Page 4 of Secrets of the Highwayman (Immortal Warriors #2)

S he was riding . On a horse. Melanie was ambivalent when it came to horses but this time she didn’t mind, because someone was riding with her. She could feel a strong arm about her waist, a body behind hers, and it was most definitely a “he.” They rode through the night, the moon above them like a grapefruit.

His breath brushed her hair, her cheek, as he leaned forward. His gloved hands were strong on the reins. In control.

Melanie found that a turn-on.

“Do you know who I am” a soft voice murmured in her ear.

Her heart began to bump.

“Because I know who you are.”

Melanie turned her head. He was smiling at her, eyes gleaming through the mask. An old-fashioned tri-corn hat sat on his head, and a black cloak flowed out behind him.

“You’re the Raven,” she said.

He leaned closer, and heat curled inside her like melting toffee. His mouth brushed hers, barely a touch at all, but she felt it to her toes.

“Oh yes, please . . .”

Did she really say that? Well, it was a dream . . .

There was a thud.

The horse vanished and, with it, the man. Melanie opened her eyes and found she was alone in the four-poster bed at Ravenswood. She must have flung out her arm—to embrace the Raven—and knocked her cell phone to the floor.

Melanie rubbed her eyes and sighed. She could still feel him, she could even taste him, and she had really, really wanted that kiss.

T he old house seemed less Rebecca-ish in the daylight. Melanie washed hastily in tepid water, dressed casually in baggy old jeans that hung from her slim hips and the I fought a bull and won sweatshirt Suzie had brought her back from her holiday in Spain last year. It had shrunk last time she washed it, so the fit was a bit snug, but it was comfortable. Melanie went downstairs to see what she could find to eat.

Eddie had left a loaf of bread and a carton of juice on the table in the kitchen, which was a huge room with a high ceiling and dusty shelves. Melanie imagined that it must once have been full of the servants who were needed to put food on the family’s table, but now there was something poignant about the empty space. Like the shell of the great Titanic, lying forlorn at the bottom of the ocean.

She toasted a slice of bread in an antique-looking toaster, spread it with some delicious marmalade she found in the equally antique-looking refrigerator, and drank some cold juice and hot instant coffee.

There was a door in the kitchen leading out onto the side of the house and an old walled garden. The stonework was crumbling in places, and the neat rectangles where flowers and herbs once grew were overrun with weeds, but Melanie found herself surveying the spot with dreamy eyes, imagining a tangle of sweet pea and honeysuckle and the buzz of bees.

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

The words rang in her head like a wake-up bell.

It was a long time since something like that had happened to her—daydreaming was bad enough, but premonitions? She thought she’d outgrown them. Her lapse irritated her, but more than that, it frightened her.

Pushing it from her mind, Melanie finished her coffee and washed up her few dishes, set them to dry in the plastic drainer, and began to explore the house. There were plenty of rooms, some with dust sheets thrown over the furnishings, others left as they must always have been. Everything would need to be cataloged and valued before sale. It might be simpler to contact a reputable antiques’ dealer or an auction house. Get it done professionally. Melanie did not pretend she was an expert or even a well-read amateur.

There must be someone suitable in Plymouth, or Truro, or one of the tourist traps like St. Ives or Mouse-hole?

“Phone book,” she murmured, glancing about the room she was in. It was on the upper floor and in a large room, with mullioned windows from which she could see the park, and a high grey stone wall dividing what had once been gardens from the open fields to the east. Fields, that is, apart from an odd conical hill, rather like a small Glastonbury Tor, which rose dark against the morning sky, with a standing stone perched on top.

Melanie was drawn to the windows and stood, peering at the hill, aware of a disturbing tingle beginning deep inside her. As if something were trying to get out. A memory? Perhaps she had seen a picture of this place before. Or was it more a sense of unease?

Stay away.

