound.  God knew she didn’t want him to go.  Not until she’d

Black Leather, White Lace

had a chance to talk with him, touch him, really get to know him.

“Were you really scared of the CT machine?” she demanded abruptly, her mind

leaping from fact to fact, wildly trying to make sense of the whole.

His smile was wholly adorable, totally not Nev. “Terrified. I couldn’t bear the

thought of it, and I knew the reality would kill me. I never liked enclosed spaces.”

She regarded him steadily. “Nev used to enjoy speleology.” She watched Nathaniel

shudder at the reminder of the narrow passages every pot-holer and caver welcomed.  She
was right, she knew it.  This man was not Nev, however much he might look like him.  She
responded to the way he stroked her palm with his thumb in a totally physical way.  Her
body yearned for him, needed his closeness, his caresses. She’d gotten over that a long time
ago with Nev.

This man was someone new, but someone she had known for a long time. She had

to believe him. Either that or go mad.

“You don’t have to persuade me any more about who you are,” she said. “I know. I

knew almost from when I found you in the road, I think. I just didn’t want to believe it.
What do you want me to do?”

His smile spread across his face, warming her heart. “Do you know how much that

means to me?  No, don’t answer, I can see it in your face.”   He lifted her hand and kissed
her  palm,  lingering  to  touch  it  with  his  tongue,  afterwards  folding  her  fingers  over  the
damp patch before carefully putting her hand on top of her thigh and immediately moving
away.    “Yes,  I  need  help.    If  I  find  the  killer,  the  sinner,  and  put  whoever  it  is  out  of
commission, I get to move on. It must be the deal.  I don’t know what comes next, only that
my natural progression was stopped by my sins, and I need to do something to atone for
them.”

She frowned. “It’s all very medieval, isn’t it?”
He chuckled. “Yes, it is. The man who told me all this is a medieval monk, so it’s

only to be expected. Perhaps if someone else had told me, it might have been expressed
differently. Adjusting the balance, keeping the timeline straight, something like that.”

She laughed with him. “Yes, I take your point. But if you catch this person, you die.

It doesn’t seem like a reward to me.”

His smile faded. “It would if you had existed beyond your natural term, if all you

could do was watch, if your time had gone. It’s over for me.”

“That’s so sad.” She blinked the tears away, feeling more for him than she had for

her husband in years. This man wasn’t a stranger. He was her comfort and her solace.
And he was about to leave her.

His smile was far more intimate than she liked, nudging aside her defenses as

though they didn’t exist.  He was leaving.  It would already hurt her when he–left, but if
she allowed herself to care even more for him, she might never recover from the blow.  She
was afraid.  She’d been hurt so much, and now she was ready to re-enter life on her own
account, she couldn’t let herself be hurt again.  “I can still read minds if I want to.  I have
some of my powers, if you can call them such.”

“Can’t you stay longer?” She wanted to get to know this fascinating man, now she

could see him, touch him. He even felt different to Nev, which was strange, because he was
occupying the same body.

“No. Every year I had the power to materialize on the day I died, which in my case

was Christmas Eve. I haven’t bothered, not for years. It seemed–inappropriate while you
were married.”

Lynne Connolly

“Why?” Her voice was throaty. She couldn’t think straight, because a blast of pure

passion had invaded her mind, and she wasn’t sure if it was his–or hers.

“I want to do things with you that aren’t appropriate to a married woman.” He

gave a harsh laugh and turned his head to stare in front of him at the bright day beyond the
car window. “They would hardly be appropriate now.”

If he was staying, they would be. She wanted him to stay with all her heart. She

wanted to get to know him, to allow herself to let their friendship blossom, to give physical
expression to the incredible sensations he gave her when they touched. She wanted to
make love with him.

Sylvie studied Nathaniel’s face, determined and sure, his lips firmed tightly, and she

remembered what and who he had been.  A Roundhead, a man bound by duty, someone
who  had  rejected  the  life  of  privilege  he’d  been  born  into  to  follow  his  principles  and
support the side that could have destroyed his class, his way of life.  Because he believed in
democracy,  and  the  right  of  every  man  to  make  his  own  decisions.    She’d  spent  hours
poring over the letters he’d sent home. Precious few of them, but she knew them all.

Sylvie started up the car and took him home.

Black Leather, White Lace

Chapter Four

Sylvie was mildly surprised to see Nathaniel eat breakfast. The larger family dining

room echoed with the cacophony of the TV people but when she first entered, Sylvie’s gaze
went to her ‘husband.’ And his attention went straight from the woman at his side to her.
They exchanged a wordless but intimate greeting, and he turned back to the woman, one of
the  two  mediums  who  appeared  regularly  on  ‘Hosts  to  Ghosts.’  It  seemed  inevitable  that
once she had collected a coffee from the side buffet, she would join him.  The chair next to
him wasn’t vacant, but she could sit opposite him.  Nev would have ignored her, or turned
to sneer.  Nathaniel smiled, a small movement showed he was going to stand up, but she
frowned and he stayed in his seat.

She tried an innocuous conversational gambit. “I hope you slept well.”
He turned it into something far from innocuous. “I would have slept better with

you.”

Conversation stilled. Everyone knew Sylvie and Nev were estranged, but nobody

would have known it from the blushing smile she gave him, and his warm one in response.
She couldn’t even pretend to hate him. He wouldn’t give her a chance. “You needed a
good night’s rest. I–couldn’t.”

He seemed to remember his role. “Perhaps not.” His smile turned smooth and

cold, but at the same time, she heard in her head, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that, but it
slipped out. I wanted to continue the charade, but I looked at you and I was lost.

You shouldn’t.
I won’t.
She wasn’t entirely sure what he meant, but he left her in peace when he turned back

to  the  medium.    Jo  Goodson  was  young,  pretty,  and  very  aware  of  her  new  status  as  TV
medium.  Even now, at breakfast, she was dressed and groomed perfectly.  Of course, that
could be merely self respect, but Sylvie doubted it.  She had been watching Jo for a couple
of days now, and she  never did anything without a purpose.  It was obvious she wanted
Nathaniel–or Nev. She’d probably already snared him, or thought she had.

The surge of jealousy pulsing through her at the thought surprised Sylvie. After the

first  agony  of  losing  him,  she  had  deliberately  set  herself  to  ignore  Nev’s  frequent  and
public infidelities.  It was easier to pretend to the “open marriage” he claimed theirs was to
anyone who asked.  Easier to refuse the offers she received, not wanting to descend to his
level, to make his lie a reality.

Almost immediately she felt him in her mind, his presence a soothing, wordless

peace. She was used to the voice in her mind, but far from used to seeing him, calmly
eating a plateful of bacon and eggs, and listening to the young woman at his side.

She finished her toast and coffee, and watched the flirting. I need to know who is

trying to kill your husband.

The voice, clearer than it had ever been. I must be very public, very

obvious. But I promise you, Sylvie, I won’t make you ashamed.

Lynne Connolly

She began to deny the feeling when she realized. This man–this man–had been privy

to  all  her  inner  thoughts  and  feelings.    He  knew  the  devastation  she’d  felt  when  she
realized  Nev  wasn’t  going  to give  up  his  little  pleasures,  he  had  comforted  her then,  and
applauded her determination to get on with her life on her terms.

Instead, she left the table when she saw the program’s producer beckon to her. It

was her time on screen this morning.

An hour later, primped, every hair in place in the smoothly coiled French pleat,

dressed in one of her designer suits, Sylvie stepped out in front of the camera and began to
read the autocue.  She knew without searching for him that Nathaniel was there.  Her gaze
went to him as though he were a magnet and she was an iron filing.  He stood by one of the
long  windows,  opposite  the  portrait  of  his  brother,  watching  her  gravely.    She  began  the
speech.

“In the early seventeenth century, the Heatheringtons consisted of three brothers,

one only a child, the other two adults.  Vernon, the eldest at thirty-four was the third earl,
and his brother, Nathaniel, was two years younger.  Nathaniel held a seat in the House of
Commons  and  Vernon  lived  the  life  of  luxury  at  Court.”      She  felt,  rather  than  heard,
Nathaniel’s  mirthless  laugh.    “However,  Nathaniel  became  fired  by  the  new  thinking  in
Parliament, and he left the family home and rejected his heritage, becoming a Roundhead.”
She  saw  his  wince.    “Vernon  did  his  best  to  support  the  King  in  the  coming  conflict,  but
when  it  became  obvious  they  would  lose,  Nathaniel  came  home,  claiming  the  estate  for
Parliament. The brothers fought, and Nathaniel killed Vernon.”

She turned away, overwhelmed by the grief filling the gallery, the feeling of

desolation sinking into her soul.  At the same time, both mediums sprang forward to stand
before the camera.  The eldest, today wearing a flowery dress that seemed incongruous in
this terrible place, lifted her hands and her head, her eyes half closed as she absorbed the
energy. Her colleague spoke to the camera, her face serious, but tilted just at the right angle
for  the  lights.    “We  can  feel  an  energy.    Doris  is  communing  with  the  spirits,  and  I  am
trying to contact them.”   She closed her eyes, then blinked them wide open.  “Nathaniel is
here.”   Sylvie looked up, straight into his startled eyes.  He had come closer and now stood
just behind the camera. “Speak, spirit!”

There was a fraught silence, then a thump. Half the crew shrieked in shock. Jo

smiled. “Speak to us, if you can!”

Another silence, and then another thump.
Nathaniel laughed. The sound made them all jerk and look at him as though he was

demented. He returned the look. “You’re all mad! That was a cleaner, probably in the
bedrooms upstairs. Nothing else.”

The feeling had gone now, and only Sylvie knew where it had come from.
The producer heaved a great sigh. “From the top, please. We’ll keep the section up

to Lord–Nev’s interruption.”

“Sorry,” Nathaniel muttered, but he was smiling.
Sylvie started again but when she got to her previous place, nothing happened and

she carried on.  “Nathaniel was fully committed to the Parliamentary cause.  If Cromwell
had got hold of the Abbey, he would have destroyed it, as he had so many before.”   She
glanced  at  Nathaniel.    His  eyes  now  held  nothing  but  cynicism,  but  as  she  watched,  his
expression softened, and he smiled at her.

It doesn’t matter what people think any more. It’s gone.
“Nathaniel killed his brother, Vernon, in a duel, held in the courtyard outside, but he

received injuries that were to kill him at Christmas.” That was why Nathaniel could take

Black Leather, White Lace

corporeal form at Christmas. That was when he had died. “The remaining brother stayed
here, and after the Restoration of King Charles II, he worked hard to recover the family’s
position. As you can see, he succeeded beautifully.”

The warmth was for his brother, not for her, Sylvie firmly told herself.
No, it’s for you. You’re doing so well, every inch the countess.
I don’t feel like a countess.
You look like one.
Her piece finished, she waited for the questions she had discussed earlier. Jo

Goodson stepped forward again. “Lady Rustead, if you had been alive then, which side
would you have been on? You’re the current Countess of Rustead, but you are also an
American. Don’t the two sides of your nature conflict?”

She smiled. “No, not at all, not these days. If I had lived then, I think I would have

tried to stay out of it. There was good and bad on both sides. It was wrong to kill the King,
but he had tried to rule as a despot, and that couldn’t be good for the country.”

“Have you studied this period?”
“I have read the letters between the brothers. They were very close, even when

Nathaniel decided to support Parliament, but something happened, something not in the
letters or anywhere else, and after Nathaniel joined the Parliamentary army, the letters
stopped.”

Unexpectedly, Jo swung around. “We are very lucky to have the current Earl of

Rustead here with us today. Usually he prefers to be known as Nev Heath, the
photojournalist, but in a break from his busy life, he’s come here to grace us with his
presence.”

Nathaniel had a choice. He could refuse to be interviewed, walk away, or he could

step forward. He stepped forward, taking his place by Sylvie’s side. This, as Jo must know,
would make this program a news item. Lord Rustead’s after hours activities had become
ever more public, ever wilder. Would the countess receive him now?

If she walked away, her reaction would be an item on its own. She could reject him

publicly, gain some revenge for all the times Nev had insulted her, ignored her, humiliated
her. Sylvie put up her chin and reached for Nathaniel’s hand.

She had done this once before, when the rumors of their impending divorce had

forced Nev to seek her out and stage a social event together. Then, she had done it because
she loved the Abbey. Now, after she had made her decision to walk away, she didn’t have
to do anything.

Except this wasn’t Nev Heath, this was Nathaniel Heatherington, and she could feel

his pain as sharply as if it were her own.

His fingers twined with hers and she knew the camera would zoom in on the telling

gesture. She told herself she didn’t care. What was one more humiliation? No one but her
knew who this man was, so they would think Nev was manipulating her again. It didn’t
matter.

She was mildly surprised when Nathaniel brought their joined hands up to his

mouth and kissed her knuckles. Then he spoke.

“I know you’re all wondering, so I want to tell you. I want my wife to forgive me

and take me back, and she’s accepted. It’s more than I deserve. I’ve not been good to her in
the past, but I intend to be better in the future.” He tugged until she turned to face him.
He smiled into her eyes. “I mean it, Sylvie. I love you, and I want you to forgive me. It’s
all my fault, all of it. Don’t answer now, just think about it.”

Then, as though it was as natural as breathing, he lowered their hands, still linked,

Lynne Connolly

and answered the questions about his ‘ancestor’ for the cameras. She felt his thumb gently
caress her palm and stood, stunned, taking in what he’d just done.

He’d taken all the blame Nev had accrued but not accepted over the years. He’d

said publicly that the failure of his marriage was entirely his fault.

Looking around the mass of stunned expressions told her the onlookers were shell-

shocked by the earl’s volte-face. Nev had always been hedonistically selfish, never worried
about others, not for one minute. While many people might not believe it would last - or
even that he meant it, he’d taken the blame.

Nev–Nathaniel finished discussing the Roundhead Earl of Rustead. He didn’t add

anything  sensational  to  the  accepted  story,  and  he  didn’t  refute  it,  but  Sylvie  knew  there
must have been more to the affair than first appeared.  Nathaniel was true, she knew that
now,  and  steadfast.    Something  traumatic  must  have  happened  to  make  him  turn  away
from everything he held dear and stick to a new course. Had it been Vernon’s fault, then?

Once he’d done, he tugged her hand until she began to move, and he led her up the

long gallery, away from the goggling crowd.

They took the back stairs down to her apartment. She had a small suite of rooms

where she could be private, as most peers did these days.  She’d chosen these rooms after
she’d realized her marriage was effectively over.  Not wanting to be reminded of the all too
brief  passion,  and  the  love  she’d  poured  out  to  him  in  private,  Sylvie  had  deliberately
chosen somewhere that was all hers.  She would have fought to the death any suggestion
she should bring Nev here. She took Nathaniel there voluntarily.

He looked around the lounge, and crossed to the window. “I’ve seen this room so

many times,” he murmured, “but never without the veil before.”

“Veil?” She decided to stay by the door, leaning on the wall beside it.
“We see everything through a kind of gauze. It lends an unreality to what’s

happening. Now it all seems too real.” He turned to face her, the bright, cold winter
sunshine striking his right cheek, leaving the other side of his face in shadow. “I’m not sure
I can do this, Sylvie. It’s too real. I haven’t known real for a long time.”

“I can’t begin to imagine what it was like.” She’d spent much of the preceding night

trying to imagine it. To lose your corporeal body, to continue to exist, but not to be able to
participate.

“You get used to it.”
She doubted it. She wanted to walk across what suddenly seemed like a huge

expanse of floor to him, but she didn’t know what she should do once she got there.  This
wasn’t right.  The attraction he held for her was magnetic, compulsive, something she had
never imagined before.  She wanted him to hold her, as Nev never had.  The only time they
had come together was in lust.  Now she wanted to comfort Nathaniel and be comforted in
her turn, to touch him with more than lust. But she couldn’t, she mustn’t.

“Do you have to leave at the end of the week?”
He swallowed and she watched the movement of his Adam’s apple, not wanting to

concentrate  on  his  face.    “I  have  to  die  at  the  end  of  the  week,  Sylvie.    Make  no  mistake.
This is my way out of the endless non-existence I’m leading and I mean to take it.  It’s time.
I’m sure of it.”   He turned away with a jerk, but immediately turned back again.  “Nearly
sure.”

The last two words made her lift her eyes to his face. They stared at each other for a

fraught moment out of time, and for once, all barriers were down. She saw his anguish,
and his love for her. She had known it, but now she saw it.

Black Leather, White Lace

She went towards him, and without hesitation, lifted her face for his kiss.
He didn’t hesitate either, but dipped his head and took her in a gentle embrace, his

arms closing around her securely.

She had come home. This was where she belonged, where she should be, should

have been all the days of her life, but it was not to be. They had days, not years. They
shared warmth, comfort and the rising flame of passion, curling up between them.

He tore his lips from hers and stared down at her, eyes blazing. “Walk away, Sylvie.

Walk away now.”

“No.”
He kissed her again, wildly this time, a brief, hard kiss, and lifted his head again, but

he still gripped her tightly in his arms. “We can’t do this. I want to leave you whole,
untouched by tragedy. If we become any more involved than this, it will hurt you more.
At the end of the week I’ll be beyond pain, but you will not.”

“Why did you say we had reconciled in front of the cameras?”
His smile was gently bleak. “I wanted to leave you with the inheritance you should

have. I know arrangements have been made to break the entail, and for you to stay on as
chairperson of the trust. I also know Nev was planning to renege on the deal.”

She lifted her chin sharply. “How? How do you know?”
He lifted one hand from her waist and caressed her chin, a feather light touch she felt

all through her body in a thrill of sensation. “I’m in his body, love. Not all of his memories
are intact. Perhaps I dislodged them, or he took them with him, but he left some things
behind, including his plans for the Abbey.”

“What did he want to do?”
Anger flickered in his eyes. “Maximize the profits. The consortium that wanted to

take  control  from  you,  remember?    He  was  going  to  sign  with  them.    Not  once  did
consideration for you or for his heritage cross his mind.  He had no intention of using the
money  to  improve  the  Abbey,  he  wanted  to  invest  it  and  take  it  for  himself.    He  was
coming back to do that, but it’s all gone now. He took it with him. He signed nothing.”

