Page 17 of Secrets of the Highwayman (Immortal Warriors #2)

W hen Melanie got down to the kitchen she found the cavernous room empty, although there were signs that someone had been here earlier. Whoever it was—and she had a good idea—had eaten most of the toast and marmalade. She made do with a crust with marmite and a cup of instant coffee, and wandered outside. The sky was hazy; the air still and humid.

Her dreams left her feeling strangely distant from her surroundings, although she had recovered from her almost-fall down the stairs and that nasty moment with that . . . well, whatever it was. She wanted to believe that was part of the dream, too, but even before she glanced at the fading mark on her hand she knew it wasn’t. It was real, just as Nathaniel Raven was real.

Maybe they had brought it with them from the between-worlds? Maybe it latched on to them like a burr, and now it was here, inside Ravenswood? But even if that was so, what did it want? Her soul? Or just to send her out of her mind?

“Too late,” she murmured.

Melanie squinted at the sky again.

There’s going to be a storm, and the old oak tree in the park is going to fall over.

The vision of the tree, blackened and broken on the ground, was so clear she could have reached out and touched it. But the next moment she was backing away from it, denying it, telling herself she had enough problems and to stop this right now.

She was so busy refusing to listen to her own inner voice that it wasn’t until she looked down at her feet that she realized she was walking. She was on the weed-strewn path that meandered past the house, in the direction of the cliffs. Melanie hadn’t been near the cliffs yet, although looking out of the windows she’d noticed the shaky-looking railing and steep stairs that led down to the small half-moon beach just below Ravenswood. The tide was out at the moment, leaving the pale sand uncovered, glistening and virgin, and very tempting.

“I should be working,” she said aloud to herself. “I have so much to do.”

But Melanie didn’t feel like working; she didn’t feel like being responsible and serious. In fact she didn’t feel like being Melanie Jones, from Foyle, Haddock and Williams. She wanted to sit on the sand and breathe in the smell of the sea. She might even roll up the legs of her navy blue cotton pants and wade in.

You’ll have to think about Pengorren soon.

But Melanie didn’t want to think about Pengorren, or the weird dream she’d had of him and the servant girl, Dorrie. You are more powerful than I thought. And then there was the dream/memory from her childhood holiday here in Cornwall, the man on the beach who asked her name and put his hands on her shoulders and made her feel as if she was special. Her practical side was telling her it couldn’t possibly be the same man—Major Pengorren died in the nineteenth century, drowned in the sea, probably from this very beach. Her subconscious must have twisted the real memory into a false memory, using the face of the man she saw at the Yuletide Ball. Just as she dreamed about him and the servant girl, building on what she already knew and guessed, and making something completely imaginary from it.

Oh yes, she could rationalize it all. And if walking on the sand helped her to put all this craziness behind her, then maybe she shouldn’t fight against it. Ravenswood would still be here in an hour or so; it wasn’t going anywhere, and neither was she.

Cautiously, meticulously testing each footstep, Melanie began her descent to the beach.

N athaniel had gone over the entire house, from cellars to attics. Apart from there being a great many more bits and pieces than he remembered—there were plenty of trunks of musty old clothes, and he helped himself—he could find nothing that shouldn’t have been there. No thick dusty book with, What Really Happened! written in his father’s handwriting. No letters pointing the finger at Major Pengorren.

How was this going to help him? Nathaniel thought in sudden despair. On the surface his father’s death was nothing more than a tragic accident, and then his mother’s death had compounded it. Pengorren had been nothing if not kind and generous. That’s what everyone thought at the time, and what they still thought, if one believed The Raven’s Curse. Nathaniel’s memories of Spain, his suspicions about Pengorren, were unproven, and now there were hints that he was insane.

Maybe what he’d actually come back to learn was that Pengorren had won.

That’s right, Nathaniel, you’d like to give up and die, that’s your way out, isn’t it, when things get tricky?

“No, that’s not true, I won’t give in.”

Angrily, he brushed the dust off his new black trousers and stood up as best he could beneath the low attic ceiling. Teth had left pawprints in the dust on the floor, but the hound was gone now. After patiently following Nathaniel about for hours he’d suddenly lifted his head, as if someone—or something—was calling him, and then bounded off. He hadn’t returned.

Nathaniel looked through the warped and cracked glass of the attic windows, toward the sea, and saw that at least that hadn’t changed. There was a movement below, and he dropped his gaze down to the edge of the cliff. Melanie was standing there, her hand on the railing, staring anxiously at the old steps that led down to the beach. The railing looked as if it had been replaced many times since Nathaniel was a boy, but the stairs were cut into the stone cliff, worn down by the tread of countless feet.

They needed to talk about last night. He had to know what was happening here at Ravenswood and what part Melanie was playing in it. She hadn’t told him the whole story, and he meant to convince her to do so.

When he’d found her on the stairs, she’d been terrified. Whatever it was she’d seen in the room, he felt it, too, or the essence it left behind. He’d seen many horrors in the between-worlds, and he knew that terrible things happened to good people, but the thought of something attacking Melanie . . .

He had his suspicions. The sense that Pengorren was aware of Melanie at the Yuletide Ball bothered him. Would the queen of the between-worlds really use Melanie as bait? He wouldn’t put anything past her, not really. Was there more going on than either Nathaniel or Melanie realized?

Despite being a soldier who had fought Napoleon, who many a time had taken aim with his pistol and sent his enemies into oblivion, this time he had no current plan of action. And it was driving him mad with frustration.

