Page 3 of Secrets of the Highwayman (Immortal Warriors #2)

T here was no light . Ravenswood was completely dark and, seemingly, completely empty. The relief Melanie felt on finally reaching her destination turned to anxiety when she realized there was no one to greet her or help her get inside. She fumbled with the heavy keys she’d brought with her from London, wishing she’d also brought a flashlight. The door clicked at last, and she pushed it open in relief, half-surprised it didn’t creak in the time-honored manner.

Nothing would have surprised her after all that had happened to her so far.

Everything was still and quiet, and there was a musty smell. Melanie felt along the wall and found a light switch and flipped it. A feeble bulb high above blinked on. She sighed and looked about her. A wide area immediately inside the door gave way to a grand staircase rising to a gallery on the upper floor and beside it a narrow corridor heading into shadows at the back of the house. Doorways were mostly closed, the rooms within secretive and silent. Although Melanie knew Ravenswood hadn’t been used in a while—since Miss Pengorren went to the nursing home in London—the furnishings were still in place as was all the bric-a-brac that makes a home. As if the owner had simply stepped out for a moment.

The impression was misleading. Miss Pengorren would never return, and she’d been the last of her family. In her will she’d instructed Mr. Foyle that her house was to be sold, along with the furniture, and the money to go to charity. Everything, her personal items included, would have to be cataloged beforehand.

Organization. That was Melanie’s job, and she had been sent by the firm because she was so good at creating order out of chaos. Not the sale itself, that would be handled by one of the partners, but the so-called boring stuff was all Melanie’s.

“It will probably take you all week, but you can go back down there after that, if necessary,” Mr. Foyle had informed her. “Just call if you have any difficulties. We’re relying on you, Melanie.”

He’d made it sound as if it was a test, and if she passed it, she would win a prize. A partnership in the firm? Mr. Williams had retired six months ago, and his name was yet to be removed from the letterheads and his place filled. Melanie had hopes, she was the most dedicated underling, and she had been there the longest. Perhaps Miss Pengorren would see her finally reach that pinnacle.

Foyle, Haddock and Jones.

With a smile she set her cases down on the marble floor.

She’d ring Mr. Foyle tomorrow and tell him she was here.

There was a sound. It took her a moment to realize it was the sea. She hadn’t known Ravenswood was so close to the coast, although Cornwall was a narrow peninsula, making the sea only a few hours’ drive from even the most isolated village. She hadn’t been to the beach in years. Before she knew it, her mind had drifted back to childhood.

The warmth of the sand between her toes and her pleasure in building a sand castle, complete with turrets and a drawbridge. She’d worked hard for hours on that castle, carrying water, patting the sand into shape, carving the windows and doorways and heraldic crests with the sharp edge of her little spade.

Solemn, her blond hair tugged back into a neat pony-tail, her skinny legs covered with goose bumps from the chill wind, Melanie was already on the path to being the determined overachiever she turned out to be. Suzie, her elder and only sister, was utterly different. Suzie had been there at the beach with her latest boyfriend, and they’d been wrestling and giggling in the way young lovers do. Then, for some reason, Suzie’s boyfriend had jumped up, maybe Suzie was teasing him, and backed away from her, not looking where he was going. He stepped right in the middle of Melanie’s castle.

Melanie still remembered the anguish, and the fury. “You’ve ruined it!” she’d cried, hot tears spilling down her cheeks.

Suzie had made sounds of sympathy, but her eyes had been laughing. She didn’t care. No one cared. Melanie’s life was in the power of people who simply didn’t care. Well, things were different now. Melanie was strong and tough and in complete control of her own destiny, and she meant it to stay that way. This job was important to her, and there was no one to mess it up as Suzie’s boyfriend had messed up her sand castle. She would succeed; failure was not an option.

A salty breeze stirred her hair, reminding her she was standing in the empty hall and had left the front door to Ravenswood open at her back.

There was a footstep.

Someone was standing behind her.

Melanie spun around.

A thickset man her own height, smelling of damp wool, stepped back in surprise. “Sorry, love,” he said. “I thought you were burglars.”

His accent was English west country, pleasantly burred.

“Burglars?” she repeated, exasperated. “I rang to let you know I was coming. I’m Melanie Jones from Foyle, Haddock and Williams, Miss Pengorren’s solicitors. We’ll be handling the sale of her house. You’re the caretaker?”

“That’s right. I’m Eddie.” In the dim light he looked fortyish, his dark hair turning grey, and carrying a few extra pounds beneath his old woolen sweater. He certainly wasn’t the old man he’d sounded on the phone.

They shook hands solemnly.

“You’re late,” he said mildly. “You said you’d be here this afternoon. I thought you must be staying somewhere else overnight.”

“I’m sorry, I got lost, and then ...” She hesitated. It had been so real and so strange, and she knew from experience how it would sound to a stranger. People tended to scoff at ghosts. But Eddie was waiting, and she had an uncharacteristic compulsion to share at least some of it with him.

“There was a man on a horse, riding beside my car.”

Eddie stared at her, and then his mouth widened in a delighted smile. “Oh-ho, then you’ve seen the Raven! At least, that’s what they call him hereabouts.”

Her relief was muddled with confusion. “The Raven?”

“Nathaniel Raven.”

“As in Ravenswood? Then he’s real? He lives in this area?”

Eddie laughed at her, but it was meant kindly. “Nathanial Raven’s been dead for years. He’s a ghost. You’ve just seen the Raven’s ghost, Miss Jones.”

Melanie felt dizzy. She’d known it, of course she had, she hadn’t forgotten how it felt to see something supernatural—although she’d tried. And no living man could look and act like that. She’d known it, and yet to hear it said like this aloud, so matter-of-factly, didn’t make it better. It made it worse.