“He’s really dead, then? He won’t come back?” She tried not to sound glad, but this

final betrayal, on top of everything else, struck her to the heart.

Gravely, Nathaniel shook his head. “He’s gone. He died the moment his head

struck the drive. Head trauma, they would have called it. I’m a temporary resident. My
guess is the actual cause of death will be the same. I refused the scan, so they’ll think they
missed something when I collapse.”

“No!” She pulled him close. “Is there no way out of this? Can’t you stay?” She

stopped herself, biting her lip to hold back the words.

“No. Either I succeed in discovering the murderer and pass on to my heavenly

reward, or I go back to how I was.”

“Is it so bad?”
“Yes.” The word dropped into the silence, filling her with his certainty.
“I shouldn’t ask, I’m sorry. I know you don’t want to stay here.”
“I haven’t been given the choice.” His gaze softened, the heavenly blue eyes gazing

into hers with an expression she didn’t want to try to interpret.  It looked like love, but she
didn’t  want  to  think  it.    A  few  days  weren’t  enough  to  begin  to  explore  what  they  could
have, so he was right. They shouldn’t even try.

Despite her determination, it was hard not to think of how good he felt. When he’d

kissed her, it had been like opening up a door to a world she hadn’t been aware of before.

Lynne Connolly

Oh, she’d been in love, or thought she had been, but this was a true communion of souls.

She wanted it again. Just once more, she told herself.
The same desire gazed back at her from his eyes. He didn’t ask, but bent his head to

her.

If he were true to his purpose, he wouldn’t touch her like this again. She had to

make the most of it. She tilted her head and opened her mouth, allowing him to take
anything he wanted and taking what she wanted in return.

He tasted different, new. Spicy, without the tang she vaguely disliked in her

husband, but tolerated because she’d imagined herself in love with him. He kissed her
slowly at first, as though savoring her essence, but when she pressed closer, he took her
invitation and deepened the kiss, almost reverently.

Here in his arms was home. Safety, shelter, mutual passion, adventure, everything

she wanted but hadn’t dared assume existed for her. It hadn’t; it still didn’t. She held on to
the slim thread of sanity grimly, knowing it was her lifeline, so when he pushed her gently
away she almost expected it.

“I can’t do this to you. I love you more than I can say, and I don’t want any sin to

mar my soul, but more importantly, I want you to move on and find happiness. There’s no
lasting happiness here, only fleeting joy. It’s not enough, not for you, Sylvie.”

Before she could reply he spun on one heel and strode to the door, leaving her alone.

The door closed quietly on the tears she could no longer suppress.

Black Leather, White Lace

Chapter Five

Downstairs, Nathaniel tolerated the attentions of the TV crew, who were all charmed

by his unexpected arrival at the Abbey.  Some were more than charmed.  The younger of
the  two  mediums,  Jo  Goodson,  clung  like  a  leech,  hooking  her  arm  through  his  and
hanging  on.    They  dined  in  the  large  room,  and  when  it  became  obvious  Sylvie  wasn’t
coming down, he touched her mind with his and told the truth.  “She has a headache and
she’s worn out. I might have been asleep last night, but she didn’t have much rest.”

“Is it true you’ve reconciled with her?” Angela Murdoch, producer of Hosts to Ghosts

stared at him with the hard eyes of a professional journalist.

“We’ve decided to try,” he admitted. “I won’t be leaving home for a while, and it

seems like a good time to see what we have.” He knew what they had, and it wasn’t for
public consumption. “It turns out, we have quite a lot.” There he drew his line in the
proverbial sand. He wasn’t prepared to go any further, not in public.

The little gasp from the woman sitting by his side surprised him a little, since Jo

Goodson and Nev Heath had never met, to his knowledge, but there were gaps in the late
earl’s  memory  he  couldn’t  fill.    Nev  had  taken  them  with  him.    Most  of  his  skills  were
thankfully  still  intact.    He  knew  how  to  frame  a  photograph,  the  little  tricks  that  would
ensure the one picture out of twenty that was memorable, that seemed to catch a moment
in time.  On the other hand, he had no idea how to ride a motor bike, other than straddling
it like a horse and hanging on.  He’d be far better off on a horse.  It was as well he was only
here for a few days.  He’d be bound to blow his cover, sooner or later, if he had to act like
his predecessor.

He smiled at Jo, trying for the easy charm that had come so naturally to Nev, but

was mildly surprised to find a hard stare waiting for him. “You mean it? You’ve
reconciled with her?”

“Of course I mean it.”
She glanced at Angela, then back at him, her expression softening. “I see. Taking

care of business, I think you called it once?”

Did he? He didn’t remember. Perhaps the press had quoted him sometime. He

knew he’d been in the Sundays, the photojournalist in front of the cameras in one, and a
more sycophantic cousin-to-the-Queen interview favored by the tabloids.

“Maybe I did.” He was safer with the vague. He would have to ask Sylvie, once

she woke up.

What to do about Sylvie? All through the exhausting dinner he watched, fielded

increasingly  awkward  questions,  and  thought.    He  loved  her  so  much  she’d  almost
completely overwhelmed him in her room earlier.  He’d always been able to see and hear
her, but ghosts don’t feel, ghosts don’t touch.  Now his senses were filled with her presence
and every one of them was on full alert.  Taste, he couldn’t forget taste.  She tasted like the
best raspberry syllabub he’d ever had; smooth, creamy with a hint of sharp, ripe fruit.

Lynne Connolly

More than anything he wanted to go to her, comfort her, undress her slowly,

enjoying the removal of each piece of clothing, kiss every inch of her luscious body and
only then make love to her, entering her and giving her everything he was.

It was impossible. Before, he might have considered it, but he knew for sure she

loved him and for that reason he couldn’t leave her with a memory that might last a
lifetime. He couldn’t even tell her he could visit her once a year, and love her then, as his
brother had done, for at the end of this week he would die.

He’d entered this pact wanting nothing more, half hoping full recognition of Sylvie

would  stop  this  madness  that  had  infected  him  since  she’d  walked  through  the  door  six
years earlier.  But it hadn’t.  He was mad for her still, crazy for her, as though she was the
oasis in the desert, the cool, clear spring water on a hot day.

No one compared. The woman next to him was beautiful, but very carefully

groomed,  nothing  out  of  place,  hair  colored  a  deep  honey  blonde  and  carefully  streaked
with  a  paler  shade.    One  tiny  pink  strand  rested  over  her  left  cheek,  a  silent  and  small
protest against her perfection, a touch that only made her appear more perfect.  Too perfect
for him.  He wanted a woman to smell like a woman under her perfume, a hint of feminine
need that echoed his own, making him want to take the final step, the final sense, and taste
her.

Jo wore a simple blue sheath he guessed was from one of London’s best stores. The

top wasn’t cut low, but covered her breasts hinting at the curves beneath. Jo had realized
what many women hadn’t; a high necked dress, if cut right, could reveal far more than any
deep décolletage.

He must stop thinking in old fashioned words, or they would be the undoing of him.

He  was  used  to  it,  although  he  had  added  slang  to  his  speech  recently,  due  to  his  TV
addiction.    His  natural  voice  was  a  mixture  of  old  and  new,  something  Nev  wouldn’t
consider using, for Nev was frankly modern, turning his back on all the old stuff.

Stuff Nathaniel loved.
He smiled at Jo, and saw the other medium, Doris, watching them closely, her blue

eyes  avidly  devouring  the  scene.    Good  God,  not  her,  too?    What  was  it  about  this  man?
Nathaniel knew himself to be a well favored man, and his body, after years of combat, had
been well toned, if a little scarred, but the body he now occupied, while definitely fit, was
leaner  than  the  one  he’d  left  behind,  less  obviously  masculine,  at  least  when  he  was
dressed.  Nathaniel had watched the boy grow into a man, watched his impatience with his
stuffy father and exquisite mother erode until there had been only rebellion left.  He’d seen
him  leave,  and  pay  only  fleeting  visits  back  to  the  Abbey,  each  time  harder  and  more
rebellious.  Nev had done everything in his power to turn his back on his past, and while
understanding  it,  Nathaniel  couldn’t  condone  it.    Nev  Heath,  Nathaniel  Edward  Vernon
Heatherington,  had  been  utterly  selfish.    He’d  drawn  within  himself  until  there  was
nothing  left  of  the  angry  boy.    Only  the  self  contained,  angry  man.    Nathaniel  sent  up  a
brief prayer, hoping Nev had finally found peace.

Unable to bear any more he stood and excused himself. Jo pouted. “I thought you’d

stay longer.”

He tried to keep up Nev’s playboy image. “Normally I would, and even now it’s

hard to drag myself away, but after yesterday, I think I need some rest.”

“You will manage to stay up for the vigil?” Angela’s voice took on a pleading tone.

He lifted his head and confronted the producer. She forced a smile. “We’ll sit up for a
couple of nights, then splice the results together as though they’re one night. Since we

Black Leather, White Lace

don’t fake anything, spiritual activities don’t happen all at once. Not like other programs.
They might not happen at all, but if they don’t, we can fill in with the historical stuff. The
audience loves the tales of the olden days.”

Fill in

? Nathaniel saw red. He was part of that ‘historical stuff,’ he had lived,

breathed and died in the ‘olden days.’ They were far from that to him. They were
yesterday.

Just before he left the room, he felt a touch on his arm. Jo. She smiled, and said,

“good night” but added, in a much quieter tone, her voice vibrating with repressed
emotion, “I want to see you. Tomorrow morning in the rose garden at ten thirty. Be there!”
She brushed past him as he left the room, heading for the toilet in the corridor outside, he
presumed. He didn’t wait, but almost ran up in the opposite direction. He wasn’t lying
when he said he was tired, but he wouldn’t sleep. Ghosts didn’t sleep much.

*****

He slept on the daybed at the foot of Sylvie’s, since they were supposed to be

reconciling, and tortured himself with the sight of her asleep, wondering what it would be
like to sleep next to her, holding her.

He spent the last part of the night in the library, reading the books he had missed so

much and doing a little research.  Intriguingly he found a bunch of books that hadn’t been
there  in  his  time,  but  some  dated  from  before  his  lifetime  on  earth.    Old  spell  books,
grimoires and cookery books which included some recipes for ‘gaining your heart’s desire’
and  ‘destroying  your  enemies.’  But  none  of  them  held  any  clues  as  to  who  wanted  Nev
Heath dead. Or why.

There was only one way he knew to draw the would-be killer out fast. Whoever it

was wanted him dead. All right then, he would die.

Nathaniel leaned back in his chair, relishing the feel of the soft leather under his

body, his mind returning inevitably to the woman he loved. Convinced he could resist her
allure, determined to love her like a brother, he’d stepped blithely into his fate. He’d had
no intention of taking her, it was just a dream. Or so he kept telling himself.

His blood boiled for her. Every nerve he possessed came to attention when she was

around, not just the obvious ones. He wanted her in every way possible, with a primitive
need that shocked him. To take her away into some dark corner and enjoy her, watch her
pleasure, so the world only consisted of the two of them. Forget everything else.

The intensity shocked him. After three and a half centuries of limbo, he’d imagined

nothing  material  could  affect  him  so  much.    He  couldn’t  have  been  more  wrong  if  he’d
tried.  The only thing that meant more to him than his pleasure was hers.  His hunger to see
her  lost  in  his  love,  abandoned  only  to  him,  trusting  him  to  take  her  to  the  heights  and
bring  her  back  down  again  almost  overwhelmed  his  senses.    He’d  faced  armies  without
flinching,  had  gone  into  battle  without  a  qualm,  but  he’d  never  done  anything  so
agonizingly difficult as releasing her, walking across her bedroom and out the door.

He couldn’t show any of this, he could never let go. He would have to store up his

emotions, make the most of what he could have in these last few days of his life. If all went
well. If they didn’t, he would return to the half life, and probably go completely mad. She
knew he loved her, he’d shown her ever since she’d walked into the house, but she didn’t
have to know how much.

When she awoke, he entered her mind, as he had many times before, and gave her a

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soft greeting. She returned it before she was properly awake. He felt her shock when she
realized and answered her question readily.

You’re still here?
Yes, I’m here. In person. In the library, trying to do some research.
Shouldn’t we be together?
He had told the world, or at least, that part of it that watched Hosts To Ghosts that

they had reconciled. Do you go to breakfast?

I usually make it in my suite. I prefer to be alone first thing.
Really?

He couldn’t resist the gentle tease.

He heard her chuckle as though he was standing next to her and not half way across

the house. Usually.

I’ll go to breakfast with the film crew, and say you’re still abed.
Having a lie-in.
Shock arced through him and he answered her question before she asked it. In my

time, a lady ‘lay in’ when she was about to give birth.

Abruptly, she cut him off. Her response troubled him, as he’d hoped to make her

smile.  He could have re-connected with her, but it was clear she wanted some privacy.  He
couldn’t  imagine  what  he’d  said  that  was  so  wrong.    Still  troubled,  he  left  the  room  and
went  to  the  dining  room,  where  he  heard  the  clink  of  cups  and  smelled  freshly  grilled
bacon.

When he entered, a hush was immediately followed by a renewed hubbub of

conversation, louder than it had been when he’d approached the room. They’d been
talking about him, then. Hardly a surprise.

Nathaniel realized he was sharp set. Even this was a sensation to be relished,

enjoyed, consigned to memory to enjoy again. The bacon smell assaulted his senses, filled
his throat with anticipation.

He wasn’t disappointed. He loaded his plate at the tables laid out for the use of the

crew and production team, reckoning since he’d spoken to camera yesterday, he was one of
them and entitled to breakfast.  Nobody objected, he could see, and even if they did, he had
the power to turn them out of his house.  A pleasant feeling, that one, owning the Abbey
again.  He’d never loved it with the passion his brother, Vernon, showed, but that was part
of  their  training  and  his  expectations.    Vernon  would  inherit,  he,  Nathaniel,  would  move
on, find a career, perhaps an estate of his own. It didn’t mean he didn’t love the old house.

He found a place at a table, but unfortunately it was with the presenters. He would

have preferred to sit somewhere else, but he recalled Jo Goodson wanted to talk to him, so
he’d better make himself available.

Eight people sat around this circular table; made of some light colored wood, a

modern  import,  but  of  such  a  pleasant  design  it  fitted  well  into  the  sunny  room.    The
conversation  was  a  mix  of  many  things  he’d  known  before.    There  were  the  toadies,  the
people  attracted  by  his  title  and  his  exploits,  but  mostly,  he  suspected,  his  title.    Two  of
these, a man and a woman he didn’t recognize.  Two at least who were interested by his
fame  as  a  photojournalist.    One  who  exaggeratedly  treated  him  as  an  equal,  called  him
“Nev,”  without  being  invited  to,  suggested  they  had  a  lot  in  common.    Jo  Goodson,
alarmingly familiar, and her mother sat either side of him.  He reached for his orange juice,
only to hear one of the toadies giggle. “You eat everything we do, my lord.”

Not if he didn’t want to. He still had his powers, because he still had a foot in both

worlds. He would have given them up without a qualm if it meant he could stay with
Sylvie.

Black Leather, White Lace

Nathaniel stopped, a forkful of scrambled egg half way to his mouth. He wanted to

stay here, with Sylvie. Before, though he’d loved her, he’d only thought of meeting her and
then carrying on to his heavenly reward, but now, somehow, the two things had exchanged
places in his mind. Now he wanted to live with Sylvie and love her, for as long as they
were allowed.

They would only have days. Not enough time to give her everything he wanted to,

but enough time to make her unhappy for the rest of her life. He couldn’t do that to anyone
he loved as much as he loved Sylvie. Hell, he’d be sorry to do it to anyone.

He stared at the food on his plate. He’d given up watching people eat. That was

why  the  dining  room  was  usually  free  of  ghosts,  if  they  only  knew  it.    Sheer  torture  to
watch people tasting, eating, drinking, all things he could never do again.  At least he could
have  this.    Determinedly,  he  turned  his  attention  back  to  his  food,  and  remembered  how
much he’d longed to do this. But it was no good. The flavors turned to ashes in his mouth.

He put his fork down with half the food still on his plate. Someone piped up, too

brightly for his taste. “Salt, my lord?”

Jo Goodson sniggered. “He prefers to be called ‘Nev’ or ‘Mr. Heath’.”
“No I don’t.” He spoke without thinking, answering as Nathaniel instead of Nev

and  irritated  by  Jo  Goodson’s  proprietorial  remarks.    He  belonged  to  nobody.    Mentally
cursing at his slip, Nathaniel forked up another helping of scrambled egg, to allow himself
a  moment  to  consider.    He  chewed  slowly,  aware  all  eyes  were  on  him,  with  varying
degrees of interest.  “It depends what I’m doing,” he said.  “When I’m in the field, there’s
no  time  to  start  shouting  “my  lord,”  or  much  of  anything  else  for  that  matter.    So  it  was
convenient.    But  I  can’t  escape  the  fact  I’m  also  Lord  Rustead.    There’s  no  getting  away
from it, and it would be ridiculous to ignore it.”

“What should we call you, then?”
The answer came to him automatically. Protocol was inbred into him, and it hadn’t

changed much over the years. “Social inferiors call me ‘my lord.’ Everyone else calls me
‘my lord’ at first, then ‘sir’.”

“My!” Jo Goodson’s baby blue eyes rounded in mock astonishment. “What about

your lovers?”

A hush fell, and then Nathaniel knew. Jo Goodson had been one of Nev’s lovers.

One of the many. He frowned, wishing more of Nev’s memory had remained intact. It was
patchy, at best. He could remember very little of Nev’s photojournalist career personally,
although he had a full record of where he had been, and he felt confident he could handle a
camera. The more personal the memory, the less likely it was it would be there, and there
weren’t many things more personal than a lover.

“Lovers?” He used a Nathaniel trick, and raised one brow, lifting his chin a little,

making his eyes ice with disdain.

She glared at him, but as he watched her, her lids flickered over her eyes before she

renewed her stare, but by then he’d removed his attention from her and was smiling at one
of the two women who were regarding him with lascivious interest. He’d seen that look
before, as Nathaniel. Some things never changed.