She shook her head, again refusing to listen, but her eyes remained fastened on the silhouette against the grey April sky. The stone was sitting on the very top of the hill, and there seemed to be a hole in the middle of it, an eye, so that it was almost as if it were looking back at her.

Her sister Suzie had been through a phase where she’d believed all that New Age stuff about the magic of ancient stones and megalithic sites. She’d traipsed all over the countryside, taking part in half-baked rituals and dancing in flimsy robes in the freezing dawn of the midwinter solstice. Melanie had shaken her head at her sister’s antics, and then gone back to studying, to getting her degree, to making something of herself.

But now, looking at the hill, she suddenly understood a little of the fascination and awe Suzie must have felt. The tor was so completely alien to the surrounding landscape that she could not help but wonder who had made it and why. What rites had taken place there? What creatures had been summoned?

Had the earth opened like a ripe plum and its contents spilled out?

With a shudder Melanie turned away. “Phone book,” she said loudly, returning her thoughts firmly to the task at hand. “I need to look up some names and make some inquiries. Get the ball rolling.”

Surely there would be lots of interest in Ravenswood when the locals knew it was on the market? Historic landmarks like this didn’t come up for sale every day.

But when she finally found a phone book, she glanced at her watch and realized to her dismay that it was still only 7:00 a.m. Far too early to ring anyone up yet.

With a sigh, she headed over to the large desk she had noticed by the wall and opened some drawers, picking up papers and reading them at random. At least she had found Miss Pengorren’s “office.” There were bills here, some of them second and third requests, and unanswered letters from friends. The elderly lady had let things slide before she made her final journey to the nursing home.

Ignoring the stuffing spilling from one corner, Melanie sat down in the comfortable old leather swivel chair and prepared to discover the worst.

Miss Pengorren’s handwriting was wavery and sometimes difficult to read, but her forceful personality came through in her choice of words. “Get Eddie to see to the taps in the bathroom. No excuses.” The note to herself made Melanie smile, it was like something she herself would write. “Why hasn’t the loose board in the attic been attended to? And no, I’m not too old to be up there, thank you, Eddie!” Miss Pengorren’s requests seemed small enough but they were the symptoms of a house in decay. It must have been frustrating for her, particularly as Eddie didn’t seem in any hurry to carry out her orders.

Melanie looked up and noticed a row of leather-bound diaries stacked neatly on a shelf. She slipped one out and opened it. The date was ten years ago, and it seemed to be a brisk and informative record of daily life at Ravenswood. She put it back and found the most recent one. Miss Pengorren’s busy writing filled the pages. Pleased, Melanie spent a moment reading some of the pithy comments Miss Pengorren made about her neighbors, and her concerns about a world that seemed to be changing too quickly for her to keep up with it. I have outlived my usefulness, she had stated bleakly.

Flipping to the end of the diary, Melanie saw that the handwriting deteriorated along with Miss Pengorren’s health. She rambled, sometimes beyond understanding. There was talk about the house not being hers. “A monstrous injustice,” Melanie read aloud. “I wish I could restore Ravenswood to its rightful owner.”

That was the final entry.

With a sense of unease, Melanie closed the book and put it back where it belonged. Was this some legal matter she should look into? Or was it just the restless maunderings of an old lady whose mind was beginning to deteriorate? She would have to read all the diaries, she supposed, and if necessary ask the advice of Mr. Foyle. And there were the upper rooms and the attic to explore, as well as the old stables and outbuildings.

The extent of her task weighed heavily on her for a moment, but she shrugged it off. One thing at a time, that was the trick. Organization. Lists! Melanie was a great one for making lists whenever possible.

But instead of reaching for a pen and paper, Melanie pushed the chair back and stood up. She felt edgy and anxious. Her gaze slid to the window, to the mini-tor, but she refused to be drawn back to stare at it.

And then she remembered.

At home in London she went running every morning. She was missing her routine run. She’d feel better once she’d stretched a few muscles and whipped up a few endorphins.

