Stardust of Yesterday Page 8

  Was he still out there? Genevieve didn’t dare lift her head to look. So instead, she contented herself with a determined set to her jaw.

  “I’m not leaving, you know,” she said, to no one in particular.

  A dissatisfied snort answered her. “I gathered as much.”

  A hint of humor. So Kendrick de Piaget wasn’t a completely lost cause.

  “Good night, Kendrick.”

  She waited for several minutes, then felt weariness steal over her like a soft mist. She was almost asleep when she heard his deep whisper echo in the room.

  “Good night, Genevieve.”

  Chapter Eight

  Bryan McShane clutched the sweat-slippery steering wheel as he passed under the inner curtain wall and saw the keep proper of Seakirk jut up before him like a headstone suddenly erupting from the earth. He squeaked in fright and reached for another handkerchief. How he hated this place with its ghosts! If it wasn’t Lord Seakirk coming up behind him, it was one of his other undead cohorts. Bryan vividly remembered the first time he had come to Seakirk and been chased away by a Saracen warrior waving a pair of bloody swords. The rental car company hadn’t been at all pleased with the condition of the driver’s seat.

  The embarrassment of having soiled himself was only one of the reasons Bryan hated Seakirk with all his heart. Seakirk’s lord was the other. Bryan didn’t like to be intimidated. There was a lion inside him, begging to have a chance to display its courage. Even his lion skittered off in terror when faced with the formidable frown of de Piaget. One day de Piaget would pay for what he’d put Bryan through. Yes, he’d pay dearly.

  But not today. Today Bryan would get Miss Buchanan’s signature on Maledica’s papers. Tomorrow he would figure out a way to transfer that signature to papers with his own name under the RECEIVED BY line, then he would sell the castle right from under de Piaget and Maledica both. Then he would take a very long, very secluded vacation. For the rest of his life.

  That was tomorrow. Today was another trip inside Seakirk’s great hall, something he had put off for over a week. At least he wouldn’t have to make the trek to de Paiget’s study down the Hallway to Hell.

  Bryan hadn’t even put his knuckles timidly to the wood before Worthington was there, opening the door. How did the old man stand his living conditions? Maybe he had nerves of steel. Bryan suspected there wasn’t anything in this world or the next that would force even a single strand of Worthington’s hair out of place.

  “Mr. McShane. A pleasure.”

  Bryan nodded weakly. “I’m here to see Miss Buchanan.”

  Worthington stood back and gestured for Bryan to enter. Bryan did, then jumped when the door closed behind him. His inner lion was bolting with its tail between its legs. Bryan wanted to do the same thing.

  “Lady Genevieve is not here at present, Mr. McShane—”

  “Worthington,” a deep voice said from across the hall, “I’ll handle him.”

  Bryan forced his fingers to uncurl, then quickly wiped his clammy hands on his trousers.

  “M-my lord,” he stammered. “I didn’t expect to see you.”

  “Obviously,” Kendrick said as he walked across the floor, not making a sound. “I remember telling you quite specifically that I would call you when your services were required again.”

  “Ah, you d-did.” Bryan nodded quickly. “I merely came to call as a courtesy. All is going as you had expected? I brought the papers for Miss Buchanan to sign.”

  Kendrick’s frown only deepened. “As I said before, when your services are required, I will alert you. Until then, you are not to return to Seakirk.”

  Bryan blinked. “Then she’s still here? You haven’t frightened her off—”

  “Enough!” Kendrick bellowed suddenly. “Have you gone daft, man? When I need your aid, I will demand it.”

  “But, my lord—”

  Kendrick took a step forward and Bryan fell back. Death at Maledica’s hands seemed a pleasant thing compared to the furious ghost he was facing.

  “Begone, dolt!”

  Bryan turned and fled, blessing a serene Worthington for holding the door open for him. He jumped into his car and screeched out of the inner bailey, down the road through the outer bailey, through the gatehouse tunnel and over the drawbridge. He didn’t breathe until he was safely off Seakirk land and had turned onto the road leading to the village.

  Genevieve Buchanan was either dead or an unwilling prisoner within those twelve-foot-thick stone walls and, either way, Bryan wasn’t going to rescue her.

  France was nice this time of year, wasn’t it?

  Kendrick watched the dust created by McShane’s hasty flight. Pitiful rabbit. The man should have rather chosen a bakery as his life’s work. He was surely not equal to handling any but the most pedestrian of tasks.