He turned to the woman on his other side, intending to pass some innocuous

comment about the weather, but the steely glare so reminded him of the woman on his left,
he stilled his words. It was gone so quickly he wasn’t sure he’d seen the look, but it
unnerved him. He felt Jo stroke his arm, but he deliberately didn’t look around. “You have
been working with this team for long?”

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Doris gave a civilized response, but then made a remark that startled him. “You

don’t seem much like your Puritan ancestor.”

Quelling the jolt he’d felt when someone had referred to him directly instead of Nev,

Nathaniel  reminded  himself  this  was  to  be  a  program  about  them,  Vernon  and  himself,
Royalist  and  Puritan,  Cavalier  and  Roundhead.    Not  that  he’d  ever  worn  the  typical
Roundhead hairstyle.  Neither had most of his fellow officers, but many of the troops had
done so.

“Even Puritans need some comfort from time to time.” The woman’s eyes

narrowed a little, and Nathaniel panicked. What if she knew? Doris Alcock was reputed to
be a gifted medium. He’d never believed there were such people, and he felt no connection
with her now, but for all that, he should tread warily.

“This Earl didn’t seem to need any comfort.”
Of course he had, just like any other man.
“The fourth Earl didn’t become a Puritan from religion, but from conviction and a

sense of justice. I’ve seen his letters.” Doris nodded and turned her attention back to her
meal, her pudgy fingers closing over the knife handle with unnecessary force.

The letters still existed; they were held in a secure room downstairs, so to mention

them was fairly safe. He’d tried to explain his reasons to his brother, so he wasn’t revealing
knowledge that didn’t already exist in material form.

His alliance to the Puritans hadn’t prevented young women from discreetly offering

him what he might require. He had required it once or twice, and he still felt a stab of guilt
when he thought of the emotionless coupling. It was not enough for him. It had never
been enough. It still wasn’t enough.

All he felt for Jo Goodson was a mild interest, nothing like the blazingly helpless

desire that conquered him when he was with Sylvie, that threatened to explode his reason
into tiny shards around her delectable body.  Jo was pretty, well groomed, perhaps too well
groomed  for  his  taste,  with  a  generously  curving  figure,  but  all  that  meant  little  to  him
apart from some aesthetic interest.

When he rose at the end of his meal, so did most of the others at the table, and to his

dismay,  Jo  slipped  her  arm  through  his,  strolling  with  him  in  a  deliberate  display  of
intimacy, to the door.  With a sinking heart he guessed what was to come, and marshaled
his forces. He might as well face it now.

He took her to a small office close to the front door, where once a guard had stood,

and now formed the little office where someone took the money for the guided tours in the
summer. As soon as the door closed, she faced him, arms akimbo, eyes blazing.

“What’s all this about? I set up this whole shindig to get us together. Doris and I

have a lot of say about where the programs are set, and I picked this one! Now you’re
dancing around that bitch like a dog on heat, and I’m left in the cold!”

Nev

, he reminded himself. I’m Nev. This woman was a medium, which meant she

was at least sensitive.  He shrugged, and leaned back, propping his shoulders against the
door in what he hoped was a nonchalant pose.  He wasn’t used to nonchalant poses.  Not
much in his own life had ever called for it.  “What can I say?  Perhaps I’ve been away from
her long enough to make it interesting again.  We never promised each other fidelity, Jo.”

“Didn’t we?” Her voice rose to a high shriek. “So all those promises I remember–

you didn’t have anything to do with those?”

He flashed her a grin. “You must have imagined them. I don’t remember a lot about

it, to be honest.”

Black Leather, White Lace

Her fury muted to disbelief. “You mean all those snatched weekends, all that work,

and you can just throw it in my face? Two years I’ve been faithful to you, Nev, when I
could have had men for the taking!”

He knew his alter ego well enough to say, “You should have taken them. I would

have done.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You said you’d ask Sylvie for a divorce. We’re getting married

in the New Year, or had you forgotten that?”

“I don’t seem to have a very good memory,” he admitted, watching her volatile

countenance with fascination. His generation had been trained to keep their secrets to
themselves, to school their features to impassivity, even if all hell broke loose around them.
In this age, people seemed to take privacy lightly. Perhaps it was too easy for them.
“Besides, I’m already married.”

She made a short sound of exasperation and flung her well manicured hands into

the air. “Argh! We’ve been through this, Nev, or had you forgotten? We agreed. You are
going to tell Sylvie it’s over, you don’t want her any more and then, when she’s gone, we’ll
marry. A big wedding in the spring, I thought, then I can finish my contract with the
network. Well?” she put up her chin challengingly.

He put his hand to his chin, stroking it thoughtfully. “I said this? Are you sure it

wasn’t somebody else?” This was fun.  This woman didn’t care who she shoved aside on
her way, so he had no compunction in giving her a set-down.  “Jo, you were a good lover,
but  you  lack  something.”      He  thought,  assimilated,  remembered  all  he  had  seen  of  Nev
Heath,  and  said  what  he  would  have  said.    “And  you  know  I  bore  easily.    Why  did  you
think you were any different to all the others?” He gave her an apologetic half smile.

By the pink color rising in her cheeks, a more vibrant shade than her delicate face

powder,  he  was  getting  his  point  across.    “Because  you  said  you  loved  me,  because  you
said  you  were  the  only  woman  for  me,  because  you  promised  to  dump  your  wife  and
marry me!” Her eyes glistened with unshed tears, but Nathaniel wasn’t sure if they were a
result of fury or real unhappiness.  Either way, she was prepared to shove Sylvie aside like
an old shoe, and for that, she deserved what was coming to her.

“What do you think he told the others?” The soft, American tinged voice electrified

his senses like a live wire.

He stepped back and smiled, knowing his whole expression softened when he

looked at her. She was dressed simply, just classically cut black pants and a light sweater in
soft pink, but her very simplicity threw Jo’s hard-edged chic into relief and demonstrated it
for what it was; a woman trying too hard to look good.

When he held out his hand in wordless greeting she crossed the room and put her

own into it. If this was all the bliss he was allowed, then he would take it. Touching her
was as vital to him as breathing. He drew her hand to his mouth and kissed the back, only
dimly aware this was an outmoded greeting. It seemed entirely appropriate to him.

“I’m different.” Jo Goodson wasn’t giving up easily. She glared at Sylvie, her eyes

flashing a challenge. “He said he was bored with you within weeks of your marriage. You
weren’t enough for him. He must have been mad to marry a woman so unadventurous in
bed.”

He caught Sylvie’s startled glance and returned it. He had no more idea what Jo was

talking  about than  Sylvie.    Did  Nev  have  certain  predilections,  or did  he  see  himself  as  a
sexual animal?  Nathaniel had no idea. His dreams about Sylvie involved certain strenuous
activities,  but  he’d  generally  been  so  heated  by  then,  he  hadn’t  gone  on  to  imagine  any

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variations on his central theme.

“Nev Heath had his mad years,” he said firmly. “You were part of that, Jo. I mean

to stay here now, to help Sylvie run the house. I plan to settle down.”

“You?” Derision filled Jo’s carefully modulated tones. “Settle down? For about six

months,  tops,  then  you’ll  be  off  to  another  trouble  spot!    Not  that  I  mind,”  she  added
hastily.  “You explained all that to me, and I know what I’ll be letting myself in for.  After
all, I understand you and what you need.  Unlike other women.”   Her gaze was pointedly
aimed at Sylvie.

“The position of wife isn’t available,” Nathaniel said. A moment ago he’d been

preparing to give Jo Goodson the blistering set down she deserved. Now he only wanted
to get rid of her so he could snatch a few precious moments with Sylvie. “Neither is
mistress. Not any more.”

Jo’s eyes narrowed. “Mistress? Rather old fashioned, especially for you, Nev!”
He faltered, not needing Sylvie’s unspoken mental message. Be careful, she’s a

medium!

To remind him to be extra careful. While he doubted Jo was as gifted as she

claimed to be, his enhanced senses did pick up more intensified feelings when she was
around. She was a sensitive, even if she wasn’t a full medium.

The older woman, Doris, now she had definitely connected for a brief moment, and

been astute enough to exploit it, but not Jo. In his spirit form he could have walked right
through her and she wouldn’t have noticed.

He should shut off the mental link between Sylvie and himself, but he couldn’t bear

to. With the connection open, with his mind blending with hers, he felt her presence, her
personality, and he wanted to immerse himself in her for as long as he could, as close as he
dared.

“What do you want me to call you? Whore?” He curled his mouth into a sneer.
He saw Jo’s hurt, and was sorry for it. He had never wantonly injured anyone’s

feelings before. He’d respected women, loved them occasionally but never had close
dealings with them. Not even with the one he’d loved. He let his expression freeze into
neutrality.

“What’s she done to you? What does she have on you?” Jo demanded.
“More than you would ever understand,” he replied.
“Nothing, I have nothing,” Sylvie said at the same time. She took a step forward. “I

always treated him as a human being, not as a thing, a conquest, something to own.  You
want the title, you’re welcome to it.  It means nothing these days.  Him, I’m keeping for a
while.  If you let me know your forwarding address, I’ll send him to you when I’ve done
with him.”

Nathaniel wanted to break into applause, but he was afraid to disturb the sudden

stillness that fell on the room.

With a convulsive movement, Jo strode past them, elbowing him aside. “I take

nobody’s leavings,” she threw at them before she left, slamming the door behind her.

Nathaniel relaxed and leaned against the cheap table that bore the expensive cash

With Jo’s exit, Sylvie’s hauteur left, too. “I’ve learned from the best. Nev’s swanky

friends and his relatives taught me when I was still in London. He has a cousin, a girl, who
took a particular interest in me. She taught me a lot of the tricks you people use.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” When he reached for her, she didn’t move away, as he’d

feared she might, but came willingly. They held each other closely. Nathaniel thought it

Black Leather, White Lace

was the most blissful moment of his life. Quietly holding her, feeling her breath hot against
his neck, he wondered how heaven could provide anything so good, and knew it couldn’t.
Not for him. She lifted her chin and kissing her seemed to be the only logical thing to do.
So he kissed her.

*****

Sylvie knew this man for the one she had fallen in love with when he was only a

voice  in  her  head,  encouraging  her,  sharing  private  jokes  and  bearing  with  her  sorrows.
But this was so much more.  To touch him was to be aroused, even a gentle touch on the
hand had her instantly on alert, keen for more.  In his arms, she felt safe, womanly, wanted.
All things she hadn’t allowed herself to feel for years, not since Nev’s first betrayal, mere
weeks after their wedding.  But this wasn’t Nev.  He felt different, moved differently.  Nev
would have instantly grabbed her ass.  He liked dragging her closer, making the encounter
passionate  from  the  start,  but  this  man,  Nathaniel,  drew  her  firmly  against  him  and
smoothed his hands over her back, as though he was gentling her for something else.

His kiss was different, too. He caressed her with his lips, then opened his mouth

and traced the shape of her lips before settling in the centre and waiting. She opened
willingly, eagerly for him. He didn’t immediately thrust his tongue inside, but felt his way,
as though he wanted to memorize everything about her. He took his time.

She wanted this man. This one, Nathaniel Heatherington, not Nev Heath, the man

she had married after a few days of complete madness.  It was just as well, considering the
decision she had come to in the early hours of the morning.  She had suddenly opened her
eyes and seen him, sleeping on the daybed at the foot of her four-poster.  Until she sat up
all she could see was the top of his head, but when she sat, she saw the upper half of his
body, decorously clad in a t-shirt, and the blanket covering the rest of his body.  She had
wanted to ask him to join her, but knew where that would lead, and then the thought had
struck her, as though it had come from something inside her.

Why not?
If this was all she would ever have of him, then she’d better make the most of it.

And there was something else. Something she shared with him as soon as he lifted his
head to smiled into her eyes.

“I want you, Nathaniel. Give me something to remember you by.”
His voice came softly, a hoarse rasp at the back of his throat. “You know I cannot.”
“Why not? You’ll be–you’ll be gone in a few days. It’s Wednesday, and Saturday is

Christmas Day.  You know how I feel about you.  I doubt I’ll ever meet anyone who will
make me feel the same way.  For six years you’ve been with me, sharing my worst despair
and watching me make something of my life.  Six years, you haven’t been able to touch me,
but you’ve been in my most intimate places.  In my head.  Can’t we finish that?  Can’t we
be intimate in another place?”

He didn’t release her, but he loosened his hold on her. “I can’t do it to you. I have a

feeling that once we make love, the parting will be agony, and I’ll have to leave you behind.
I want you to have a happy life, Sylvie, to find someone to share it with. I won’t leave any
shadows behind me.”

She lifted her hand to caress his cheek. “We have to share a room.”
He grimaced, but from her words, not the caress. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have said we

were reconciled until Friday.” Friday. The day before he was due to–leave.

Lynne Connolly

“No, you did the right thing. But you slept in the wrong place last night.”
He smiled gently. “I felt you watching me. When you were asleep again, I got up

and went to the library. Ghosts don’t sleep, not really.”

He wanted to emphasize the difference between them, but she wouldn’t let him.

“You’re not a ghost.  Not now and not until Christmas Day.  You’re a man now, and you
have a man’s feelings.”   She slid her hand between them and lightly stroked the hard bulge
at  the  front  of  his  jeans.    “I  can  tell,”  she  said  wickedly,  glancing  up  at  him  through  her
lashes.

He laughed, but the sound was shaky, and he put his hand over hers, stilling her

movements. “No, Sylvie.” To her delight, he sounded less certain this time.

“Yes.” It was time for her trump card. “Give me a baby, Nathaniel. Give me an

heir to your title.”

Black Leather, White Lace

Chapter Six

He froze. She felt the stiffness in every part of his body, not just the part where their

hands met. Ready by the time he pulled away, she dragged him back against her. “No,
Nathaniel, listen to me.”

He closed his eyes for a brief moment and then returned his attention to her. Under

his intent, blue gaze she talked to him.  It was as well she’d planned in advance, otherwise
that  mesmerizing  stare  would  have  scattered  her  thoughts  to  the  wind.    “You  say  you’re
here to right a wrong, and we both thought it was to find the person who wants to kill you.
But  what  if  we’re  wrong?    What  if  you’re  here  to  provide  the  heir?    Can  you  really  say
you’re so sure?  Nathaniel, you told me Nev is dead, gone, won’t come back.  He only has
females  on  his  father’s  side  of  the  family,  and  females  can’t  inherit.    There  is  no  one;  the
College of Heralds has done an exhaustive search.  They’re either women, or non nationals
who aren’t willing to change their nationality to inherit the title. The title dies.”

He sighed, a soft breath she felt on her cheek. “I know.”
“But you’re an earl, Nathaniel. You’re an elder branch, and in the body of Nev,

you’re married to me. Our children would be legitimate, acceptable.”

He gave a short laugh. “The legitimacy is somewhat questionable.”
She lifted her hands to his face, bracketing his cheeks to stop him looking away, to

make him look at her. “I’ve studied the history of the family, and it wouldn’t be the first
time. Would it?”

Something crossed his eyes, a shadow of concern. “No,” he said shortly.
“You might be here for that reason. To give me a child. You’re the only person in

the world who could do it, now Nev’s gone. He meant to come back and start a family, and
I agreed, but he kept putting it off.  Before I knew about Jo Goodson, I thought he’d finally
decided to give it a try, but it was too late.  I’d already decided to leave him.  I planned to
go to London and get a proper separation, then a divorce.  The Heatheringtons aren’t my
family, I owe them nothing, so Jo Goodson would have been luckier than she’d thought, if
she managed to get Nev to the altar.  And she would have done.  Nev would have wanted
someone to take the role of wife.  It saved him a lot of trouble.  It’s too late now, isn’t it?  If
we don’t do this, the family’s dead, gone, history.”

“Perhaps it’s time the family went,” he said.
“You don’t mean that, do you?”
He stared at her, his eyes unblinkingly meeting hers. No!
The answer was spoken directly into her mind, the way he always used to, and it

emphasized the continuation of their friendship, and of their love.  When she’d thought it
was safe, she had confessed her love.  She couldn’t take it back now he was here with her,
in the flesh.

One more fierce stare and he closed his eyes as he bent to kiss her. His mouth settled

on hers, an almost reverent pressing of his lips to hers, before the pressure increased and he

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opened his mouth for a complete taking.

His mouth ravaged her, taking everything, giving himself. His tongue entered,

mating  with  hers,  teasing  it  with  gentle  strokes,  then  pushing  deeply  inside.    She  gave
herself  up  to  the  moment,  meeting  his  demand  with  her  own,  showing  him  what  she
wanted,  how  she  wanted  it.    With  a groan,  he  pulled  her  closer  before  tearing  his  mouth
away. “Are you sure? Please, be sure.”

“Yes, I’m sure. I spent most of last night thinking about it, after you left. Make love

to me, Nathaniel. You know you want to.”

“Yes, oh yes I want to, but it’s not fair for you. You know I have to go–die in a very

few days.  You deserve a full life, Sylvie.  I can’t, can’t go, thinking you won’t get over this,
that you’ll atrophy.  And if I give you a child, it will be worse.  Let the Heatheringtons pass
into  history.    Enough  families  have  done  that  already.    There  are  plans  in  hand  for  the
estate.”      He  lifted  his  head.    “Though  I  never  thought  the  house  would  survive  past  the
family.”

He tried to hide it, but with his mind open to hers, she felt his pang of regret. It was

enough.  She lifted her hand to his cheek again, and gently turned it so he gazed into her
eyes once more.  “If I promise to do my best not to wait for you, will you do it?  I want you,
Nathaniel, and I want to know what it’s like to love you properly.  Like it or not, you’re the
love  of  my  life  and  I’ll  remember  you  forever.    I  hope,  when  I  finally  die,  you’ll  be  there
waiting for me. But I also promise I won’t put a hold on the rest of my life.  If I like a man, I
will sleep with him.  If I like him enough, I’ll marry him.  Meanwhile, you’ll give me most
of what I want. A child, this house and some point to my life. Will that do?”

