Page 10 of This Haunted Heart

Rynn Mavis

I t took some maneuvering to spread out the parcels in such a way that I could lounge over them—legs stretched across the seats in front of us—without having the corner of a box prodding my hip. But as the stage rumbled forward, I had to admit it wasn’t an uncomfortable way to travel.

Finley watched out the window as the inn grew smaller behind us. “What do you suppose the owners will think when they see what we’ve done to their room?”

“I’ve left places in worse shape,” I admitted.

The corners of his eyes crinkled. “I bet you have.”

I started to grin, then remembered I was still angry with him, and the urge died on my lips. I crossed my arms over my chest. “You owe me $70.00 for last night and this morning. I’ve decided to add a surcharge to our trade agreement because you’re a jackass.”

“Only seventy?” he said, the corner of his mouth tugging upward. “You’re a steal.”

I glowered at him. My glaring increased as he pulled bills out of the lapel of his waistcoat and made a show of counting out the money.

“Here you are,” he said.

“Isn’t that my cash?” I grumped.

“It is, but if you don’t want it . . .” He started to tuck it away.

I snatched it from him. Lifting my skirts so they draped strategically, I tucked the bills in my garter belt beside the letter I still had hidden there. The plot I had quickly abandoned at the inn was starting to feel like a decent idea again.

Utrecht and Finley deserved each other.

The first hour passed in near silence. Finley and I snoozed on and off. When I thought he was sleeping soundly, I nudged his foot with mine to test how alert he was. He didn’t move. I found the outline of a holster for a pocket pistol on his ankle.

I reached for the lapel of his waistcoat.

“Don’t even think about it, hellcat,” he murmured, eyes shut, top hat pulled down to shadow his face.

Finley’s trunk came loose on the roof. It wasn’t heavy enough anymore to stay put properly. One of the straps flopped against the side of the coach, alerting us. He called out, and Mr. Mazibuko slowed his team to a halt. The reinsman offered to help, but Finley insisted he could manage the problem quickly.

I let myself out to stretch my legs and chat with Mr. Mazibuko. I wanted to hear more about his cross-country travels.

“Are you all right, Mrs. Finley?” he asked, removing his derby from his head as I rounded the stage.

“Just stretching my legs,” I said.

Mr. Mazibuko leaned down and dropped his voice. “Are you truly all right, ma’am? Do you need help?”

I peered around the coach to double-check that Finley remained busy with the trunk before turning back to him. “Why do you think I need help, Mr. Mazibuko? Did I say something strange earlier?”

He cleared his throat. “You’re still wearing your dressing gown, ma’am.”

“Ah.” I glanced down at myself and pulled my shawl tighter. “Right . . . That is rather telling, isn’t it?”

“Afraid so. And your husband—I mean no offense—but he only seems regular when he’s looking elsewhere. When Mr. Finley’s eyes are on you, he’s something irregular.”

I frowned. “Irregular how?”

“Like a man possessed,” he said quietly.

I sucked in a breath. I’d caught Finley staring at me more than once with an intensity of emotion that couldn’t be properly quantified. It stirred within me a trouble-addicted thrill-lust I tried hard to smother. “I have some money, if—”

“No, ma’am,” he said softly. “Keep your money. You’re going to need it. Just let me help you.”

I stared up at him in wonder, feeling a little lost. This was a good man. A truly decent soul who had taken the time to stop and look and see that I needed assistance but could not say so.

And he wanted to help me for nothing in return.

Help me .

That was as mythical and majestic a concept to me as a unicorn. There were good men in the world. I knew that conceptually there had to be some out there running about far, far away from the likes of me. I was old enough to know I had courted my own bad luck in that department. When one chases their heart blindly and goes looking for trouble the way I have, one often finds exactly that.

But rarely in my adult life had my troubles brought me, by luck or by grace, to a truly decent man. A person ready and willing to lend a hand without an agenda of their own. I was looking right at him and still had trouble believing he was real.

The backs of my hands started to itch, and I scratched at them anxiously. I lowered my voice. “If I said I needed help, what exactly would you do?”