O utside on the looped driveway the air was fresh and clean, and she gulped it in with pleasure. Last night she hadn’t been able to see much, but now she turned in a circle, looking about her. Ravenswood had been built in the fifteenth century, and although it wasn’t one of the larger stately houses—only nineteen rooms—it was imposing enough. The grey granite had been softened by time and climbing plants, and the mullioned windows on the upper floor reflected the light. It was clearly in need of maintenance—the tiled roof was sagging in places, and there was a worrying hint of damp in some of the rooms, but surely a true lover of historic houses would overlook that?

Melanie turned around again. There were the remains of an extensive garden in front of the house, the shrubs long overgrown, the flower beds choked with weeds. Big old trees blocked any view toward the road she had traveled down last night, and what had once been tree-studded parkland was now densely cluttered with saplings and suckers.

There’s going to be a storm and —

Melanie immediately blocked the image of the fallen tree, the broken branches, the smell of burning in the air, before it could take hold.

She’d had practice enough.

Instead, she told herself that although the park might look uncared for, even neglected, the land was probably worth a great deal. Melanie was surprised it hadn’t been sold off ages ago for holiday vans or cottages. A place like this must eat up the money. She’d have to ask Eddie about that.

Eddie from the wrong side of the Pengorren blanket.

Melanie grimaced. Did people really say that anymore? And why did Miss Pengorren feel she had no right to the house; why had she returned Nathaniel Raven’s portrait to its place above the stairs?

The Raven.

Thoughtfully, Melanie began her warm-up stretches.

She had taken another look at the portrait of Nathaniel on her way downstairs. She hadn’t meant to, but something had insisted she turn and gaze into that smiling, dangerous face. Perhaps it was the lingering effects of her experience of last night or her dream from this morning.

Nathaniel Raven’s eyes were hazel, and they stared back at her with more than a hint of teasing laughter. He was a flirt, a ladies’ man, a heartbreaker, and not to be trusted. The sort of man cautious Melanie automatically avoided.

Her gaze had slid to his hand. He wore a broad signet ring, made of silver, and probably complete with the family crest, whatever that was. He was pointing with his forefinger, and she could just see the misty, vague representation of Ravenswood to one side. He looked very much like one of the local gentry, born and bred into the English upper classes, secure in his position within the society of the times.

Why had he turned feral?

Melanie finished her stretches. “It’s none of my business,” she murmured, and set off purposefully along the track that ran through the overgrown garden, toward a gate set in the high stone wall. When she unlatched it and peered through, she saw that another, far-less-defined path, led across the fields toward the steep rise of the tor.

The sense of unease returned, but Melanie refused to allow her imagination to rule her. I control my body, it does not control me; I control my mind so that it works for me, not against me. That had been her motto forever. Besides, it would test her fitness to reach the top. With her usual determination, Melanie latched the gate behind her and set off at a run.

There must be a right-of-way across the fields; at least there were no fences to keep her out and no crops to trample. The ground was covered in springy grass, and the wind whipped her short fair hair about her face. She quickened her pace as she neared the hill, enjoying the stretch of her body, knowing she was fit and strong and up to the challenge.

Melanie believed she was up to any challenge. Her current goals were to upgrade her apartment, upgrade her job, and invest her next raise in the more secure end of the stock market. The thought of losing everything, as her parents had done, terrified her so much that she used to wake up at night, damp with sweat. Now it only happened if she’d been visiting Suzie, and nowadays she and her sister were too busy with their own lives for more than the occasional phone call. There were times when Melanie felt guilty about that, but her relief usually outweighed her guilt. Suzie lived in a state of perpetual chaos that she called “being at one with the universe,” and Melanie wanted no part of it. The most disturbing thing was, Suzie appeared to be happy with her life.