He sighed, staring at her. As she watched, tears formed in his eyes. He made no

attempt to hide them. “Yes, it will have to do. I don’t think I can hold off any longer.” He
kissed her again, but this time the kiss was reverent and soft. “Now.”

She laughed shakily, but didn’t object when he released her, and grasped her hand.
Outside, a few of the film crew wandered across the vast marble tiled space.

Breakfast  was  obviously  over.    They  glanced  at  Nathaniel  and  Sylvie,  curiosity  sparking
their gazes, but Nathaniel didn’t stop, towing Sylvie across the hall.  Just as they reached
the  staircase,  Doris  Alcock  and  Angela  Murdoch,  the  producer,  came  out  of  the  dining
room.  Angela, all tweedy efficiency, lifted an eyebrow.  “I’ve been going through today’s
schedule and there’s a slight change.  Could you do your piece to camera at eleven, instead
of  two  this  afternoon?”  Nathaniel’s  had  turned  his  face  away  from  her  to  confront  the
producer, but Sylvie knew from Angela’s expression, that he’d turned on all his aristocratic
hauteur. Her smile faded as she stared at him.

“I don’t think so,” he said. The words were soft and sounded mild, but their effect

was not.  Since the crew had arrived at the Abbey, they had turned the place upside down.
Cables trailed on the floors, bright lights threatened the integrity of the portraits up in the
gallery,  and  at  its  centre  was  Angela,  giving  orders,  arranging  timetables,  frightening  the
regular  staff  into  disappearing  for  most  of  the  day.    Conservationists  and  cleaners  could
usually  hold  their  own  against  most  people,  but  Angela  could  put  the  willies  up  anyone.
Even a ghost.

But not Nathaniel. “We have some estate matters to discuss,” he continued, his

voice carefully even. “We will come to you when we have the time.”

“Our schedules are too tight to wait on you.” Angela paused before adding, “My

lord.”

Nathaniel nodded, and turned back to Sylvie. She’d never seen anyone behave in

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that way, and she had to admit she was awed. His smile immediately warmed, and he
tugged on her hand. “Come, my love.”

She came, walking with dignity up the long, impossibly high, marble staircase,

carpeted with a red fabric that unavoidably reminded her of Gone With The Wind, and what
Rhett did to Scarlett there.

He didn’t stop until they reached her bedroom. She could have sworn the door

opened before he touched it, but she was past caring, heat burning into her body as though
it was real flame. He only took his intent gaze from her for the briefest moments, to make
sure his footing was secure, or to glance at the door in front of them. Always, his attention
returned to her so she knew she was the center of his universe. As he was hers.

He kicked the door closed behind them and pulled her into his arms, bending his

head to take her lips, but at the last moment he paused.  His lips hovered above hers, his
breath hot on her lips, he said in a low voice, “You won’t change your mind, will you?  I
have just enough control to stop now, but only just, and I’m not completely sure of it.”   She
stared at him, mesmerized, wondering how she could ever have taken him for Nev, even
for a moment, or how she could have mistaken lust for love.  This was love.  If she said no
now, he’d still love her. Not that she was about to do it.

“I thought about it for hours. And it all boils down to this. I want you, Nathaniel

and I want you any way I can get you. I do think you might have been sent here to prolong
your line, but I really don’t care. That’s the truth, or as close as I can get to it.”

With a sound suspiciously like a sob, he lowered his mouth the last quarter inch and

kissed her.

Their mouths joined as if it was their natural state. Not apart, not talking, but

together, all the time.  She leaned back against the door and he followed her, curving his
arms  about  her  waist.    They  kissed  for  a  long  time,  it  seemed,  although  time  seemed  to
revolve  around  them,  to  make  them  the  center  of  its  existence.    For  a  wild  moment,  she
thought; If we stay here forever and never come out, perhaps time will stand still for us.

He drew back and she realized he’d heard her. Of course he had. “Let’s pretend

that,  shall  we?”  His  voice  caressed  her  softly  but  until  he  masked  it,  she  saw  the  bleak
longing in his eyes.  They both knew it couldn’t happen.  The bleakness was replaced by a
spark  of  warmth,  different  somehow  to  the  raw  need  she  knew  was  reflected  in  her  own
eyes.  “It will last forever, love.  In some universe, in some other time, what we do here will
last forever.”

Comforted, she murmured, “Yes,” and moved closer, straightening away from the

door to press herself closer to him.

He dragged his head up and bent to scoop her up and carry her across the room.
Sylvie’s room was large, but it only took him three strides to cross to the bed, where

he laid her reverently on the coverlet.  He stood by the side of the bed and looked at her.
“If I’m allowed to keep a few memories, this will be the one.”   He smiled, and slid on to the
bed next to her, reaching out to stroke her from shoulder to hip before urging her closer.
Resisting his unspoken request, she sat up and dragged her sweater over her head.  He lay
back against the pillows and watched her intently.

More than anything in the world she wanted to please this man, give him some

untrammeled, pure memory to take him where he was going.  She wanted to go with him,
God help her, but she couldn’t.  She’d committed to making a child with him, so she would
do her best to carry on without him, make her life meaningful.

Slowly she reached behind her back and unclipped her bra, glancing down as it

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loosened.  She slid the straps down her arms, not teasing, but not hurrying, either.  All this
would  come  back  to  her  in  the  lonely  nights  ahead,  and  she  wanted  to  remember  how
perfect it was. How perfect they’d made it. When she raised her gaze he was watching her,
the  blaze  in  his  eyes  lighting  a  conflagration  in  her  heart.    “You  are  the  most  desirable
woman I’ve ever seen in my life,” he said, but he made no effort to reach for her.

She thought of cupping her breasts but decided he didn’t need any more arousing,

and she wanted to display herself as simply as she could.

Sylvie had never liked showing off her body. She had never considered it anything

above ordinary, but with that blue fire caressing every inch of her skin, she felt like the
most beautiful woman in the world.

“To me, you are. I’ve never seen anything so beautiful before.”
She smiled. “You’re picking up my thoughts.”
“So I am. You can have mine for free. All of them. I have no secrets from you,

Sylvie.” He sat up and divested himself of his own t-shirt, as simply as she had, then
remained sitting and reached for her. “I need to touch you, sweetheart.”

When she went into his arms, her skin met his, and she relished every second of the

contact. He felt slightly cooler than she did, but his skin pulsed with life, and his arms held
iron strength as he pulled her close.

She shivered when her nipples touched his chest, and heard his “Ah!” dimly. This

was right, so right!

Lifting her head, she found him waiting for her. Just before he took her in another

soul searing kiss, she spread her hands over his chest, feeling his hair caress her fingers
before she buried them in the dark fuzz. He finished the kiss and laid her down with the
care he might give to a delicate piece of glass. He bent his head to her breasts.

Sylvie thought she might die. He kissed around one aureole before taking it into his

mouth  and  caressing  the  very  tip  with  his  tongue.    She  had  never  considered  her  breasts
very sensitive.  She’d been wrong.  He kissed his way to the other nipple, treating that in
the same way, bringing one hand down to her stomach to the fastening on her jeans.  The
sudden  relaxation  of  tension  told  her  he’d  undone  the  button,  and  the  soft  sound  of  the
zipper came as a welcome relief. She wanted to be naked, now.

He murmured something she couldn’t hear, but it didn’t matter because she heard it

in her mind. Sweet, so sweet.

Licking and caressing, he slowly opened her jeans and slid one hand inside, stroking

her  belly,  curving  his  hand  around  her  hips  to  grip  the  side  of  her  bottom  and  roll  her
gently to one side.  He lifted off her, and she couldn’t stop her whimper of regret.  “I’ll be
back,”  he  told  her  and  watched  the  skin  he  revealed  as  he  slid  her  pants  down  her  legs,
snagging her panties and drawing them off in the same way.

A choking sound made her lift her head in some alarm. Nathaniel was shaking his

head, staring at her in wonder. “You are everything I dreamed of. And I have dreamed.”

“You must have seen me before.” She didn’t care, not now, but sometimes she’d felt

someone watching her, or imagined she had. Only she knew now it hadn’t been her
imagination.

“Sometimes I couldn’t help myself, but I always left before–before the end. Spying

on you wasn’t right.”

“Now?”
He turned back to her with a smile. “Now I have your permission. Now it couldn’t

be more right.”

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His hands went to his own jeans, and he unsnapped and unzipped without

hesitation. He knelt up to push the garment, together with his underwear, out of the way.

Sylvie watched him as he’d watched her, with love and growing desire. She’d

thought she couldn’t want him more, but as she saw his erection, hard and strong for her,
her breath quickened and she reached for him.  He groaned when she wrapped her hands
around him, but didn’t stop her until she leaned closer.  Then he drew her hands away.  “I
want  the  first  time  to  be  in  you,”  he  whispered.    “If  you  do  that  any  more,  it  won’t  be.
Have mercy, my love.”

Smiling, she slid her hands around his hips to the curves of his backside. The

muscles flexed when she pressed, and he drew closer, bringing his delicious male scent and
his warmth to her. When he settled between her thighs she gave a sigh of satisfaction.
“This is where you should be.”

“I couldn’t agree more.” His lips came closer to her, and his erection nudged her

clit, making her knees draw up in reaction to the contact. “Oh God, you’re so wet!”

Somehow, she found the strength to tease. “I thought you Puritans didn’t

blaspheme.”

“I was never a Puritan.” He kissed the tip of her nose and took his weight on one

elbow, freeing the other hand to slide between them. She caught his hand when it reached
her stomach.

“I’m ready, Nathaniel. Like you, I want the first time to be when you’re inside me.”
He pulled his hand out and leaned on both elbows once more. Watching her all the

time, he lowered his body and entered her.

Slowly at first, he moved inside until she said, “I won’t break.”
He drove hard inside her.
She came immediately, her body arching up helplessly into his, the contractions

beyond her control, stronger than anything she’d ever felt before.  His mouth came down
hard  on  hers,  gentleness  forgotten  and  he  began  to  drive  ruthlessly  into  her,  each  stroke
harder  and  deeper  than  the  last,  trying  to  reach  the  very  heart  of  her.    One  arm  slipped
under her body to pull her up, keep them close and closer still, as he forced another orgasm
on the heels of the first, leaving her crying his name, aloud and in her mind.

He responded with a kiss, pushing his tongue into her, an reminder and an echo of

his movements below.

There was no reality except this, nothing outside this room, this bed.
She had no way of knowing how long it lasted, but she guessed not much time had

passed before he tore his mouth away to gasp her name once more before heat gushed into
her. His orgasm sparked another from her, and when the last spasm finally died away she
opened her eyes to find him waiting for her, his eyes warm with love.

He rolled to one side, taking her with him, keeping his body in hers. “I’m not likely

to leave here, now. I want to stay here–right here–as long as I can. They’ll have to drag me
away now.”

She smiled. At least she’d made him fight the idea of leaving her, though she wasn’t

certain if that was a good thing or not.  Before, he’d been tranquil, content with the idea of
moving out of this life, but now he didn’t want to leave her.  She knew it for sure, she felt it
in her, too.

“We should try to stay together.”
“I’ll be here for you. Always. I’ll do everything in my power to stay.”
A shadow of concern crossed her happiness. “I didn’t mean to do that. I’m sorry,

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Nathaniel. I don’t want to make you sorry to leave. You’ve accepted it with a tranquility I
can’t pretend to have, but I was glad, for your sake.”

He met her gaze and she saw the trouble in his eyes. “The moment I opened my

eyes in that hospital bed I knew leaving you would be harder than I’d imagined. If I
seemed tranquil it was for your sake.” He kissed her, gentleness back in his bodily
vocabulary. “I love you, Sylvie.”

“I love you too, Nathaniel.”
For a while there was no need for words. Touch and comfort drew them together,

and they held each other, contentment filling them both. She drew her fingers through the
light fuzz of hair on his chest. “I know this body, but you use it differently.”

“Better?”
“Better because I love you.” She studied his body, remembering the small scars

even the luckiest of people accumulated during a lifetime, wondering how something so
familiar could be so different. “Is this like your–your previous body?”

“Very much.” He growled softly, stroking her back in long, slow sweeps of his big

hands. “But Nev is–was–a relative, in a way.”

“Are you–are you his sometime great grandfather?”
He chuckled. “No, I never had any children, and I never married.”
“Why not?” She had often asked the question to herself when reading his letters,

never dreaming she would have the chance to ask him in person. Especially in these
circumstances. “You were well off, and your brother was childless. Didn’t you get any
encouragement to marry?”

“Plenty.” He turned on to his back and drew her close, then looked down at her.

“Why do you ask that about Nev’s heritage? You’ve studied the family history, you must
know the current branch is descended from my younger brother.”

“I wondered.” Lying together like this, she could hide nothing from him. “As you

say, I’ve read your letters. I know you had feelings for your sister in law.”

He pulled away from her, lifting up on one elbow, his brows drawn in a hard, dark

line. “How? What letters have you seen?”

“There’s nothing incriminating in them.”
Swinging his legs off the bed, Nathaniel strode restlessly to the window and stared

outside.

Tension tightened her chest. “But I know you, Nathaniel. I knew you from the

moment I stepped over the threshold here. I read between the lines, my dear. You wrote to
her often, even when you were fighting on the other side to her husband, your brother.
You asked about the estate when you wanted to ask about her. She wrote back, asking you
if you’d found a special friend yet, and mentioning women you might like to meet. Did she
know?”

He spoke without looking at her. “She knew. I thought if I stayed, she and Vernon

would never make a success of their marriage. They weren’t in love, he didn’t love her as I
did, but she was lost to me the moment she married my brother.”

“Was that why you dueled?”
“Indirectly. I arrived here with a force of men. Cromwell wanted to confiscate the

Abbey, and if he’d done that, it would have been completely lost to us.  I was sick of war by
then, as Vernon was, and I petitioned to keep the house in the family.  That was granted to
me.”      He  turned  away  and  looked  at  her,  hiding  nothing.    His  eyes  were  bleak  with
despair, his powerful body tense with grief. “I didn’t explain myself properly. As always, I

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was tongue tied in her presence, and Vernon thought I would take it all and give it to the
Parliamentary forces. I didn’t want to take it for my own, only to safeguard it. The estate
would have been in my name, but once the affairs of the nation had settled down, I could
quietly give it back to him. Or his children. I would never have asserted my authority, or
done anything he wouldn’t have liked. I loved him too, you see.”

“I know.” When she lifted her hand to him, he came to her. She dragged back the

covers and they climbed between the sheets. He drew the covers back over them, holding
her in the shelter of his body. “So you killed each other.”

“I couldn’t think properly by then. I thought we might fight and wear each other

out. We’d fought enough as children, pummeled each other into oblivion, but this time we
were both trained soldiers. We didn’t fence, we fought with swords, our every instinct
honed to kill. We succeeded.”

“Did Vernon ever know how you felt about his wife?”
He curled his arm around her, threading his fingers into her hair. “No. You know

we both haunted the Abbey for a while?”

Wonder filled her thoughts. “No. I thought you and the monk were the only

ghosts.”

“It’s been a long time since Vernon left us. He found his destiny and his

redemption. But before he left, we were able to reconcile. What good would it have done
for him to know I was hopelessly in love with his wife? It wouldn’t have changed
anything.”

Her heart went out to him, and she moved closer, trying to comfort him with the

warmth of her body.  Nathaniel wasn’t a man to confess his secrets freely; it had been hard
for him to tell her, even after the passage of three and a half centuries.  He hadn’t closed his
mind  to  her,  and  his  feelings  were  as  keen  as  her  own  were.    She  felt  his  bleakness,  his
despair at what he felt was the betrayal of his brother. He must know it.

Sylvie lifted up and slid over him, lying on his body, her knees and elbows

supporting her weight.  She met his eyes, and longed to ease his pain, any way she could.
He  gazed  at  her,  and  slowly,  warmth  entered  his  gaze.    “I  don’t  love  her  any  more,”  he
whispered before he cupped the back of her head and brought her down to kiss him.  As
their  mouths  met,  their  minds  merged  and  became  one.    No  more  separations,  not  in  the
searing soul to soul contact they shared.

Slowly they kissed, savoring and memorizing until Sylvie gently pulled away,

kissing  his  jaw  and  setting  her  own  trail  of  kisses  down  his  body.    She  lingered  at  his
nipples, teasing and tweaking, but the luxurious desire infusing them both was different to
the frantic lovemaking they had shared earlier.  This was less physical, more loving.  She
tried to infuse every kiss with meaning, memorizing the feel of his skin under her mouth,
beneath her hands.  She wanted him so much, but they had to part.  If she didn’t accept it,
she might drive herself mad with wanting.

He lay back, accepting her ministrations, soft groans only encouraging her to do

more, letting her know his most sensitive places. She kissed the dark line of hair leading
downwards from his navel, felt him tense with pleasure when she caressed the dip inside
his narrow hips with her tongue, tracing a path she would never forget down to his cock.

When she touched the tip with her tongue, she felt his balls contract under her

hands. Making a small sound of pleasure, she slid her mouth slowly over him, the silky
skin caressing her tongue with its delicious texture. He made a soft noise, and she felt his
pleasure in every pore of her body, infusing her with the yearning to give him everything

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she  had,  in  return  for  the  precious  gift  he  was  bestowing  on  her.    Not  just  the  child  she
longed  for,  but  his  love.    She  knew  which  meant  most  to  her.    She  wanted  the  child  as  a
living reminder, but she would have given it all up for his love.

Here and now, she had it. Caressing him with her hands and mouth, Sylvie knew

life had nothing better to offer her. She would gladly die with him, if it meant they could
be together.

The sheets swirled about her as he sat up and grabbed her under her arms, dragging

her off him and up the bed.  Blue eyes blazed into hers.  “No!  You will not ask for such a
thing!  Do you know what comforts me now?  The thought that you will not die, that you
will  have  a  happy  and  fulfilled  life  after  I’m  gone!    Don’t  do  this,  Sylvie.    You  promised.
Love me in the few days we have, and then go on.  If you renege on this I’ll leave this room
now, and I won’t come back!”