Mr. Mazibuko tucked up the side of his sack coat, revealing the iron on his hip, a single-action revolver with a long barrel. “You say the word, and I’ll see to it that your husband stays right here. He can hoof it wherever he likes, but you’ll be free of him. I’ll cart you to the next station, or the one after if that’s not far enough for you.”

I swallowed hard, my mind whirling. I could get my money now and be free.

But I was certain Finley would not back down without a fight. What if they fired at each other? What if I caused harm to this unicorn of a man? Weren’t the marks against my soul terrible enough already? And what if . . .

“Stupid sad eyes,” I grumbled under my breath.

“What was that, Mrs. Finley?”

“Oh, nothing.” I rubbed at my brow, frustrated with myself for not wanting to see Finley shot after all he’d done to me. Actually, I wouldn’t mind seeing him shot as long as I knew he’d survive it. A bullet in the ass would do him some good.

But I could not tolerate the thought of him dead or maimed. And I certainly wouldn’t want either fate for Mr. Mazibuko.

And I didn’t want my cash set on fire either. I pictured the entire stage going up in flames and could almost smell the acrid smoke, Finley lighting the mail bags with my life’s savings inside after everything went wrong. Resolve settled in my gut and stiffened my spine.

“I do not require the sort of help you’ve proposed, but if you would be so kind as to post a letter for me . . .” I checked again to make sure Finley was still distracted by straps and pulleys, then I fished out the letter and a ten, and I handed both up to him. “I don’t have smaller bills at the moment.”

He took the letter and waved my cash away. “I’m happy to cover the dime for a stamp. But you’re sure this is all you want?”

My throat bobbed. “I’m sure,” I said, and the words tasted like ash. I wasn’t certain of anything in my life anymore.

* * *

When we reached the wrought iron gates of Nightingale House, the front of which displayed the image of a songbird in flight, the stage could take us no farther. The horses whinnied and stomped their hooves and refused to listen to their reinsman.

They were behaving as though a predator lurked nearby, their tall ears twitching. There were so many trees, I could see only forest, reaching iron peaks, and the blocks of molded sandstone between them. There was no telling what had spooked them. It was unlikely a beast of any size had made it through those bars.

Mr. Mazibuko made his apologies that he could not take us to the door. We would have to disembark there.

Finley did not seem surprised by the behavior of the horses. He climbed out, unlocked the gates and dragged them wide open. The driver struggled with the reins while Finley untethered the trunk.

We made our goodbyes, and the kind reinsman set off with his team in the opposite direction.

I decided that for now I might catch more flies with honey than vinegar. Perhaps I’d get further with my pirate if I attempted to be kind, so after Finley relocked the gates with us inside, I insisted on helping with the luggage. I hoisted up one end of the trunk, and we hefted it down the earthen drive together.

I was starting to feel winded when we finally came to a bend. Wanting to see the rest without the distraction, I set my end of the trunk down. The trees fell away as I padded forward. Grounds of manicured greenery rolled out like fine carpet before Nightingale House. The massive manor was bathed in fading sunlight, backed by dusky clouds. An involuntary noise of wonder slipped past my lips.

What a hauntingly beautiful place.

Built in the style of a chateau, it was all gray stone and pointed spires and towers that reminded me of a fairytale castle. There was something deeply personal about the ornamentation: the sharp arches that framed the doorways, the elaborate decorative cornices, the sash windows of colorful stained glass. The overall effect was as lovely and melancholy as the owner’s eyes.

There was no pinpointing the exact element that displayed grief to me, but that was the emotion the estate immediately inspired. Perhaps it was the weeping willows that flanked the water gardens or the stone entryway that was the color of storm clouds or the set of balconies that made the face of the house appear to be frowning.

This big, beautiful manor felt like a monument to a broken heart.

It was then I realized how intensely Finley was staring at me. He was doing that thing with his eyes that made him appear “irregular,” as Mr. Mazibuko had put it. A man possessed.