Then again, perhaps the frustration came from another source.

Why had he resisted climbing into bed with her last night? He’d wanted to, she’d been receptive, and once he would have taken advantage of her without a second thought. But he’d stopped himself. He’d lain chastely on top of the covers while she slept, all warm and soft and desirable underneath them. He’d pretended to fall asleep himself, but he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about her or imagining what he’d like to be doing to her.

Why did he do that? Why was he wasting time? They could enjoy themselves now, live for the moment, just as he’d always done.

Except that Nathaniel no longer wanted to live like that.

Melanie began to step down the cliff, slowly and carefully, one hand on the railing. He was surprised she would attempt it at all. She was stubborn and strong, yes, but she resisted anything risky. He found himself tensing, fingers gripping the sill, and praying that the cliff steps were dry and the railing sound.

He should go after her, just to be sure.

Nathaniel left the attic without a second glance.

M elanie was sitting on the sand, arms looped about her bent knees, staring out to sea. The salty breeze had helped clear her head, but she still felt woozy. Not herself. Maybe she was coming down with something. It would almost be a relief if that was all that was wrong with her. She’d choose the flu over a malevolent manifestation any day.

“This place isn’t any different from the last time I was here.”

Melanie turned her head. Nathaniel was standing a few feet away and he’d changed his clothing. She blinked. He wore black trousers and boots that came to his knees, a white cotton shirt, open at the throat, with ruffles down the front and on the cuffs. He looked like a cross between a highwayman and a pirate. The effect was devastating.

Melanie felt something flip over inside her. “Where did you find the new clothes?”

“In the attic.” He raised his arm and sniffed his cuff. “I smell like lavender . . . they must have used it for the moths.”

You look like heaven.

“I found a cutlass, too, but I thought I’d better leave it up there.”

“Yes. People don’t walk around waving cutlasses these days. Unless, of course, they’re pirates.”

Nathaniel was observing her curiously, as if he wanted to read her mind. “What is it?” he asked in a deep, quiet voice. “You look different.”

“Different?”

“Yes.” He was frowning, and abruptly Melanie turned away and pretended to count the seagulls.

He sat down on the sand beside her, mirroring her pose, with knees bent, his arms draped over them, staring out to sea. She risked a glance at him, but his profile told her nothing other than that he’d used a razor.

“There’s going to be a storm,” he said.

“I know.” Melanie bit her lip as soon as the words slipped out. “I dreamed about Ravenswood last night,” she said quickly, before she could change her mind. “I went back into the past, only this time it was just me. It was the night of the Yuletide Ball, and you were there, dancing with Sophie. You looked . . . happy.”

Nathaniel was intent on her now; she had certainly captured his attention.

“I didn’t stay for the ball, I just looked in the door, and then I went to the servants’ bedrooms. Major Pengorren was there with someone called Dorrie. They were having sex . . .” She stopped, wondering how it was possible to convey the sheer awfulness of that scene to someone who hadn’t been there.

“I remember Dorrie,” he said softly. “Curly fair hair, sweet-natured. Her father drowned, leaving a wife and several young children, and Dorrie came to work for us when she was quite young herself.”

Melanie shot him a look.

“No,” he said dryly, “I didn’t take Dorrie to my bed. She was too sweet for me.”

“Right,” she shrugged as if she didn’t care. “That’s what made it so horrible. She was so sweet and he was so skanky.”

He frowned. “Skanky?”

“Squirmy, horrible, nasty.”

“Ah. I see.” He thought a moment. “And yet Hew Pengorren was loved by everyone.”

“They believed they loved him. I think he made them believe it.”

“How, Melanie?” He sounded as if he was really interested in her opinion.

She waved a hand. “A magic spell?” she said, making a joke of it, but it fell flat.

He gave it his full consideration, and she wasn’t sure whether that pleased her or just embarrassed her more.

I’ve seen him before. The words were on the tip of her tongue, but she couldn’t speak them aloud. It was as if by not saying them she could go on pretending. Because if she had seen him when she was a child, then what did that say about Pengorren and the danger she was in?

“You told me that before she left Ravenswood, Miss Pengorren replaced Major Pengorren’s portrait with my own,” he said quietly. “I was up in the attic a moment ago, but Pengorren’s portrait isn’t there. Do you know where it is?”

“No. Why?” she asked, puzzled by the connection between her dream and the portrait.

“I thought it might be significant.”

“Eddie would know where it is.” She dug her fingers into the sand beside her and let it trickle out again. “Remember, if you come face-to-face with him, then you’re a distant relative from the wrong side of the blanket. I don’t think you should try and tell him the truth. He’d get you locked up.”

His eyes narrowed. “I remember, although why I should have to explain who I am to a caretaker—”

“You’re very arrogant,” she cut him short. “The days of the lesser classes being seen and not heard are over. Most of us believe we’re all equal.”

“You sound like a French revolutionary,” he said. “Liberty, equality, fraternity!”

“Maybe the revolution wasn’t so bad.”

He snorted.

She watched him carefully, thinking he might be terminally insulted by what she’d said—after all, he was an English gentleman from the early nineteenth century, with all the hang-ups and prejudices of his time. But he wasn’t. He was smiling at her and shaking his head, and she realized that she hadn’t dented either his pride or his self-esteem. Nathaniel Raven was confident enough to be impervious to her criticism. Well, that wasn’t a bad thing, was it? Melanie accepted that she was touchy enough for both of them. Which made her the exact opposite to Nathaniel.