Tears blurred her view of him. He was right. She shouldn’t ask for death. “I’ll keep

my promise, Nathaniel. I swear it. And not because I’m afraid you’ll leave now, but
because I want to make you happy. I won’t ask for the things I can’t have.”

The fury melted into something else as he looked at her. His eyes still blazed, but

with something other than the sudden anger that had melted like snow in summertime.
“It’s hard, that’s all,” she whispered. “That’s why I’ll do it. I won’t be a martyr, I’ll make
something of my life. When we meet again, at last, I’ll have some things to tell you!”

“That’s my girl!” Slowly, he lowered her and Sylvie marveled at the latent strength

giving  him  so  much  control  over  his  muscles.    Although  she  was  reasonably  slender,  she
was  tall,  and  no  lightweight.    When  she  felt  his  cock  touch  the  amazingly  sensitive  skin
between  her  legs  her  whole  body  shuddered,  weeping  for  him.    He  slid  down  and  they
both let out a sigh of relief.

“It seems the only way I’m whole is when I’m with you,” he murmured. His hands

grasped  her  waist,  strongly  controlling  her  movements  and  she  felt  the  angle  he  used  to
drive  her  down  on  his  body,  until  their  hair  meshed  and  their  flesh  joined,  all  the  way
down to his balls.  Sylvie felt the thrill all the way through her body, rippling up her spine,
electricity  calling  every  cell  to  answer  his  need,  to  accomplish  her  own.    No  longer  sure
where her sensations ended and his began, she glided up and then down, using her knees
as leverage.

He groaned and his head fell back against the pillows. When she lifted her body off

his again, he caught his breath.

Controlling him and herself she rode him slowly at first. He opened his eyes,

frankly enjoying the sight of her body above his, and when he looked down, he smiled, a
deliciously carnal smile.  He raised his hands and caressed her breasts, taking the nipples
between  his  fingers  and  rolling  them  to  hard  points,  before  giving  each  a  little  flick  that
made  her  howl,  the  sensations  thrilling  down  her  body,  to  meet  with  the  glorious  effects
from below. When she tensed, he slid his hands down to her hips, holding her firmly down
and driving up.

She hadn’t known a man could go so deeply inside her, so deep that his body

ground against her clit. When he twisted slowly under her, he massaged her with his body,
his pubic hair stimulating her to a sudden, violent explosion.

Sylvie lost all sense of time and place, whirling with this other being, lost in space,

her only reality the waves coursing through her body. Dimly, she heard his voice, words of
encouragement and wonder, merging with her own wordless cries.

Gasping, she fell forward, feeling his arms holding her tightly. He still worked in

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her, hard, powerful jerks of his lower body that brought her to a sharper, spikier orgasm.
She felt helpless, but she reveled in the feeling, knowing she was safer here than anywhere
else, sure he would protect her with his life. As she would protect him.

When he came, she felt the gush, then the tension of what seemed like every muscle

in his body as he poured his essence into her.  His cry was almost a scream, and she held
him,  her  heart  going  out  to  him  in  his  temporary  helplessness.    She  held  his  head  to  her
breasts and felt his hot breath against her skin.

Time slowed down, then stopped completely. They sat on the rumpled sheets,

breathing heavily, neither wanting to move, ever again.

“Fuck!”
The curse drifted up from below, so loud they heard it through the double glazed

windows. He chuckled, then lifted his head. “I’d forgotten everything except you. It must
be the TV people.”

“They’ve given up on waiting for us. We were supposed to do a bit more to camera

today.”

His chuckle was renewed. “Shall we do this to camera?”
She leaned back a little, gazed at his upturned face. “I’m almost tempted to say yes.”
His smile warmed her. “Anything you want, my love, I’m here for you.”
Another swear word curled its way into her consciousness, louder this time, and

when she paid a little more attention she could hear the clang of metal on metal. It was
hard to concentrate on anything with those amazing blue eyes gazing into hers. “What on
earth are they doing?”

“Sounds like a swordfight.” She saw when the realization hit him. “They’re

reconstructing the duel, aren’t they?”

She nodded. “They always planned to. Do you mind?”
He swallowed. “I don’t know.”
She pushed on his shoulders and lifted off him, feeling his body leave hers and

regretting it.

Two more days.
She watched him cross the room to the window and peer out, not attempting to hide

his  nudity  from  anyone  who  might  be  watching  outside.    “There’s  one  good  thing,”  he
commented.    “Jo  Goodson  has  just  seen  me.    Even  she  couldn’t  misconstrue  this.    She
doesn’t  look  happy,  but  there  are  too  many  people  out  there  for  her  to  show  what  she’s
really feeling.”

“Can you read her mind?”
“Only her emotions, love, only what she wants to show. If I could, I’d have no

difficulty discovering who wants to kill me, would I?”

Her heart pulsed ice. Back to reality. “We still have to find out, don’t we?”
“I don’t know.” He still stared out over the terrace, a floor below them. “I’m

thoroughly  confused,  not  least  at  what  I  really  want  to  do.    I  can  manage  another  half
century or more, while I wait for you.  Perhaps I shouldn’t try to discover who wants to kill
me, so I go back to wraith form.  Perhaps you’re right, and this is my destiny, to make  a
child for the Heatherington line.” He smiled wryly. “I can’t think all this is just for an heir,
though. What difference does it make in the great scheme of life?”

She slid of the bed and crossed the room to him, slipping her arms around his waist

from behind. He put his hands over hers. “Shall we stay here? Shall we stay forever, in
this room, making love, being together?”

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“Can we?”
He turned into her arms, no longer watching the activity outside. His eyes had that

bleak look again. “No.”

She swallowed. “No. But we have this. Nathaniel, you’ve given me more than I’ve

ever known before. How I can say that, looking into the face of the man who betrayed me
within weeks of our marriage, I’m not sure, but I know you, as I never knew him. I still
wonder what drove him to do the things he did.”

“What drives any of us? He wasn’t a pleasant person, sweetheart, that’s all.”
Raucous shouts from outside drew his attention back to the window and he stifled a

curse when he saw what was happening. “Someone is going to get killed,” he commented.
“I think I have to go.”

“But we can come back later?”
“Oh yes.”

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Chapter Seven

Half an hour later, although the shared shower had been a close call, they were

downstairs once more. As they walked around the corner of the house and headed for the
terrace, they heard people shouting and still the clang of metal on metal.

Hand in hand they approached the commotion. Angela Murdoch was the first to see

them, which Nathaniel thought was typical of the woman. Her smile of welcome was
decidedly frayed at the edges. “I don’t suppose you know anything about sword fighting?”
she said wearily.

Nathaniel glanced towards the group on the terrace. Two were dressed in what

must  be  supposed  to  be  period  dress,  one  in  a  rough  imitation  of  Roundhead  dress,  the
other in an approximation of the portrait of Vernon hanging in the Long Gallery.  Neither
looked very much like either Vernon or Nathaniel.  The others were technicians, and a man
in  a  form  fitting  outfit  looked  as  though  he  was  in  charge.    At  least,  he  was  trying  to  be,
though the actors were ignoring him, trying to get at each other.

He let go Sylvie’s hand, and ignoring the pang of loss he felt when he lost bodily

contact with her, strode forward.

Nobody took any notice of him until he wrenched the sword out of the putative

Cavalier’s hands.  The weapon wasn’t one he would use by choice.  The edges were nicked
and the rope wound around the grip worn.  Just like his own when he returned from the
wars.    A  shock  of  realization  went  through  him.    It  was  his  own.    They  had  kept  it.    The
other weapon wasn’t one he recognized.

Someone was watching him. He felt the heat of eyes on his back. Extending his

senses, he tried to discover who it was before he turned around, but he felt a block.
Somebody knew how to erect a psychic block. That narrowed it down a little.

He didn’t turn around, pretending he’d noticed nothing. Instead, he turned his

attention to the people in front of him. “Where did you find this?” He indicated the sword,
which he now held point down.

The fight director looked at him for the first time, deliberately eyeing him from head

to foot. “Who are you?”

“I own this place.” He watched the man, and enjoyed his careless shrug.
“I see. Pleased to meet you. I’m Brock.” He didn’t sound pleased to meet anyone.

“We found the weapons in the hall, and I picked these out as nearest to the period.”

Nathaniel shifted his grip. “Yes, they are.”
“I didn’t think you took much interest in your history.” The man called Brock

paused before he added, “My lord.” The words were almost a sneer. Nev would have
deserved it. Nathaniel did not.

“You’d be surprised.”
His entrance had done the trick, and the two protagonists paused in their argument,

their voices dying down to mere conversational tones. Nathaniel flicked a disdainful

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glance at them. “Are these your idea of an earl and his brother? Don’t you think they’d be
better–built than these two?”

Brock shrugged again, his massive shoulders moving only slightly, but it was

enough  to  express  his  scorn.    “I  didn’t  provide  them.    I  was  delayed  coming  down  here.
I’m working on the new Bond picture, and that has to take precedence.  So I left it to the
company  to  find  them.”      He  made  an  explosive  sound,  eloquently  expressing  his  scorn.
“They don’t know one end of a sword from the other.”

One of the men took umbrage. “Hey, I’ve done plenty of sword fights before!”
“I wanted this one to be accurate,” Brock said. “Seems a shame, when we’re using

authentic weapons.” He turned to Nathaniel, interest sparking in his eyes. “What say you
and me have a bout? Can you fight?”

Nathaniel’s expression of scorn rivaled Brock’s of a moment earlier. “Some. My

fencing was only ever average, but I can fight.”

Brock frowned. “This was a duel. So it’s likely it was a fencing match.”
“It was a fight to the death.” The bleakness in Nathaniel’s tone startled everyone

nearby, and he cursed his lack of attention to detail.  Nev wouldn’t have cared about family
history.  Well, this one did, and it was just too bad if anyone noticed.  Holding the sword
again had invigorated him somehow.  All the sense of justice, the panic when he realized
his brother really meant to kill him, knowing what that would mean to the family, and then
the sickening moment when he realized the blow he’d meant to disarm was actually fatal.
Just before he passed out from blood loss.

He always envied Vernon his quick death. Lingering on and eventually dying of

gangrene wasn’t something any sane person would choose as a preference.

A flash distracted him and he turned to see Brock coming at him, sword upraised.

Without even thinking, he parried the blow, feeling the strength jar all the way up his arm,
and the fight was on.

With memories of the last time he’d fought here strongly in the forefront of his mind,

Nathaniel had to combat the red mist of battle descending on him, the way it had before.
Brock attacked, he parried but in such a way he delivered his own blow. The cries of alarm
around them faded, their only reality each other and this killing field.

It helped that Brock looked nothing like Vernon. He was shorter, stocker, and he

moved differently, his stance deliberate instead of instinctive, his face not contorted into
hatred but with concentration. Nathaniel had just parried another blow when he said,
through gritted teeth, “Fight, damn you!”

Everything he’d been trying desperately to stave off came to the fore. The

disappointment  of  fighting  for  an  ideal  that  turned  out  to  be  a  nightmare,  the  loss  of  the
woman  he  loved,  the  vicious  and  unreasoned  attack  his  brother  had  made,  all  built  up
inside him into a fiery ball, and he fought.  When he lashed out, Brock was ready, taking
the strike on the flat of his blade and sliding it up, but when Nathaniel brought his knee up
to his groin, he was taken completely off guard.  He lost his balance, and fell forward.  If
Nathaniel  hadn’t  whipped  his  sword  away,  his  opponent  would  have  fallen  on  to  the
blade.

The mist cleared. He had his foot on Brock’s chest, the point of his sword at the

man’s throat, and Brock was grinning. “Now that was a fight! Let me up!”

“I could drive this right through your throat.” He felt better now. This time he’d

done what he should have done the first time. He stopped.

“You could. You won, pal. Now let me up.”

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Nathaniel forced a grin and let him up, and only then heard the applause. When he

turned to look at Sylvie, she wasn’t clapping, but she understood. He’d stopped. This
time.

Still grasping the sword he crossed the terrace to her, and it wasn’t until Brock called

out, “Hey, leave that, will you? I’ll choreograph something simple, on the lines of what we
just did. Okay guys?”

There was a general murmur of approval.
Nathaniel didn’t feel safe until he’d wrapped his larger hand around Sylvie’s; she

was his anchor in this strange world.

Angela Murdoch beamed at him from her position the other side of Sylvie. “Are you

sure you wouldn’t like to be Vernon in our little reconstruction? It would do wonders for
the ratings!”

He shook his head. “Definitely not. I’ll do a little speech to camera, but that’s about

it. I came here for some quiet, and I’m hoping you’ll be out of here soon. No offence.”

“None taken, especially at this time of year. We have our scoop, anyway. I sent

your little piece to the newsroom, and they featured it at the end, in the human interest slot.
It’s all over the papers today. A happy ending Christmas story, just the kind of thing they
like. So I hope you meant it when you said you wanted to reconcile with Sylvie here.”

“What does it look like?” he demanded, lifting their joined hands. “It’s time.

Everybody has to grow up sometime.”

“So they do.” Angela’s stern expression reminded him of a schoolteacher. He’d

seen  plenty  of  those  when  a  school  had  been  billeted  on  the  Abbey  in  World  War  Two.
After that it had become a temporary field hospital and girlish laughter had been replaced
by  the  groans  of  dying  men.    But  he’d  never  forgotten  the  utterly  terrifying
schoolmistresses.    He  always  imagined  Queen  Elizabeth  must  have  been  something  like
that,  from  the  stories  his  grandfather  told  him.    It  helped  to  explain  how  she’d  kept  so
many powerful men in line.

Sylvie could do it just by loving him. If he hadn’t been so foolish, keeping his

emotions to himself, perhaps matters would have turned out differently. He should have
confessed his love for his brother’s wife, then they could have cleared the air. She might
even have married him instead of Vernon.

But now he had Sylvie. In one way it was for a few days only, but in every way that

mattered, she was his for eternity. And he was hers.

She spoke in his head. What happened? You seemed to go mad! You must have been

fighting for a good twenty minutes.

What?

It had been nothing like that time. Five minutes, ten at most. What had

happened? He thought back over the fight, recalling each blow. Until the mist had
descended. The mist. He’d been wrong. It wasn’t like battle-fury, not at all.

It had come from outside.
Someone had attacked him again, only this time, with psychic power, forcing out his

reason, making him re-stage the fatal moment in his career. Only when he’d thought of
Sylvie had he gained the power to stop.

He could have killed Brock.
She felt it all with him, understood at the same time he did, and her hand tightened

on his. She communicated with him again. It was one of the two mediums. I’m sure of it.

So am I.

He cast a glance to where Jo Goodson stood with Doris Albright. The two

ladies were watching the choreography, as Brock arranged the moves for the actors, but the
force, all the power, emanated from where they stood. It pulsed around them in vivid

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waves of color. Now we have to find out which one is responsible.

*****

“This is getting dangerous.”
Sitting together on the sofa in Sylvie’s private living room, Nathaniel at last gave in

to the urge to hold her, an urge as primitive as anything he’d ever known.  Nestled close to
his  heart,  he  finally  felt  safe.    “It’s  all  beyond  me,”  she  confessed.    “I  knew  there  were
ghosts, but it was hard enough for me to believe in you.  You mean all this medium stuff is
real?”

“As is the presence of evil.” His mouth thinned into a grim line. “It suits people in

this century and the last to ignore the reality of pure, elemental evil. Despite their denials,
it does exist, and it can be trapped. One of those two women is calling to it. It could mean
disaster, for you and for the house.”

“But not for you.”
“I’m not leaving you until I’m sure you’re safe.” He didn’t know how he would do

it, just that he would.

“How am I in danger? They want you, don’t they?”
“Yes, they do. But they’ll kill you to get to me, if they have to. I don’t know which

one.”

She shifted against his chest. “You know they’re mother and daughter, don’t you?”
“What?” gripping her shoulders he pulled her away, just enough to look down into

her face. “You’re sure?”

She stared back at him, bewilderment clouding her gaze. “I thought everybody

knew. You said you watched a lot of TV. Don’t you watch Hosts to Ghosts?”

He grimaced. “No. I know too much about them. I watched the documentaries, the

hospital dramas. Anything where I could learn. I shouldn’t have been so damned
arrogant.” A thought struck him. “Why do they use different names?”

“The mother, Doris, has remarried. The whole show is based around them and their

so-called close relationship.”

He swore, and leaned back against the sofa, closing his eyes. A nightmare. Families

could  work  together.    He  wouldn’t  put  money  on  these  two  not  conspiring  and  working
together.  If only he’d watched at least one of the programs, then he would have realized
why the power was so strong.  “Sweetheart, I know very little about the occult, but I can
sense things.  All ghosts can.  They are a powerful pair, those two.  I don’t even know what
they want, but I have to find out.  Why would they want to kill me?  I thought Jo wanted to
be the next Countess. She can hardly do that if I’m dead, can she?”

Sylvie wriggled a little in his grip, and he forced himself to relax his hold on her.

She stood up and crossed the room, towards the small kitchen that was a part of her private
suite and he heard the sound of her filling the kettle. She called through to him. “I don’t
know. Perhaps it’s her mother, or perhaps Jo is only pretending to want you.”

He thought back to the episode this morning, and remembered the passion that

seethed around the younger medium.  She had certainly seemed to want him.  Reluctantly,
he  had  to  admit  she  might  have  fooled  him.    “I’ll  hunt  around  tonight,  see  if  I  can  find
anything.”   He would also try to find Brother Anselm.  He needed help, if he was to keep
Sylvie  safe.    If  he  were  to  be  wrenched  away  from  her,  he  had  to  be  sure  someone  was
there. It hurt him even to think about leaving her, but he had to admit the possibility.

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Sylvie returned, carrying two steaming mugs of tea. He didn’t like to tell her he’d

rather  have  small  beer  or  wine.    These  days  they  were  special  drinks,  not  everyday,  any
time of the day beverages, but in his day that was what they drank.  He supposed tea was
an  acquired  taste,  like  the  coffee  he’d  tried  at  breakfast.    That  he  positively  couldn’t
stomach, but given the opportunity, he would certainly try.  Sylvie adored coffee, but she
must  have  noticed  his  aversion  to  the  stuff,  because  she  brought  tea  to  him  now.    He
smiled,  and  curled  his  hands  around  the  hot  mug.    It  was  comforting  to  feel  the  heat,
something  he  hadn’t  felt  for  many  years.    Even  more  comforting  to  feel  Sylvie’s  body
against his own.