“What do you think of it?” Finley asked softly, almost shyly. The way he stood with one big hand sheepishly rubbing at the back of his neck, it reminded me of the first time I’d found him in my room.

I didn’t understand why, but I sensed that my answer was of great importance, and I took a moment to ponder that, chewing on my lip.

“It’s breathtaking,” I told him finally.

“Yes?” His smile stretched wide, crinkling the corners of his eyes. It was so broad it chased the sad right out of his gaze. “Built it myself—I mean, not entirely myself, of course. It took 400 men with more talent than I three years to finish it. You like it truly?”

“I love it. It’s without a doubt the grandest house I’ve ever seen. Honestly, Finley, this is splendor fit for a storybook.” I glanced up and up at it. I had to put a crick in my neck to see it all. “It’s so luxurious, I feel like a poor wretch standing here in comparison. A peasant before a castle.”

“Come on, peasant,” he said playfully, hoisting the trunk up off the ground, eager now. “I want to show you the rest. There are 50 rooms, so we probably won’t see all of them before Cook has dinner ready, but let’s see how far we get.”

Even empty-handed, I had to jog to keep up with him, he was so spirited. He led me inside to a grand foyer so large it echoed the sound of our footsteps and carried the awed noises I made. Everything was done up in white oak and gilt fixtures. It gleamed and smelled like lacquer and clean wood.

I was not a fan of the dark, and I loved how brightly lit it was with bronze gas chandeliers and torchiers shaped like songbirds.

The grand foyer led to an even grander staircase that split before a central room. Whatever was inside, it seemed to be the focal point of the house. A ballroom perhaps? The two heavy doors secured by a sizable lock immediately drew my curiosity like a beacon.

“What’s in there?” I asked.

Finley set our trunk down in the hall. “We’ll get to that. Stay right here for a moment. I need to check in with Cook.” He started to leave, then he stopped suddenly. “I mean it, Rynn: stay put.”

“All right,” I told him.

I intended to obey, but as soon as he quit the room, wonder wriggled inside me. I made it one more minute before I left to explore the halls.

I found a drawing room with a hutch full of fine silver. It wasn’t even locked. Convinced that Finley had no intention of paying me the money he owed, I helped myself to the pricey presentation flatware, tucking the pieces out of sight in my garters and the tops of my stockings. I picked up two more spoons, weighing them in my hands. As restitution for all my pain and suffering, I wanted to keep both.

But then I recalled the intensity of the orgasms he’d given me. My skin pebbled and my heart stuttered in my chest.

I put one of the spoons back .

“What are you doing?” Finley said, appearing in the doorway.

“Exactly what it looks like,” I replied, leaning around the hutch door.

He stuck his lip out at me. “I don’t care about your pilfering. I told you to stay put because I want to watch you while you experience the manor for the first time. I like that you like my house. I don’t often show it to people.”

“Oh?” I didn’t know what to say to that. It was such a surprisingly sweet sentiment that I was tempted to put another spoon back.

“Come on, hellcat. Steal from me later,” he said cheerfully, waving me over.

He was hard to resist when he was in this sort of mood. When I crossed to him, he offered me his hand. I stared at it, trying to decide whether I still wanted to catch flies with honey or whether I’d be better serviced if I skipped all that and simply beat them to death with a rolled-up newspaper . . . ?

He took the choice from me—which was his habit—engulfing my hand with his large palm, his skin pleasantly balmy against mine.

Finley guided me all the way up the stairs first. There were three floors. He showed me bedrooms and sitting rooms, a billiard room—even the attic didn’t go ignored. On the second floor, he lit a lantern and carried it with us. Darkness had fallen beyond the windows, and the home relied on gas lighting that was spaced well apart.

He showed me a lavatory so lavish I didn’t want to leave it. It was twice the size of my bedroom at the Lark, and it had a fountain in it. The taps were decorated with a copper figure of a naked man stretching his arm out desperately toward the beautiful mermaid below. Her tail wrapped around the faucet. The tub could fit three people, and the floor was a stormy-gray shade of marble.