  “My lord, what was young master McShane babbling about?” Worthington asked, straightening his immaculate suit coat.

  “Idle chatter, old man. Alert the outer gate guards not to let him pass again unannounced. I don’t care for his brand of servicing.”

  Worthington shot him a skeptical look, then pursed his lips. “Just what is it you’re planning?”

  “You know exactly what I planned, Worthington. I wanted Genevieve to sign the papers and free me. By the saints, hadn’t we discussed this at length?”

  Worthington lifted one silver eyebrow. “You seem to be speaking in the past tense, dear boy. Can I take that to mean you’ve changed your mind about your sweet houseguest?”

  Kendrick scowled. “You can take it to mean I think you are an interfering old busybody with nothing better to do than to poke your nose into my affairs, a place your nose certainly doesn’t belong.”

  “If your affairs do not concern me, my lord, I don’t know what does.”

  Kendrick ignored the attempt at drawing out further information. He knew that if there was one thing Worthington couldn’t bear, it was to be left in the dark. Kendrick wasn’t about to oblige him on this. All his steward needed to know was that Bryan McShane was better left outside Seakirk’s gates. Kendrick wasn’t about to let Genevieve fall into his attorney’s hands. The less she knew about what Bryan McShane’s activities had been over the past few weeks, the better off she’d be. Even though Kendrick wasn’t sure he wanted her in his house, he wasn’t above admitting that she wasn’t a bad temporary guest.

  How could anyone not admire her spunk? Or that stubborn set to the jaw she acquired when she was digging in and preparing to hold her position? Ah, and then there was that delightfully insolent way she flipped her mane of hair caught up in the ribbon like a horse’s tail, as if he were nothing but an annoying fly she had put up with for much too long.

  He wandered across the great hall and up the steps, curious to see what chamber contained his houseguest at present. As he walked, he pulled his sword out of thin air and belted it around his hips. Perhaps it was only vanity that made him wear it when he could have conjured it up and brandished it at any time. Or perhaps it was to see what kind of reaction he would get out of Genevieve. He had the feeling he wouldn’t be disappointed.

  It had been over a week since he had followed her down to the shore, and, despite himself, his fascination with her had grown more each day. She was like no other Buchanan woman he had ever met. At least she wasn’t afraid of hard work. She had spent three days going through the other bedchambers, labeling all the items and spending hours on the phone looking for buyers for the remaining furniture. By the end of the week, the monstrosities were just bare rooms, waiting for a loving touch. Kendrick knew very well what she was capable of doing and actually found himself looking forward to seeing her work her magic on his home.

  He walked through the upstairs solar door and hung back in the shadows. Genevieve was curled up in one of the window seats, staring out over the ocean. The sunlight fell softly on her long, dark hair. It was hair made for a man’s hands, to be brushed, caressed, tangled between fingers and smoothed across whiskered cheek
s. Aye, the thought of her hair was only one of the things that had left him pacing on the battlements far into the wee hours that morning. It was preposterous, but he could not rid her image from his mind. And he had seen her as she was now with her long legs tucked up on the bench with her, her slender fingers clasped around her ankles, her stubborn chin resting on her knees.

  Why had no man claimed her for his own? Perhaps she wasn’t beautiful in the classical sense of the word but there was something earthy and secure about her. It was a pity he hadn’t met her when he was alive. She was the kind of woman who would have inspired him to give up his roaming ways and enjoy innumerable evenings together with her in front of a cozy fire. Ah, what a painful thought.

  She looked as pensive as he felt. He felt a twinge of regret over what he had done to get her to the island. No doubt she missed her home very much. At least she wasn’t pining after a lost love. Kendrick’s research had been thorough enough to discover that there was no man in her life who would come chasing after her. For some insane reason, that thought pleased him.

  Only because it showed that she had made her way in the world on her own, he justified quickly. Nay, there was no relief at knowing she belonged to no other, none indeed. Kendrick knew he hadn’t gone as daft as that. He folded his arms over his chest and scowled. Damnation, but he hardly cared if she was another man’s. She was a Buchanan and he needed her only for her signature on a piece of paper that would relinquish her claim to his home. He had no other interest in her besides that. He had to remind himself of that several times before he came close to believing it.

  She caught sight of him and jumped, putting her hand to her throat.

  “You startled me.”

  “I keep forgetting to knock,” he said gruffly.