“What are you thinking?”
He took a sip of his drink, carefully schooling his face to prevent his instinctive

aversion to tea. “That I don’t know which is better with you. Lovemaking, or the
aftermath, when I can hold you and talk to you. I’ve never told anyone half as much as I’ve
told you in these few days. You know me better than anyone, alive or dead.”

She laughed. “You’ve been talking to me like that for years. You always shared

your thoughts with me. I guess I thought it was natural to you.”

“Only with you, love. Only with you.”
She glanced away and sipped her tea. “What shall we do?”
He finished half the mug and found it was indeed getting more palatable. “You will

stay in bed, warm and safe. I will go and see what I can discover.”

“Really, Nathaniel! This isn’t the middle ages, you know. Where you go, I go.

You’re the one in danger, not me.”

“I’m not so sure about that.” He picked up his tea again. “These people must be

mad, to think the way they do.”

“There are lots of them.” She smiled at him over the rim of her mug. “People who

think they can control the world with ritual. There always have been people.”

His memory went back to the Catholic ritual Queen Henrietta Maria had brought to

court, and the words of her ancestor, Henri IV of France. “Paris is worth a mass.” She was
right. Whatever it was called, there were always people drawn to ritual, people who would
gain power from it, one way or the other.

Those women, or one of them, wanted him here, and planned more. He had to find

out, before he left. If any of this put Sylvie in danger, he wanted her safe before he left.
Before he died.

*****

Sylvie awoke muggily when she felt a hand on her shoulder. Before the startled

reaction in her mind could reach her body, a warm mouth covered hers in a gentle kiss.

She opened her eyes on Nathaniel’s smiling face, but when she reached her arms up

to hold him, she flinched. “You’re cold!”

“Then you’ll have to warm me. But look at this, first. Sit up, love.”
He slid his hand behind her waist, but she’d already begun to sit. The thin light of a

winter morning filtered through the drapes, and by its light she saw the papers he held.
Anger sliced through her. “You went without me! I can’t believe you did that! I said we’d
do it together!”

He tried to pull her close, but she resisted. He sighed. “I needed to talk to Brother

Anselm. He would never appear with you present. I’m sorry, sweetheart, I had little

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choice.”

“You could have told me what you were doing.” To his relief, she sounded a little

less mad.

“I would have done, but you were asleep.”
“And whose fault was that?”
He chuckled and leaned over here, kissing her softly. “All mine, sweetheart. I take

all the blame for that.”

She curled her hand around his neck and deepened the kiss, threading her fingers

through his hair and tugging gently. Nathaniel had found it amusing that in this existence
he’d been gifted with long hair, the insignia of the Royalist, but never before had he
thought of it as erotic. He did now, because she loved it.

Reluctantly he drew back so she could read the papers he’d brought. She leaned

against his shoulder and studied the sheets, three in all. They were covered with scrawled
writing and diagrams, containing symbols. “What do they mean?”

“Brother Anselm helped me decipher them. We found them tucked in a book in the

library. If Brother Anselm hadn’t helped me, I’d never have found them.” He paused.
“They’re a ritual for waking the dead.”

“What?” He didn’t need her sudden movement to know she was as disturbed as he

was.

“They’re new. Someone was making notes in the last few days. Look.” He turned

over the first sheet so she could see the red line drawn half way down the second page.
“This is where the person casting the spell has to stop. The ritual is completed a few days
later, when the moon is full.”

“What happens then?” She drew closer to him, as though to keep him with her.
“The change becomes permanent.”
She swallowed, and shuffled through the papers again. “Do you think this brought

you back?”

His mouth formed a thin line. “No. My brother didn’t need it, and I am entitled to

appear in corporeal form once a year. But whoever cast this spell, performed this ritual,
believes it. Brother Anselm thinks it’s dangerous. It could endanger us both.”

Again, she pressed against him. “How?”
His heart went out to her bravery. She wanted to know everything, and she

wouldn’t flinch.  “This is a black ritual.  It dedicates the reborn soul to the left hand path,
the dark side, the Devil, whatever you choose to call it.”   He tried to keep his voice steady,
but heard himself quaver.  Nobody and nothing had frightened him while he’d been alive,
but the implications of this terrified him.  Worse that he didn’t know for sure what he was
fighting, or how to fight it. Even worse that Sylvie was involved.

“It uses a living person to link to the dead one, to bring them back and hold them. It

means that when the moon is full, and they complete the ritual, they will sacrifice the living
person so that the other, dead one brought back to life, is confirmed in their life. They want
to sacrifice you to me, sweetheart.”

She turned her face up to his, her clear eyes showing nothing but determination. “I

would die for you, Nathaniel.”

“Hush.” He pressed a soft, reverent kiss to her lips. “You are not going to die for

me. Nobody is. Brother Anselm will help as much as he can, and he’s a man of God. Our
secret weapon, Sylvie. For the next few days, I don’t want you out of my sight. I won’t let
them take you, sweetheart.”

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“I won’t let them take me!” she retorted. “Do you think it’s the two mediums?”
“No doubt about it,” he said, dropping a kiss on to her hair. Damn, he couldn’t stop

touching her! “One or both of them.”

“When does the new moon rise?”
“Saturday.”
She paused. “The day you–leave.”
“Precisely. That can’t be a coincidence. They must know something about reviving,

and they could have added their influence. I don’t know how these things work. I was a
good churchgoer all my days, never thought about the spiritual, really.”

She stroked his chest, teasing the hair with her fingers. It seemed she was afflicted

the same way. Touching and stroking seemed necessary to both of them. “I thought you
were a Puritan! Didn’t they spend all their time in church?”

He barked a short laugh. “Hardly. Some of us joined the Parliamentarians for

matters of principle.  It wasn’t a religious revolution, sweetheart, it was a political one.  I
left when the Levelers looked like taking over.  I couldn’t abide them, men with names like
Saved-Again-Jackson  and  In-God-We-Trust  Thomas.    They  wanted  to  pervert  the
pursuance of justice to their own ends.  To a large extent, they succeeded.  A King died.  I
never wanted that.”

“It wasn’t your fault.”
He covered her hand with his own, needing the contact. “I was dead by then, so at

least I was spared that. I wouldn’t have signed the warrant.”

They spared a moment to think of poor, misguided, arrogant King Charles, before

Nathaniel lifted Sylvie’s hand to his mouth and kissed it, using it to draw her around and
over  him.    She  went  willingly,  holding  her  face  up  for  his  kiss.    Cupping  the  back  of  her
head with his spare hand, he kissed her at length, caressing her with his lips and tongue.
She  responded,  opening  her  mouth  to  him  and  touching  her  tongue  to  his,  stroking  its
length and plunging deeply.  When she lifted away, his groan at their separation was short
lived as she kissed his jaw, his throat and then lower.

Her progress down his body was exquisite torture, anticipation adding to his

arousal.  Her hair swept softly down over his chest, setting all his nerve endings on fire for
her.    It  was  as  though  they  hadn’t  made  love  for  years,  instead  of  a  few  hours  ago.    He
wanted  her  with  a  raw,  desperate  passion  he  doubted  he  would  ever  lose,  had  he  been
granted the boon of staying with her longer.

How could his last days on earth be so blissful, enough to make up completely for

the rest of his miserable existence?

He stifled a laugh when she reached the ticklish part at the side of his ribs, but she

must have felt his instinctive flinch because she teased him with her tongue before moving
on to his navel, and the line of hair leading downwards to his groan.

Laughter turned to moans when she touched the tip of his erection. She teased him,

tracing her tongue around the head until he wanted to grab her head with both hands and
force her down. “Dear God, woman, please don’t do that any more, you’re driving me
crazy!”

She chuckled before opening her mouth wide and taking in as much of him as she

could.

He cried out at the sheer electric sensation of her mouth and tongue on him, drawing

him to an impossible height of arousal. He couldn’t hold on, he couldn’t!

Suddenly she released him, and before his fuddled mind could catch up with events,

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she was over him, holding herself over his body, both arms bracketing his shoulders. She
sank on to him, not pausing as his body stretched and filled hers, until he was fully
embedded in her. Then she moved.

It was all he could do not to come instantly. Nathaniel gritted his teeth and held on,

reaching up to clasp her slender waist in his hands, not to guide her, just to feel her. She
was doing well enough on her own, without his help.

This was heaven, sheer bliss. When she slid up, he braced himself for her downward

plunge, and it was good.  She drove down and down as though she would never stop, and
he opened his arms and his legs and let her do whatever she wanted.  She sat up, changing
the angle of penetration, and plunged again.

Nathaniel let out a cry which in other circumstances could be construed as agony,

but  was  actually  precisely  the  opposite.    She  laughed,  a  full-throated  triumphant  howl  of
joy and Nathaniel let it sink into him, soak into his soul.  Making someone so happy had to
count for something. Being so happy himself was just reward.

He felt a quiver start deep inside her, and knew before she did that her orgasm was

reaching climactic levels. More than anything else in the world, he wanted to make this
moment perfect for her, so despite his own ecstasy, he drew on the little discipline he had
left and forced his mind to enter hers, When he felt her joy, the surge of energy nearly made
him come, but she wasn’t quite there. Not yet, not yet.

Carefully, he felt the sensations coursing through her, tensing against the sensual

invitation she sent for him to join her.  Not yet, not yet.  He could sense what she liked and
what did little for her.  Cupping her breasts in his palms drove him crazy, but she needed
more  than  that.    Her  craving  was  his  own.    He  sat  up,  careful  not  to  disturb  his  angle  of
entry.  Just like this, he was making contact with the sweetest spot in her body, and every
time he touched it, she went a little higher.  When he latched on to her nipple, curling his
tongue around the taut tip, she screamed.  He would have smiled, if his mouth hadn’t been
full.

Time enough for him to find his own reward. This was hers.
She was past words, but he felt her awareness of his presence, felt her surrounding

him with warmth, all over, above, below and everywhere in between. Nothing mattered
more than this. Nothing existed outside this bed.

The world drifted around them, no longer important. Their joining, bringing her an

experience they would both remember, beyond the grave, beyond all reckoning, beyond all
existence. That was all that counted.

With a whoosh of sensation, everything within him drew up to a peak of wanting, of

straining to an end. Sure she was with him, sharing her joy, contributing his, he finally
allowed himself to find his release.

Now the world ceased to exist. They spiraled together, without time, without

anchors, bound up in each other. This love truly was for all time.

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Chapter Eight

A day. One more day. When she woke up next to him, Sylvie heard the message

pounding through her brain.  This  was it, the last day she could spend with the man she
would love for the rest of her life.  Harder that she would have to hide her unhappiness, or
she would spend her last day repining and moaning.  Never had “live for the day” seemed
harder.

When he awoke a few minutes later she was ready, greeting him with a loving kiss

and a smile. He pulled her across his chest, and she snuggled in, firmly locking her grief
away in her heart. Time enough for that tomorrow.

“It’s late, isn’t it?” She felt the sound rumble through his chest when he spoke.
“Nearly noon. We didn’t sleep for a long time.”
He chuckled. “No, we didn’t, did we?”
He went still, and she felt his fingers under her chin, gently urging her to look up at

him. When she did, she carefully schooled her face into happiness. “No regrets?”

She smiled and shook her head. “None at all. I would have regretted it forever, if

we hadn’t done this.” She leaned up, taking her weight on her elbows. “I hope we make a
child, and although I’m not usually this sexist, I hope it’s a son. Then your earldom will
live on.”

He studied her, letting his gaze travel over her face. “Sylvie, before this happened,

before I came here, I was allowed a day of corporeal form a year.  I don’t know what will
happen now, but I made this bargain so I could move on.  We could have had that, but it
would  have  meant  a  day  every  year  of  happiness  for  us.    Trying  to  keep  to  that  nearly
drove my brother mad. But I will wait for you. By everything I hold dear, I will do my best
to wait.”

“Tell me about your brother.”
He drew her down again and told her. “Vernon found his love in Napoleonic times.

They made a promise, that he would visit her every year, but after their first encounter she
became pregnant. Then he made a bargain. He would take the place of her husband, who
died on the field at Waterloo. His body was badly damaged, and it wasn’t certain he would
live, but if he took this chance, he would either move on, or he would live with her. He
lived.”

“Were they happy?”
“Blissfully.”
He played with her hair, letting it run through his fingers. “So Vernon was the third

Earl of Rustead, and the eighth.”

“Just as you’re the fourth and the twelfth.”
“Just the same.”
Except Vernon had lived a long and happy life with his lady. Not five days.

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*****

Later that day, Nathaniel walked hand in hand with Sylvie to the big room

downstairs they had given over to the TV production crew.  During the season, this room,
once the summer sitting room, served as the restaurant, so tea urns and coffee makers were
conveniently close.  Now the tables were covered with the equipment the crew considered
necessary.    Angela  was  present,  and  a  couple  of  technicians.    “Do  you  know  where  the
mediums  are?”  Sylvie  asked,  careful  not  to  sound  too  eager,  for  she  and  Nathaniel  had
decided this was the time to confront the women.

Angela looked up. “Not off hand. They’re due on set later, but they had an exciting

night. Come and look at this!”

They crossed the room and stood next to her, where they could both see the monitor.

“The central part of Hosts to Ghosts is the séance,” Angela said, pushing her glasses up her
nose.  “We’ve tried every night this week, but we got nothing.  For the first time, we were
going to decide if we should tell the audience there was nothing, or play things up a bit.”
‘Play  things  up  a  bit’  must  mean  to  make  it  up,  to  exaggerate  ordinary  night  time  noises
into  something  of  spooky  proportions.    Sylvie  had  seen  a  few  of  the  programs,  and
suspected most of them were done this way. “But look at this!”

Angela stood up, and nodded to the seated technician, who clicked his mouse.
For a moment Sylvie couldn’t work out where they’d set up the cameras. With

certain exceptions, she’d given them the run of the house, with dire warnings not to touch
the treasures.  The day staff had re-erected the guide ropes that ran the length of the state
rooms in the tourist season, just to be sure.  She saw the ropes on the screen, but it took her
a moment to work out the shadowy shapes in the background were portraits.  The portraits
of Nathaniel and Vernon in the Long Gallery.

“We set up in several rooms,” Angela explained. “We’re leaving tomorrow, so only

one more night after this one. I have to admit we were getting desperate.”

The camera swung around a little to reveal the figures of Doris Alcock and Jo

Goodman. Both had the eerie green shadowing of the night vision lens, and their eyes
stood out in bright relief to the rest of the gloom. That must be purely for effect, because
ghosts can materialize at any time.

Can’t they just?

Sylvie smiled when Nathaniel spoke to her and squeezed her hand,

but she kept her attention on the TV screen.

The women murmured together, words of invocation, something that sounded like

ritual  or  prayer.    Then  the  lights  behind  them  came  on,  blinding  in  intensity.    “I  swear
nobody turned them on,” Angela whispered.  Someone did walk on and turn them off at
that point in the film. They came on again. Nathaniel grunted, as though he knew why.

Brother Anselm doesn’t like the dark.

That was it, then. It was Brother Anselm. For a

moment Sylvie had wondered if Nathaniel had paid them a nocturnal visit between bouts
of lovemaking.

Too busy dreaming of you, my love.
Sylvie felt the heat rise to her cheeks when he showed her precisely what he’d been

dreaming about. A fantasy they’d enacted when she’d awoken.

A shadow moved across the screen. Brother Anselm had made an appearance. One

of the mediums, the older one, shivered and held her hands out, as though feeling for
something. “What is your name, spirit? Tell me, don’t be afraid.”

A ghostly chuckle sounded over the speakers, hardly there at all.
“What is it you need?”

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Jo broke in. “Can you help us?”
“Yessssssss!”
Sylvie leapt what felt like three feet. The word was so disembodied, so terribly

ethereal,  the  sound  scared  her  out of  her  mind.    Laughing,  Nathaniel  put  an  arm  around
her  shoulders  and  pulled  her  closer  to  his  heat.    “The  typical  ghost,”  he  said.    Inside  her
mind, he added; He’s doing it on purpose. He’s creating a distraction for the mediums.

Angela hit the pause button and shot him a frozen look. “Do you find this funny,

Lord Rustead?”

“In a way.” Nathaniel looked apologetic. “I remember this ghost from my

childhood. He’s been here forever. They call him the Mad Monk, but nobody really knows
who he is or what he’s doing here.”

Except you.
Except me.
“May we interview you on camera about that?”
Nathaniel shrugged. “If you like. I don’t really know that much.”
“A brief description, perhaps a story about seeing the ghost when you were a boy

will do fine.” Angela clapped her hands together lightly. “We’ll get this turned around for
New Year, and then do a revised repeat later. It’ll be sensational!”

“So no Christmas holiday for the staff?” Sylvie said.
Angela shook her head. “I’ll work with a few technicians over the Christmas period.

Spectacular bonuses all round. We’ll just celebrate after the show goes out. What a great
Christmas present! A real live ghost, without a doubt! Bloody brilliant!”

Sylvie followed Nathaniel’s lead when he tugged on her hand, leading her from the

room. “An easy manifestation,” he murmured when they were out of earshot. “Meant to
distract. I hope it worked.”

It hadn’t. They ran the mediums to ground in the library, where they shouldn’t

really have been, as they hadn’t been given permission to use that part of the Abbey.  There
were  some  treasures  locked  in  the  glass  cases.    Nathaniel  didn’t  say  anything  about  the
trespass. Neither did Sylvie.

Instead, Nathaniel strolled forward with a smile of welcome. “Studying?”
The mediums exchanged a look. “This is a beautiful library. You have some real

treasures here,” Doris said, moving some papers. No doubt that was to conceal what they
were up to.

“We do, don’t we?”
Sylvie walked up quietly behind Jo, where she sat at the large table, open books

spread around her. “Find anything interesting? We’ve just seen the film of your
experiences last night. Quite a display.”