“You made this house for her, didn’t you?” I asked, my voice quiet to fit the somber setting. He didn’t answer me right away, so I turned to face him to see what had delayed him. “The woman you loved and lost. You built it for her.”

I regretted my words when I saw his face.

The cheerful glint in his gaze was smothered, like rain clouds rolling in to block out the sun. Sadness crept back in. “I built it after she died.”

“Why after?” I asked.

“I wanted to bring her back—not from the dead. I know that’s not possible.” He brushed a hand through his hair, and his lashes lowered. “But if it was perfect enough, I thought it might call her ghost right out of the mire where she’d died. Bring her out of the trees and back to me. I wanted to feel her presence again, wanted her to haunt these halls.”

Overtaken by the sentiment, I pressed a hand over my heart. “Finley, that’s . . .” My words trailed away. I didn’t wish to contribute to his melancholy. “You did well,” I said instead, touching his arm. “This is a house worth haunting. It’s stunning. She’d love it.”

He glanced at my hand, then he peeked up at me through his inky lashes. “You think so?”

“Absolutely. I would haunt this house. I’d haunt it so enthusiastically no holy man could chase me out. I’d squeeze myself between bookshelves, hide in that gorgeous bathtub, move through the pipes making spooky noises. No one could ever get me to leave. ”

His lips quirked and a bit of sparkle returned to his eyes.

Next, he showed me an office and a small library, but most of the books contained behind the glass doors were about the natural sciences or poetry, so I didn’t linger long in there.

The more I reacted to the splendor around me, the more Finley beamed from the inside out. It made my heart squeeze to see this place so empty, though. Such a home was meant to be enjoyed by many. I imagined the lonely walls craving the sounds of movement, longing to be filled with life, the floorboards hoping for someone to tread upon them, the furniture waiting anxiously to be used, the small library eager for someone to come along and put better books in it.

We didn’t get to everything on the second floor before my stomach growled violently. Finley ended the tour with great reluctance to take me down to the dining room.

I was growing accustomed to the opulence around me, but the sight of so much food still took me by surprise and dragged another gasp out of me. I was a woman who had always eaten well at the Lark, but this was a feast fit for a holiday. A feast that filled the long dining table and overflowed the sideboard.

There was so much food that for a moment I thought he was surprising me with some sort of dinner party, and I panicked, feeling horribly underdressed. But there were only two place settings, and since my pirate thought three people made a horde, I settled down.

“We’ll have to serve ourselves,” he said, claiming a bowl from the head of the table. The chair there had a taller back than the others and was more ornate, like a throne. “My staff is unavailable. They’ll be here very little and tend to the barest necessities only. It’s unlikely you’ll even see them. If you need something, you’ll need to tell me so. ”

I filled my bowl with creamy oyster stew and helped myself to some spiced cranberries, scalloped potatoes, and roasted duck. Instead of eating it in courses, I plated the food so I could try each dish at once, eager to taste everything. The cook must have spent all day long preparing this meal. There were three types of bread on the table and heaps and heaps of butter. I loved good country butter. It was expensive and very hard to come by in the city.

I sat down with care so as not to jostle the silver I’d stolen where it was hidden against my thighs. As I tucked in, I kept catching Finley watching me instead of eating his own food.

It was clear that this man had suffered a great loss, and for one reason or another, he’d decided I needed to be the one to cure him of his affliction. But I still had no idea what his expectations for his treatment were, and it was past time I found out. My fingers remained firmly crossed that he wanted me to cure him with debauchery. That I could do.

Why else would he capture a retired courtesan?

“Flogging,” I guessed aloud.

Finley blinked at me from across the table. “I beg your pardon?”

“I’m trying to ascertain what you want from me now that you’ve got me here,” I explained.

His brows pinched together. “You think I’ve whisked you away to my summer home so I can flog you in private?”

“Or because you want me to flog you . I would, you know,” I said, adding a touch grumpily, “I’d flog the devil right out of you.”