As Melanie ran, she began to make a mental checklist of all the things she had to do before she could leave Cornwall and go home to London. And what about Eddie, who paid him? Then there was the house itself. She was glad it wasn’t her job to sell it. Maybe it could be transformed into a nursing home, or a hotel, or one of those places where rich people came to cleanse the poisons from their systems—in other words, a celebrity drug-rehabilitation clinic. No one these days would have the money or the inclination to take it on as a private residence, surely?

Still, the admission came grudgingly, as if deep down she was finding it hard to accept the inevitable. Ravenswood must have been beautiful, once.

There was a sound behind her. Panting, like a dog.

Melanie gave a quick glance over her shoulder . . .

And stumbled, letting out a gasping shriek.

The black hound was behind her, and it was broad daylight. Even as shock zinged through her, Melanie’s analytical mind was telling her that “black” wasn’t quite the right word because the hound was a darkish grey. As grey as Nathaniel Raven had been last night. Ghostly grey.

“Oh God!”

She picked up speed, forgetting the ache in her legs, but so did the hound. Its ears were flopping, large paws pounding the soft grassy ground, tongue flapping from loosened jaws. If it wasn’t a ghost, she would have laughed to see it having such a wonderful time. Instead, Melanie ran even faster, her breathing short and choppy, her heart pounding. Then she realized what she should have known a moment ago, that she was climbing, the slight incline growing increasingly difficult as she headed toward the top of the tor. Behind her—she dared another look—Ravenswood was getting smaller, and she knew the sensible option would be to turn around and go back for help. But there was nothing sensible about what was following her.

Chasing her.

Gasping, her feet like lead weights, she struggled to the top.

The old standing stone was both broad and tall, and lichen was growing rampant on it. There was a large hole punched through the middle. Melanie, thinking she might be able to climb up on the very top of the stone, to escape the reach of the hound, forced her flagging body across the flat summit of the hill.

The hound was still loping along, following her at a steady pace. It didn’t seem interested in attacking her or overtaking her, but how could she be sure . . . Melanie scanned the bare hillside. And how did she know the Raven wasn’t around here somewhere on his ghostly horse, just waiting to spring out at her?

She had almost reached the stone, her chest on fire, her legs burning, when she realized she would never climb it. Behind her came panting breath, the thump of paws, but as she turned with a whimper finally to face her foe, the hound ran right by her and sprang gracefully through the hole in the middle of the old stone.

And vanished.

Melanie stood, chest heaving, staring openmouthed at . . . thin air.

She took a step back, looking one way and then the other. Nothing but open ground. On the western side of the tor there were views of Ravenswood and its extensive estate, and if she turned to the east, a cluster of houses down in the valley and the spire of the village church. To the north the sea was a flat sheet of steel beyond the edge of the cliffs, and to the south the stone . . . It seemed to mock her. But one thing was for certain, the hound really had vanished, and Melanie was alone.

Gradually, her heartbeat began to slow, the burning ache in her chest to fade, and her mind to clear. She rested her hand against the stone. The rough surface had captured what warmth there was in the day and she felt it now against her skin. She peered through the hole in the middle.

It wasn’t a recent act of vandalism; that hole had been there for a long time. The edges were worn smooth, and when she looked more closely at the surface she could see carvings beneath the lichen. Celtic carvings. Symbols, a language, that only a few scholars could understand.

Melanie was now more curious than frightened. The hound hadn’t hurt her, and it had jumped right through the middle of the stone.

In fact the hole was large enough to crawl through, but she wasn’t quite brave enough for that, not just yet. Instead, she stuck her hand through, wriggling her fingers, a gesture of bravado, really.

Come and get me.

Something grabbed her, and Melanie shrieked. Another hand, so strong and cold. It closed on her flesh with a fierce determination. The hand tugged violently, catching her off-balance, and she fell forward, clutching at the stone for support, her hands slipping through. Her feet went up, her hip bruised on the inner circle, and then she was falling.

Tumbling through the middle.

There was no time to scream again. Before her the top of the hill had opened up, and there was darkness, going down deep into the earth. Like a great black mouth.

And Melanie was swallowed whole.