Jo’s eyes narrowed, her heavily mascara’d lashes coming together, in danger of

tangling. “Are you saying that was faked? I can assure you it was not.”

“Not at all,” Sylvie replied. She leaned over and flipped over the nearest book to

read the title. “Magic texts? I thought you were mediums.”

“A hobby. I have a gift, so I might as well use it to its full ability. It might turn into

something else in time.”

Doris chipped in. “She’s very talented. I’m teaching her all I know. The gift of

power runs in families, you know.”

“Really?” Nathaniel turned to her with his most charming smile. “My wife tells me

you’re Jo’s mother.”

Doris returned the smile, but hers wasn’t as charming, stretching her lips in a

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grimace. “Jo tells me I’m soon to be your mother in law.”

Neither looked away. A spark, deep in her eyes, gave him pause. “You mean

Nev’s.”

“I mean Nev’s, of course. It worked then.”
“What worked?” Nev lowered his voice, almost to a whisper. Challenge her. He felt

another presence enter the room. Brother Anselm. Welcome, Brother.

“Brother who?”
A ripple of shock ran through him when he realized Doris had heard his internal

greeting. “My secret,” he said briefly.

“Who has come in?” Jo said suddenly. “There’s somebody else here, isn’t there?”
He felt rather than saw Sylvie take a step towards him. He daren’t speak to her

internally, now he knew they were overheard.

Jo’s look turned sly, her eyes drifting half shut, a smile creeping over her lips. “We

know who you are, Vernon.”

He kept his facial features steady, deliberately showing her nothing. “It shouldn’t

have been too difficult for you. I thought you were supposed to be at the top of your
particular profession.”

“We are,” the women chorused, then glanced at each other, before Doris went on.

“You know we brought you back, don’t you? Do you want to know how we did it? We
can make you stay, did you know that?”

For a moment hope leapt in Nathaniel’s heart, but he didn’t need Brother Anselm’s

voice in his head to remind him. You were sent here by a higher force. Their efforts were merely
coincidental.

The thoughts came in on a different wavelength to the one Brother Anselm usually

employed. Nathaniel replied on the same wavelength. Are you sure?

The hesitation was miniscule, but it was there. Of course I am sure. He wasn’t sure.

How  could  he  be?    Nathaniel  couldn’t  be  certain.    Neither  could  he  put  himself  in  the
power of these women.  Avarice and jealousy ruled them, not an atavistic desire to see him
united forever with the woman he loved.

No one will believe them.
I agree. Perhaps I should destroy my little demonstration last night.
Nathaniel laughed. No, don’t do that, Brother.
“He’s talking to the ghost!” Doris’s already heavy brows drew together in a deep

frown. “How can you do that?”

“I may be talking to myself.” Nathaniel met her angry glare. “One thing is certain

ladies. I’m not your puppet, your Frankenstein’s monster.”

“He’s not real!” Jo cried, turning an accusing stare on her mother. “You said he was

a Royalist. How can he know about Frankenstein?”

Nathaniel’s lips curled in a sneer. “You think I haven’t watched and learned over

the centuries? Think again, ladies.” He turned abruptly away from the table. “I want to
spend the time I have left with my wife, not with you. You’ll excuse us.”

Spinning around, he bowed to them, a perfect courtly bow. He only wished he had

a hat with a plume in it so he could finish with a spectacular flourish, but he demonstrated
how often he’d done it by the ease and grace of the gesture. The bow was a royal bow,
deep enough for a King, but he displayed his disdain when he turned his back on them.

He put his hand in the small of Sylvie’s back and guided her to the door. The library

had two doors at each end of the long room, and unfortunately the one he chose seemed to
be locked. So much for a dramatic exit.

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They had to walk the length of the room, only to discover the other door was locked,

too. Nathaniel rattled the handle in a futile attempt to shake the lock loose. Without
turning round, he growled, “What have you done?”

He wasn’t speaking to Sylvie.
Sylvie turned, her face blandly impassive. “Have you locked us in?”
Doris chuckled low in her throat. “Yes. We haven’t finished here, although his

lordship seems to think so.”

Jo murmured something, and the murmur became a chant. Nathaniel couldn’t hear

the words, only feel the effect. He was rooted to the spot, unable to move. Sylvie tugged at
his hand, but it fell away, unable to grip. “What have you done to him?”

Slowly, he turned around. He screamed into the void, unable to contact Sylvie or

anyone else.  For the first time since he died, he was completely alone.  Terror gripped him,
but  it  had  done  before,  and  he  fought  to  defeat  it.    Going  into  battle  against  one’s  own
countrymen  led  to  terror  and  horrified  realization  that  one  could  be  fighting  one’s  own
brother.

Nothing could be that bad. Not even this.
At the realization, his current situation came back into focus and he concentrated his

energy on breaking free of the force that held him in its iron grip.

It was impossible. Every time he fought, the barrier seemed to increase threefold, as

though it fed off his strength.

“Come here.” Doris’s words sounded as sweet as honey, although he knew her

voice was harsh, roughened by her smoking habit.  Nathaniel had never seen her smoke in
public,  but  yellowed  teeth  and  a  hacking  cough,  as  well  as  the  lingering  smell  on  her
clothes all spoke louder than any words.

Such knowledge didn’t help him now. Despite willing his feet to stay still, they

moved, turning him towards the women seated at the table in the center of the room. As he
passed Sylvie he saw her eyes, anguished, asking him what to do, but he knew no more
than she did. How could these women exert so much power?

It showed on their faces. They were taught with strain, both of them. They held

their hands before them, the left of one and the right of the other interlinked, and lines
etched their way around their eyes and foreheads.

It wouldn’t take much extra effort to break their hold.
“Don’t fight them.” The voice from behind him was Sylvie’s. He couldn’t turn his

head to look at her. God, keep her safe, don’t bind her up in this spell!

“She’s right. Don’t fight. Draw them out with your withdrawal.”
Brother Anselm had spoken. Nathaniel could hear his voice, but not see him,

although he could be out of his eye line. He wasn’t sure anyone else had heard the monk
until Jo’s eyes shifted a little to the right, and gained a new expression. Something had
surprised the younger medium, and by the look on her face, it wasn’t a pleasant surprise.

Draw them out with your withdrawal.
Of course! An old military trick. Pretend to retreat, let the enemy follow in triumph

and then turn and set on them when they least expect it.

“Look at me.” Doris’s voice compelled him. He didn’t want to, but he met her eyes.

“You are under my control,” she continued, smoothly and evenly. “You must do as I say,
do what I wish you to do.”

He found he could speak. “Yes,” he said, keeping his tones as smooth as Doris’s. “I

will do as you wish.” But Brother Anselm was with him now, and he felt the monk
moving in his mind, freeing what he could from the heavy compulsion weighing him

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down. It was true. When he ceased to fight, the barriers lightened, leaving it possible for
him to insinuate his way through the maze of threads that bound him.

He felt the strength of the spell, weaving its way through him, persuading him,

compelling him to its will. “You will remember the love you have for my daughter. You
will love her, and continue with the plans you made together, to divorce your wife and
marry her.”

“I will do as you wish.” Now, while Brother Anselm freed him, Nathaniel tried to

keep up the façade of obedience, of subservience to her will.

“I called you back, Vernon Heatherington, because my daughter wished it. She

wants a royalist of her own.  It was I, not any other force, that gave you being.  Nev Heath
was a philanderer, and no spell I could cast would keep him steadfast.  I will not see my
daughter disgraced in that way.  It might have suited some—“ she shot a venomous glance
to where Sylvie stood–“but not my precious Josephine.”

He felt a stirring, then heard her voice. I’m here. Take what you need from me.
Just your love.
You know you have that.
Her devotion, her faith in him astounded him. The bond they had formed over the

last six years, strengthened in the last few days of physical contact, could not be broken by
any tin pot witch or sorcerer. The power of their love was elemental, unbreakable. Even
death would not break it.

That knowledge above everything else gave him the strength to defeat the insidious

spell sneaking through him, invading every pore, every bone.

The barrier holding the true state and the phantom appearance he was keeping up

for the benefit of the witches grew thinner. When he saw their expressions change to
bewilderment he knew it was time.

Shaking off the tattered remnants like an old cloak, shattering their fragile hold on

him, he stood before them, free and stronger than they could have imagined. “Did you
think your puny attempts would keep me for long? Nev Heath was a wounded human
being, easy to seduce, easy to compel. I am not.”

He turned away, taking Sylvie’s arm. “I am yours for ever, my love. Nothing will

ever part us again. Come.” She glanced back at the women, frozen in place where they
sat. He followed her gaze.

“Ma, I can’t feel anything any more.” Jo sounded scared.
He knew what he had done. “Your psychic abilities are gone. You exerted

everything you had to bend me to your will, and you failed. You’ll have to learn to fake it,
or give up. And every day you’ll wonder if anyone will realize you’re no more mediums
than anyone else, until someone finds you out. Or Sylvie chooses to tell.”

He smiled at Sylvie. “They’re no threat to us any more.” He strode to the door and

this time it opened easily for him when he touched the handle.

Brother Anselm stood just behind the women, though they showed no sign of

awareness of his presence. “By the way,” Nathaniel added, as his parting shot. “You got
the wrong Heatherington.”

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Chapter Nine

He took her to an anteroom on the ground floor. He wouldn’t let her speak until the

door closed behind them.

“Did they summon you back? Was it them all the time?”
He shook his head. “They might have made the transition easier, but no. I accepted

the choice presented to me, and chose to come to you. A power greater than those two
brought me here.” He kept her gaze fixed with his. “And will send me back.”

“They tried to make you stay. Will they have succeeded?”
She saw the regret in his eyes, knew his answer before he spoke. “No. The bargain

was for me to fulfill my quest, then return home. I’ve destroyed the power in them. I
doubt they’ll even be able to contact the spirits of the dead any more.”

“They were evil?” still trying to come to terms with what she had just witnessed,

Sylvie felt she was groping in the dark.

“Ignorant, more like. They weren’t sure what they could do. There are some people

in this world who are born with a power, and if they are guided the wrong way, or
discover the wrong books, they may cause catastrophe. I think I was sent to stop them.
Now I have.”

He kissed her lips, closing his eyes before drawing back and gazing at her again. “I

will have to leave, Sylvie. But one thing, one more favor.” In a sudden, graceful
movement he knelt at her feet. “Will you marry me?”

“Nathaniel, don’t be foolish! We are married!”
He shook his head. “I want you to marry me, Nathaniel. I might be occupying the

body of your husband, but he has gone now. Every trace of his personality, what made
him Nev, has gone.”

“But we can’t marry!”
“Sylvie, if it were possible, if you could accept me, free and clear, would you?”
Her heart went out to him, displaying his love for her so fearlessly, so honestly.

“Yes, you must know I would.”

He smiled, and got to his feet. “Then come with me.”
The chapel at the Abbey was one of the few survivals from the medieval origins of

the house. It was reached at the end of a small corridor, which exactly followed the course
of one underneath in the old servants’ quarters, recently discovered to be the remnants of a
monkish cloister.

Together, Sylvie and Nathaniel crossed the worn stone at the threshold of the chapel,

the remains of the old chancel. Originally, the chapel had been larger, but once Henry VIII
had handed the abbey over to a favorite courtier, the rebuilding had been relentless,
obscuring most of what had gone before.

The atmosphere in this place was almost tangible. Half a dozen long pews lay on

each side of the aisle. Sylvie and Nathaniel passed between them.

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A shadowy figure stood at the end of the aisle, just in front of the altar. Brother

Anselm. He smiled when they walked to stand just in front of him. “Welcome, my
children. Please kneel.”

Sylvie trembled, but not from fear. This was a moment out of time. An air of sacred

peace surrounded her, such as she had never known in her life before. Even the sight of
Brother Anselm, solid, but as spectral as Nathaniel had been didn’t worry her, although
deep inside she wondered why.

She felt the gentle pressure of a hand on her head, but she couldn’t understand any

of the chanted words that accompanied the gesture.  Latin, undoubtedly, but her Latin was
nearly  non  existent.    The  chant  sounded  smooth  and  soothing,  as  the  chant  the  women
upstairs had uttered had been jarring and uncomfortable.

Warmth spread through her body, a steady heat that felt right and good. When

Brother Anselm said, “join your hands, please and lift them up,” the modern English felt
almost wrong. But she linked her hand with Nathaniel’s and lifted them. The soft silk scarf
Brother Anselm dropped over them smelled of lavender, and was exquisitely embroidered
with symbols of Christianity. She had never seen it before.

Brother Anselm continued to murmur in Latin. Now the heat in her body localized

at  the  place  where  their  hands  joined.    They  would  never  be  apart,  not  in  spirit.    This
ceremony joined them.  Their bodies might not have long to spend together, but whatever
happened after tonight, whatever happened to her in the future, he would be in her heart,
and her soul.

Joy spread through her, that he would accept her devotion and offer her his. She

gave him all she had with all her heart.

Brother Anselm lifted the scarf away, and murmured, “That is all. You can stand

now.”

They stood, and Sylvie got her first real look at the monk.
He had thrown back the hood to his floor-length brown gown, and she saw a dark

haired man with a weathered face, perhaps around forty years of age.  He stood only a little
taller than Nathaniel, although he was a step higher than they were.  That would make him
around five and a half feet, maybe an inch or two taller.  His eyes were dark, so dark they
seemed black. And his smile was gravely patient, and welcoming.

“It is good to see you, my sister. You have cared for this house very well in your

time here. Now you are bound to it, as we are.”

“Good.”
His smile broadened a little. “Nathaniel assured me you would say that, otherwise I

would  never  have  consented  to  marry  you.    Not  all  monks  were  qualified  to  perform
marriages,  but  before  I  entered  the  community,  I  was  a  priest.    The  ceremony  was  the
marriage  service  and  blessing,  although  in  my  day,  to  be  legal,  only  handfasting  was
required.”      His  face  turned  grave,  the  deep  grooves  between  his  nose  and  mouth
deepening when he lost the smile.  “You  have little time to complete the sanctity of your
union.  You have my blessing.”   He turned his attention to Nathaniel.  “I wish events could
be  different  for  you,  but  nothing  has  changed.    I  will  be  sorry  to  lose  such  a  steadfast
companion, and this may well be the last time we meet.”

“Can you not accompany me?”
Brother Anselm shook his head, the lit candles on the altar striking gleams in his

dark hair. A glimpse of pink flesh displayed his tonsure. “I have not atoned for my sin,
although I hope my acts today have gone some way towards it. It may not be soon.”

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“I’ll be there, waiting for you.”
“I know you will.”
He stretched out his hand and Nathaniel extended his own, dropping Sylvie’s. She

took a step back.  This was a private moment, not meant for her.  Nathaniel hauled Brother
Anselm into his arms and hugged him before drawing back taking a step back to join her.
He swept into a low bow, but this one had none of the mockery he had used before with the
women.    This  was  deep,  reverential  and  heartfelt.    For  the  first  time  in  her  life,  Sylvie
wished she could curtsey. Nev had never run in royal circles, and the one time she had met
the Queen, a short bob had sufficed, not the elaborate obeisance usual in the past.  She did
her best. She bobbed.

When she looked up, Brother Anselm was gone. Nathaniel touched her hand.

“Come, my love. Let’s complete the marriage.”

His eyes radiated warmth, love and certainty. She bathed in its glow. “You have no

doubts?”

“If I have, it’s too late. Do I look as if I have any doubts?” he took both her hands in

his.    “Sylvie,  I  fell  in  love  with  you  over  years.    Now  I’m  committed,  and  ready  to  do
whatever  I  can  to  keep  us  together.    We  may  have  to  spend  some  years  apart,  and  your
promise  to  me  still  stands.    If  you  find  someone  else  to  make  you  happy,  then  I’ll  be
content. You must not spend the rest of your life hoping for death.”

She swallowed and nodded. “I promised. But I won’t go looking.” She looked up

into his dear face, half in light, half in shadow. “I don’t think I’ll ever meet anyone to
compare with you.”

He bent and touched his lips to hers in a gentle kiss. “I have something for you.”

He released her hands to delve into the pocket of his trousers, bringing out something that
gleamed in the candlelight. Lifting her hand, he slipped on the ring.

The stone was a table cut emerald, surrounded by small half pearls. She gazed

down at it. “I’ve never seen this before.”

“It has been hidden for many years. Dropped and lost, but we wraiths know all the

hidden places. It once belonged to someone else I loved. Now it’s yours.”

“Thank you.”
His smile lightened when she looked up at him. “You can thank me another way.”
They blew out the candles, left the chapel and went upstairs to bed.

*****

They undressed each other, gently and carefully as though they had all the time in

the world. They touched, but did not kiss the skin they exposed. She smoothed her hand
up his arm, feeling the muscles ripple as he reached for her. Only when they were naked
did he draw her close, into his arms, and bend his head to kiss her.

His first kiss was reverent, worshipful, even. She returned it in the same spirit, her

lips softly molding to the pressure of his. When he drew back, his whispered, his breath
hot on her lips, “My love, my wife.”

“My husband.” This man who occupied the body of her late husband was so

different, she wondered how he could look anything like Nev. She never thought of Nev
when she looked at Nathaniel, only of him, his steadfastness, his bravery and his inner
strength.

Demonstrating his physical strength, he swept her up into his arms and carried her

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to the bed.  Sylvie’s bed was a four poster, but a modern one, gauzy drapes replacing the
heavy curtains of yesteryear.  He reached out a hand and released the ties before he joined
her, surrounding them in cloudy isolation.

Now they were alone, each other their only reality. Their hands joined before their

mouths, before releasing and drifting down each other’s bodies, caressing, seeking to give
pleasure, to increase the sense of beauty.

When he touched her, her body rose to his unspoken request, arousing and soothing

at the same time in a sensual paradox. She felt his shudders when she touched him.

Their union seemed inevitable, as sacred as the ceremony downstairs, the earthly

equivalent of their spiritual joining. They hadn’t exchanged a word, only gazed
worshipfully into each others’ eyes, glancing down when caressing, guiding their hands to
new delights, new touches.