Laughter burst from him and echoed off the vaulted ceiling. It irritated me that it rang so attractively in my ears. “Bet you’d even do it for free. But no, I didn’t bring you here so you could flog me.”

“Pity.” I tapped my spoon against the side of my bowl, pondering. “Costumes! You want to bed me in a costume, and you’d like me to play a part for you.”

“What? This isn’t the theater.”

“It could be, if you wanted that.” I broke up a buttered bread roll and dipped it in my stew before consuming it. “Or perhaps you’d like to see me in your clothing. I can understand why you’d bring me out here away from civilization for that. I can’t even wear bloomers in Salt Rock without getting harassed.”

“No,” he said, looking puzzled, “I didn’t bring you here so you could wear your bloomers.”

“Then is this about my feet?”

“Hold on.” He shook his head, pinching the bridge of his nose. “What costumes are you talking about, and what’s wrong with your feet?”

“What I’ve worn for others is none of your business, but I’d put something on for you and play a part as bed sport if that’s what you desired.” Then I gasped in horror, clutching at my heart as a new realization landed heavy on my shoulders. “Oh dear lord, please tell me you’re not some sort of fanatic?”

Mouth full of stew, his forehead wrinkled. He swallowed his last bite down with some difficulty, working his throat. “What do you mean?”

“Did you steal me away because I’m a wicked harlot and you’re going to try to save me with your religion?” It would explain why he seemed so vexed by his attraction to me and why he’d refused to take his own pleasure from me the night before.

He stared back across the table bemused, his next bite frozen midway to his open mouth. He let the spoon drop into his bowl. “What about our time together suggests to you I’m devout?”

I waved his words away. “You’d be surprised by the religious sorts I’ve met. They almost never seem to match the requirements in their holy books, and yet they insist I live up to the impossible standards they themselves can’t.” The topic brought to mind the horrid baron I’d once been forced to serve, and I nearly lost my appetite.

“I wouldn’t be surprised. I’ve met my share of hypocrites, too.” He blew the steam off his next spoonful. “No, I didn’t go to all this trouble to convert you or save your soul or change your ways or any such thing. You were already retiring and leaving the trade. Why would I?”

I sighed, sagging in my seat with relief. “Good. Frankly, I’d rather be flogged.”

Rich, full-bodied laughter shook him. It was a laugh that a person could so easily fall in love with, and with that thought, I finally lost my appetite for good. I watched him eat, pushing my food around with a fork, no longer interested in any of it.

“Are you finished?” he asked me when his bowl and plate were nearly empty.

“I am. Your cook made an excellent meal.”

“I’ll be sure to pass on your compliments.” He rose from his seat, dropping his cloth napkin onto the table. “Take off your boots,” he instructed as he rounded on me.

I turned away from my plate, crossing one leg over the other. “Then this is about your love for feet.”

His brows furrowed. “No. I’m taking away your shoes to discourage you from attempting something foolish and impulsive, like running away.”

“Oh. Well, that’s considerably less fun,” I murmured .

He crooked a finger at me. “Hand them over.”

“I don’t want to.”

I couldn’t read his expression. It was too mixed. There was amusement in his eyes, but his jaw clenched. “Are you going to make me take them from you?”

“I’m considering it . . .” My eyes drifted toward the table knife.

“Banish the thought, hellcat,” he ground out.

“Fine.” Bending forward, I jerked at the laces, loosening my boots, then I slipped my feet out of them. The open air cooled my toes in my stockings. I held the shoes in my lap, caging them in, reluctant to release them.

“Rynn,” he said, the unspoken threat sharpening his voice.

I shoved my boots at him. “Why must you ruin everything? Just as soon as I’m starting to like you again a tiny bit, you go and make existing in your presence execrable.”

He tucked my boots under his arm. “There’s no reason why we can’t continue to enjoy our evening.”

“Yes, there is.” I pushed away from the table, stolen silver clinking against my thighs as I marched for the exit.

“Where are you going, hellcat?”

“Away from you!” I snapped, letting the doors slam behind me.