“Nathaniel was a highwayman,” Eddie continued, “back in the old days. He was no direct relation to old Miss Pengorren. He used to live here, in this house, long ago, before the Pengorrens took it over.”

“Have you seen him?” Melanie glanced about her at the shadows and shivered. “Does he, eh, appear often?”

“No, unfortunately.” Eddie shrugged, as if ghosts were commonplace to him. “There have been dozens of stories about him in the village and roundabouts. It’s coming up to the anniversary of his death, you see, although I never heard of him appearing before. Maybe something’s stirred him up, turned him restless. Could be because of you coming to sell the house.”

“Wonderful.” Melanie gave a tight little smile. “Well, unfortunately, I have no choice. My job is to get the house ready for sale, and I intend to do it. Now, I think I’ll go up to bed so that I can get an early start. Is my room ready, Eddie?”

“Yes, I saw to it myself.”

“You’re here on your own?”

“I used to have a wife, but she’s gone now.”

“I’m sorry,” thinking he meant she was dead.

“Don’t be,” he said cheerfully. “We’re divorced and she lives in Arizona and she’s very happy. Hated this damp place, she did. I stayed, though. I’m related to the Pengorrens, you know. Wrong side of the blanket.” He grimaced, but there was a gleam in his eyes, as if he enjoyed his murky family tree.

Eddie led the way up the grand staircase, producing a small flashlight from his pocket. “Had the electricity turned off when the house was empty,” he explained. “I had it switched back on again when you said you were coming, but some of the wires are dodgy. Best to have a flashlight or a candle with you, just in case. The hot water is on, but it’s been playing up, and you probably won’t get any until the morning. The kitchen stove is working—it runs on bottled gas—and there’s an electric jug if you wanna cuppa.”

“Thank you, but it’s okay. I ate earlier. I just want to go to bed. It was a long drive and—”

“There he is.” Eddie interrupted her.

He pointed with his flashlight. Melanie blinked, wondering who he was and what she was supposed to be looking at. There was a large painting hanging on the wall above the staircase. A portrait of a man. He was standing against a background of sea and sky and cliffs, his head lifted proudly, a slight mocking smile twisting his aristocratic lips.

Melanie peered more closely. He wasn’t wearing a cloak or a mask, but there was something in that smile that she recognized. A reckless enjoyment of life. A devil-may-care attitude.

Another shiver ran through her.

“The Raven, I presume,” she murmured.

“The painting was up in the attic for ages, but Miss Pengorren had it brought down. She went a bit strange in her last year here, kept saying she shouldn’t have the house, that it was all wrong, and Nathaniel Raven had more right to hang on the wall than any Pengorren.”

“I think I’d prefer him back in the attic.”

Eddie sniggered. “You don’t want to antagonize him like that. He was a bit of a bad lot. You never know what he might do.” And with that partly humorous threat, he led the way up the remainder of the stairs.

Melanie’s room was old and had seen better days, but it was clean, and the four-poster bed, when she tried it, was comfortable. Eddie busied himself making a fire in the hearth while Melanie went to the window and peered out. The panes were small and warped, the glass very old, and there were shutters that could be closed in bad weather. She could see an area of flat and treeless land, and beyond that the sea.

It looked restful tonight, flat and smooth, with barely a hint of froth on the waves. From somewhere in her memory she dredged up pictures of wild storms and foundering ships and innocent souls cast onto the rocks. Wreckers had once set out false lights, to steer their prey onto reefs. Smugglers had been here, too, probably. This was Daphne du Maurier country, and anything was possible.

“There you are.”

Startled, Melanie turned. Eddie was wiping his hands on his sweater. Briefly, she felt disoriented, unlike her practical herself, but it was only for a moment. Annoyed, she forced her romantic thoughts back where they belonged, locked away, kept in check. She’d decided long ago that there was no place in her life for romance and adventure. Melanie had no intention of giving herself as a hostage to fate, a whimsical leaf on a breeze to be blown one way and then another.

Eddie was giving her a strange look. “Are you sure you’ll be all right here all by yourself?”

“Of course,” Melanie replied in her briskest voice. “I’m not the nervous type. I’m here to do a job and I plan to do it.”

Eddie didn’t say anything to that, only pointing out that he’d left her the flashlight, in case, and wishing her good night as he closed the door after him.

Melanie went to the fire and warmed her hands, listening to the stairs creaking as Eddie made his descent. The front door closed with an echoing bang. Melanie was alone in Ravenswood.

The haunt of the Raven.

And she knew she wasn’t going to sleep a wink.

N athaniel Raven stood and looked up at the lighted window. Absently, he rubbed the head of the black hound, scratching his ears. The animal pressed against him, clearly enjoying the attention. He wasn’t sure whether Teth had found him or he had found Teth, but somehow they had come together in the between-worlds and now the black hound was his constant companion.

A shadow passed before the window.

The woman, Melanie Jones.

After he had raced her on the road, he had watched her from the shelter of the trees as she cautiously made her way up the driveway to Ravenswood, and then unlocked the door. Fair hair cut short, the trousers and jacket loose but not quite disguising a slim, female shape. Her eyes were blue and slanted a little, and her mouth was full but unsmiling, unyielding.

Nathaniel had always preferred to find humor in a situation and to run where fate took him; his paramours had certainly gone with him willingly—and smiling.

Was this really the woman who would help him? Give him his second chance? She looked like she didn’t laugh much, as if life for her was full of serious matters and predestined appointments. But for a moment when their eyes had met, he had thought . . .

The light in the window went out.

Nathaniel sighed. He didn’t really have a choice. He needed her, and somehow he had to persuade her that she needed him. Well, persuading women was one of his most developed talents.