For it all felt new to Sylvie. When he lifted up and she opened her legs to take him

in, the movement seemed as natural as breathing.

He entered her without guidance and sank softly and deeply into the heart of her

being. Willingly she opened to him, body, heart and soul, and felt the filling of her body as
a fulfillment she had waited for all her life.

The bed moved beneath her and she tensed her body to take his thrusts as deeply as

she could, lifting her knees to hug his waist and hips. Still they didn’t talk, but small gasps
and groans punctuated their movements, and the slow rising of impossible pleasure.

She had no idea how long they moved together, only aware of the growing heat

inside her body, heat she fought hard to control. She wanted this to be his, but he seemed
possessed of the same notion. He wanted to bring her all the pleasure he could.

The heat rose in a spiral, taking her up and past this existence. He circled around

her, touching her, loving her, blending his spirit with hers. It was beautiful, beyond all her
understanding, but she did not care. The being was all.

She exploded in a shower of bright sparks, gasping his name, falling back with a

languorous drift of joy.

When she opened her eyes, he was waiting for her, blue eyes bright with love. “And

here we are,” he said.

“Yes. Here we are.”

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Chapter Ten

Sylvie woke with a start, sitting straight up in bed.
She was alone, the curtains still closed, but she could see the light of day through its

gauzy folds.  Only the disturbed sheets and the lingering scent of lovemaking told her the
night before had been more than a dream.  His love had humbled her; his worship brought
her  to  his  feet,  with  love  for  him.    Although  his  absence  spoke  of  a  life  without  him,  she
would always have last night, and the remembrance of the time their souls had touched.

He would never leave her.
In no hurry to discover what she already knew, she reluctantly left her bed and went

into the bathroom to shower. There was no evidence he’d been there. The shower stall was
dry, and so were the towels. It was as though he’d never been there, but he had. He was in
her heart now, for all time.

Too early to mourn, Sylvie decided to celebrate what he’d given her and dressed in

red.  Red trousers, a tight fitting red t-shirt and a long, flowing knitted jacket, because after
all,  it  was  Christmas  Day  and  it  was  cold.    No  snow  though.    When  she’d  dressed  she
opened the drapes at the window.  The same thin sunshine filtered through the clouds, just
as it had a week ago when he’d come off his bike and nearly died.

Now he was gone. Had he gone on, as he wanted, to whatever waited for him, or

had he remained behind, a wraith once more? She reached out with her senses, but felt
nothing. Not the black void that had waited for her before, but a softer, gentler space. She
wasn’t afraid any more.

She crossed the room and stood before her mirror, brushing her hair, remembering

how he’d loved to run his fingers through it, and how he’d stood behind her, looking into
this  same  mirror,  as  though  trying  to  memorize  them  both.    The  memories  were  to  be
treasured.    No  pang  of  loss  entered  her  world.    Not  yet,  though  she  supposed  it  would.
When it did, perhaps she would take herself up to London for a while.  She wasn’t sure she
could bear it, and if he’d left the Abbey, it wouldn’t matter where she was.

When she opened the door to her suite, a muffled clang told her the TV people were

still here.  Downstairs, chaos prevailed, people trailing across the hall with battered boxes,
cases and wires bundled into untidy knots.  The crew should have left the night before, but
they must have decided to try for another night. Sylvie decided not to fuss.

Angela Murdoch was in a state of high excitement. “Thank you so much, Countess!”

she  bubbled,  smiling  all  the  while.    “It  has  been  delightful.    I’ll  send  you  a  copy  of  the
program before it goes out, but I think you’ll be pleased!  It will bring more tourists when
the season starts!  If I were you, I’d make a display of the two brothers, perhaps give them a
special exhibit.”   She turned as the two mediums entered the room, looking decidedly the
worse  for  wear.    Even  Jo  Goodson’s  usually  immaculate  appearance  was  dulled,  her  hair
not perfectly groomed, her make up very light and decidedly shaky in places.

Sylvie greeted them coolly, but apart from a hissed, “I’ll work at it, but I’ll get you

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yet!” from Doris. Jo stared at her dully.

“It’s all gone,” she said. Sylvie could almost feel sorry for her, but her compassion

didn’t quite go that far.

Within half an hour, the equipment was stowed in the vans, and the crew had left.

Doris and Jo roared away in a sweet little convertible, the black hood secured against the
winter chill.

Sylvie went back indoors and set about looking for Nathaniel.
He was lying dead somewhere.
Most of the staff had the day off, but some had promised to call in later in the day.

Sylvie  didn’t  want  them.    She  wanted  the  day  to  herself,  but  she  knew  she  had  to  be
sensible.  When she found Nathaniel she would have to set everything in train. A doctor, to
pronounce him dead, the lawyer, to see what havoc Nev had caused in his will, and all the
other paraphernalia that went with the death of a peer.

When she found Nathaniel, this warm cocoon would melt away as though it had

never been and she would have to face the reality of living without him. But this was her
task, hers to fulfill. Her last service to his human body.

She toured the house, starting with the bedrooms, thinking he’d got up and left her

to lie down somewhere else. She hoped he hadn’t left her for long. She couldn’t bear to
think of him lying alone, just waiting.

The old doors creaked a little when she opened them. This wasn’t the public part of

the house, and although well kept, wasn’t as immaculate as the part that was on public
display, the part with all the greatest treasures of the Abbey.

But the bedrooms were empty and cold, so she went up to the Long Gallery and

stared down the great expanse of polished oak floors and great portraits of past earls and
countesses. She didn’t walk half way down to stare at his portrait, set next to his brothers’.
She didn’t need to do that. She could describe the way he looked, now and then, the way
he felt, the way he sounded.

Turning abruptly, she left. Why hadn’t she thought of it before?
At nearly one o’clock in the afternoon, she finally found him.
He sat in the front pew in the chapel, hair loose around his shoulders, dressed

simply in a pair of plain black trousers and a polo shirt. His eyes were closed, and she felt a
pang when she realized she wouldn’t see those blue eyes again this side of the grave.  She
walked  in  front  of  him,  and  tried  to  memorize  his  face,  to  remember  in  her  dreams.    He
looked alive, his skin fresh and smooth, as though he was asleep, not dead.

Sylvie choked on her first sob since she’d woken that morning. Not yet.
Almost as a reflex, something to do, she reached out and took his wrist between her

thumb and finger. She felt a single throb.

Her heart almost stopped. Could she see his eyes move under the closed lids? Had

she imagined the single beat under her thumb? Was he actually warm, or was this all in
her mind?

Hope leapt inside her, her heart increasing in response before she realized she

shouldn’t use her thumb, because it had a pulse of its own.

She shifted her grip, putting her first two fingers over the place where his pulse

should be. She had to know for sure, had to quell the hope that had sprung unbidden
inside her.

Another throb. Sure, slow, but there.
Dear God, he was alive!

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129

*****

Time accelerated for Sylvie. She ran for the nearest phone, unlocked the great front

door and gave the emergency services instructions how to get to the Chapel, before calling
the steward and briefly bringing him up to date. He promised to drive straight over.

He hadn’t arrived by the time the paramedics were ready to leave, but without a

second thought, she left with them. The insurers of the Abbey would probably have gone
insane, knowing the door to the treasures of the Abbey was open, but she was past caring.

She didn’t leave Nathaniel’s side until they made her, before they wheeled him in to

the emergency room.  She used a payphone to call the steward, who told her he’d arrived
and secured the Abbey.  Staff were in place, and would stay until she returned.  He scolded
her for spending the time alone, but she hardly listened.  When she saw someone leave the
emergency  room,  she  snapped,  “I’ll  talk  to  you  later.    Thanks  for  looking  after  things.”
Cutting the connection, she put the phone back and hurried forward.

The man looked tired, but not tight, that look she knew meant the worst. She hadn’t

stopped expecting the worst, but this was Christmas Day, and by the terms of his
arrangement, Nathaniel should have died at dawn, when the new sun appeared above the
horizon. Every hour since had been a bonus. He was in her world, for just a little longer.

She waited, and the surgeon spoke to her. He didn’t take her into the almost

unbearably mundane ‘family room’ so hope, unwanted but still there, burgeoned inside
her. Mr. Jones would have taken her in there if the news was bad.

“I understand he had an accident a week ago.” She nodded. The surgeon frowned.

“If I had been the consultant in charge, I wouldn’t have let him leave without that final CT
scan. That omission could have killed him. The first scan missed it, but I’m sure the second
would have caught it.”

She couldn’t stand it any more. “Caught what?”
“He had a small subdural hematoma. It grew during the last few days until the clot

finally caused his unconsciousness.” He paused, biting his lip. “Lady Rustead, this is
extremely serious. You understand?”

“I thought he was dead when I found him.”
He nodded. “He very nearly was. He needs surgery. He’s being prepped now, and

he’ll go straight up.”

“Can I see him?”
“No, not yet. There’s no time. A nurse will take you up to the waiting room, but it

might be some time before your husband leaves theater.”   Mr. Jones’s face cleared when
someone approached him from behind  Sylvie.  “Here she is now.  Sister Macnamara, can
you take Lady Rustead up and make sure she’s comfortable?  Please answer any questions
she might have.”

Sylvie had no questions, but now, more than ever, that sneaky spark of hope took up

residence.

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Chapter Eleven

Nathaniel opened his eyes, wondering if he would see angels or devils and deciding

he didn’t much care. The one person he wanted to see wouldn’t be there.

The transition had been fairly painless. One excruciating jolt of pain, and it was all

over. He’d sunk into death, murmuring the prayers he’d been taught as a child, and a last,
bittersweet memory of his love.

“He’s waking up.” The voice he heard confirmed one thing; there were Americans

in heaven.

“Nathaniel?”
Not possible.
He blinked, clearing his vision and looked up. Dark hair smoothly drawn back from

the face he loved, the one face he thought he’d have to wait a long time to see again. He
opened his mouth, but couldn’t say anything.

“Nathaniel, welcome back.”
Back?
His mind whirled with possibilities as he slowly became aware of his surroundings.

He  was  lying  in  a  hospital  bed,  the  sheets  crisply  scrunched  around  his  supine  body.
Something  was  attached  to  his  hand;  when  he  moved  his  arm  slightly,  he  felt  the  pull  of
something.  He looked down.  A tube of some clear liquid.  Light streamed in through the
large  window,  and  a  TV  hung  suspended  from  the  ceiling,  just  where  he  could  see  it.    It
wasn’t switched on. He stared at the blank screen, trying to make sense of everything.

A strong sense of déjà vu made him think he’d dreamed the intervening week, that

he’d just had the motorcycle accident. No, he couldn’t have imagined that gorgeous body,
the little mole under her left breast he’d loved to kiss, the slender, strong legs wound
around his body.

The miracle happened and he felt a stirring at his groin. He smiled, finally accepting

he was still earth bound.

He asked the most cliché ridden question he could, but he badly needed to know the

answer. “What happened?”

“You collapsed. When you refused the second CT scan a week ago, you’d

developed what they called an acute subdural hematoma.”

He searched his brain. He’d seen that in ‘ER,’ hadn’t he? Yes, a brain bleed, often

started after head trauma. He nodded, to show he understood. “Go on.”

“They operated, and they got the clot out. You’ll be fine, they think, but you have to

take some medication to prevent possible seizures, and you have to come back for a few
scans, just to make sure it’s all settled down.”

“Baby, you’ll want to be alone with your husband. Nice to see you back, young

man. Perhaps you’ll take proper care of our daughter now.” An older face swam into
vision. He still felt disorientated, but he hoped that would pass. This must be Sylvie’s

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mother.  Now he concentrated, he could easily see the family resemblance.  Sylvie’s mother
was  an  elegant,  well  groomed  woman  who  moved  with  unconscious  grace.    He  watched
her cross the room to the door and felt glad that he’d seen her.  Especially glad that Sylvie
would grow into something very like this woman. It would be easy to love her.

For all his life. For all their lives. Could it really be possible?
He reached for Sylvie’s hand, only dimly hearing the door close softly, turning his

head to feast on her. “You look tired.” Shadows darkened her eyes, and the faint blush
had left her cheeks.

“Yes,” she said, making no attempt to hide her exhaustion. “But I’ll sleep better

now. They’ve given me somewhere to sleep, and I might actually use it tonight.”

“Talk to me, Sylvie. Tell me what’s happened, why I’m still here.”
Her hand tightened around his. “I don’t know. I found you in the chapel, and you

were still alive, so I called an ambulance.  They said the blood clot would have killed you if
I’d been another hour finding you.”   She looked away, out of the window, and when she
turned back, tears misted her eyes.  “When they brought you here, they said you might die.
I was ready for that, or so I thought.  They operated, they took you to ICU and then they
brought you here.  They said your personality might change, you might have seizures, or
find some numbness.  They won’t let you go until they’ve done all the tests, but you’re fine.
You’re alive.”

He smiled. “So I am. Come and lie next to me, my love. Please. I won’t believe it

until I can hold you again.”

She opened her mouth to protest, then changed her mind. He guessed she wanted

this as much as he did. Needed it, even. Careful not to dislodge the drip in his hand, she
moved the tube so she could slip under it, and into his arms.

They both sighed. “I thought you might be Nev, come back to plague me,” she

murmured. He reveled in the sensation of her breath on his chest. So real, so wonderful.
“It was only when they opened your eyes to do some reflex tests I saw they were blue and
knew it was still you.”

“How long do you think I’m here for?”
“A week or so, until they’re sure there are no ill effects. They’re testing you every

day, and they want you to come back at regular intervals for a while, for more tests. Well
you’re coming back for every test, whether you like it or not. If the CT machine bothers
you, they’ll just have to sedate you.”

“I’ll manage.” He could do anything, now he knew he had her with him.
“My parents flew over as soon as they heard. They’ll help with the Abbey and the

press until you’re well enough.”

“The press?”
She smiled and looked up at his face. “You’re their Christmas miracle. The Hosts to

Ghosts

show was deferred until they knew if you were going to live or not, but the

anticipation has only added to the hype. They’re working it for all it’s worth. They’ve been
here every day, and you were headlines.”

He chuckled. “Fame at last.”
“What do you mean, at last?”
She reached up to kiss him gently, and much to his chagrin, he found he was too

weak to take advantage of her, but the kiss was as sweet as any he’d had.

“Why am I still here, Sylvie?”
She stared into his eyes. “I don’t know. A Christmas miracle perhaps. God knows I

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prayed enough.”

When her mother entered the room half an hour later, it was to find her daughter

curled up with her husband, her arm across his chest. Both were sleeping like babes.

She decided not to disturb them.

*****

“Nev, did you see the angels?” Shouted questions confused him after a week in the

relative quiet of his hospital room.

With cameras flashing in his face, Nathaniel briefly thought of stepping back into the

hospital. Hadn’t the staff warned them not to do that? Wasn’t the flashing bad for him?

He tightened his grip around Sylvie’s waist, feeling her strength and her love. “Not

Nev,  not  any  more.    I’m  going  back  to  my  real  name,  Nathaniel  Edward  Vernon
Heatherington.  I’m Nathaniel, Lord Rustead.”   Sylvie increased the pressure of her hand
on  his  waist,  and  he  grinned.    “I’m  told  I  have  to  take  it  easy,  so  I’m  retiring  from
photojournalism and heading for the quiet life.”

“I don’t think the quiet life will last for much longer,” Sylvie muttered so only he

heard her.

He turned his head to see her smiling. The shadows had gone from her face. She

looked radiant, blooming, even.

She reached up to whisper in his ear. “I’m told babies can scream quite loudly.”
Forgetting the media people who stood in front of the main entrance of the hotel, he

turned to face her. “What?”

“I did a test. It’s early, really early, and I would have left it, but I wondered if that

was the reason you’re still here. Is this why you’ve been allowed to stay? To love and care
for your children?”

“Children?”
“Well I didn’t think we’d stop at just one.”
Wrapping his arms around her he took her in a soul stirring kiss, and really gave the

media something to report.

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Epilogue

Dark, midnight, the witching hour. Also the only time Rustead Abbey was quiet,

these days. What with the tourists, the TV companies who used the Abbey as a picturesque
backdrop for dramas, and the Earl and Countess’s growing and raucous family, a ghost had
no rest.

Brother Anselm stood in the Long Gallery, in front of the portraits of the two

brothers who had kept him company for so long, and ruminated.  Not, for a change, on the
everlasting  wisdom  of  God,  but  on  earthly  matters.    Both  had  passed  on  to  their  earthly
rewards, both deservedly happy, the sins of their past expunged.  He was happy for them,
and daily he fought against his resentment which was none of their doing.

Vernon, blissfully happy and prolific with his beloved Cassandra. A full and happy

life, renewed prosperity for the Abbey and a clutch of children. Everything he had wanted,
restored back to him threefold. Brother Anselm tucked his hands into the sleeves of his
brown robe, and smiled up at the aristocratic Cavalier, resplendent in blue satin and white
lace.

Nathaniel, astonished to find the love of this and every life, Sylvie, loved him back.

Even more astonished to find how much he adored the children she gave him.  He never
stopped counting his blessings, enjoying every moment of the new life he had. The modern
era suited him better than the one he’d been born into.  His portrait reflected his character
then  and  now,  restless,  intelligent,  principled.    Dressed  in  a  simple  black  leather  jerkin,  a
plain, crisp white collar relieving his dark garb, his portrait was an excellent foil to that of
his brother.

Not for him. His sin had been so much greater, but he had long repented. If he’d

learned anything, it was that repentance wasn’t enough. He had to atone for his sin. In this
secular, frantic age, he doubted it would be possible. He was here until the end of time, he
feared, never to go forward, never to know what he could have been.

Turning away, Brother Anselm glided to the end of the gallery. A girl stood there,

someone in her late teens or early twenties, no older from the clear complexion and coltish
body. Something inside him twisted. She reminded him of someone else, a someone he’d
known long ago.

She wouldn’t see him. No one saw him any more. He was too adept at concealment,

too quiet to cause any ripples in the atmosphere of the great house.

So Brother Anselm was deeply shocked when she gave him a sweet smile.
“Hello,” she said. “Who are you and why are you dressed like that?”