  Her smile began in her eyes. Worthington was right; it was nothing short of enchanting. Her eyes were a beautiful hazel; deep green with flecks of gold in them. Her grin appeared briefly and then abruptly left her face as she caught sight of his sword.

  “Good grief,” she breathed.

  He walked over to her with a swagger, pleased at her reaction. So he intimidated her. It was soothing to his ego to know he could still make a woman back up a pace or two and take notice.

  “I thought you weren’t going to kill me,” she said.

  “I’m still pondering the matter.”

  “Oh,” she said, lifting her eyes to meet his. “Well, let me know when you come to a final decision.”

  He pursed his lips, trying to fight his smile. By the saints, the wench was cheeky. “You’ll be the first to know, believe me,” he assured her. He sat down on the opposite end of the bench and leaned back against the wall, letting his hand rest casually on his sword hilt. She continued to steal looks at his blade from under her eyelashes. He found that extremely satisfying.

  Time stretched into an uncomfortable silence. Finally Genevieve spoke. “I wish you’d make up your mind.”

  “I’d prefer to keep you guessing.”

  “I really don’t think killing me is going to make you feel any better,” she said.

  What genuine concern there was in her eyes. It made him feel doubly low for having used her so ill.

  “What you ought to do is talk about it,” she continued earnestly. “I’m a great listener, you know.”

  Irritation replaced his guilt. As if talking would solve his problem! He stood swiftly.

  “How dare you give me advice,” he snapped. “You who know nothing of what I’ve endured.”

  “Killing me is not the answer,” she repeated, looking at him unflinchingly.

  Damnation, but this wench was much too frank for his taste. Never mind that all the women in his family had been just as frank. What he wanted was a woman who knew her place and, more to the point, when to keep silent!

  Then he realized what his last thought had been and he swore. As if he actually wanted a woman, and a Buchanan at that!

  He vanished from the room, cursing furiously.

  Two days later he was still in a foul mood. He’d locked himself in his study and not come out, not even to answer Worthington’s queries. Let them both think he was dead. He would certainly be better off that way. He tried to ignore the way his pride was stung knowing Genevieve hadn’t bothered to come looking for him. She was no doubt pleased not to have him around her. Just as well. The very last thing he needed was a mortal woman fouling up the smooth running of his undeath.

  A dark shadow shifted by the window. Kendrick looked up at the captain of his guard.

  “What news, my friend?”

  Royce of Canfield crossed the room and sat down in the chair opposite him. “I only have a few hours—”

  “Royce, you’ve been saying that for the past seven hundred years,” Kendrick said crossly. “Don’t you think that by now I know just how many hours you can remain?”

  Royce leaned back against the chair and smiled. “Touchy, aren’t we? Is your new Buchanan giving you grief? I caught a glimpse of her as I was haunting the airport. She’s a comely thing.”

  “She’s no concern of yours,” Kendrick said, glaring. He frowned even more fiercely at Royce’s grin. There were times he missed his dearest friend and then there were times he didn’t. Like now.

  That wasn’t entirely true, though Royce tended to remind him of things better left forgotten. Kendrick sighed and leaned back against his chair. He and Royce had been inseparable as children. Royce had fostered with the same lord he had. They’d both gone home to Artane when allowed and Royce had been treated as another of Robin of Artane’s sons.

  After they had won their spurs, Royce had announced he would become Kendrick’s captain. Kendrick could not have been more pleased. They had gone crusading together, wenching together, warring together. Just how many times had Royce saved his life while they had hired out as mercenaries? Too many to count.

  And now this. Together in life, together in undeath. Kendrick’s only regret was that Royce had been cursed to roam while he had been cursed to remain at Seakirk. Matilda hadn’t seen fit to leave them even the comfort of each other’s company.

  Royce stretched out his long legs. “Popped over to the ancestral digs.”

  Kendrick smiled. How he loved tales about Artane and its illustrious inhabitants. “And?”

  He laughed. “Kendrick, you should see Lord Artane’s youngest son. If he’d looked any more like you, I would have thought I was seeing a ghost.”

  “Your humor is, as always, sadly misplaced. How is the dear earl of Artane? My father would be shocked to see what a pantywaist his descendant is.”

  “The lad seems to be managing rather well. Of course, he looked a bit spooked when I asked him for refuge for the night.”

  “You didn’t.”

  Royce grinned. “I did. And Nazir almost gave him apoplexy when he started waving those bloody swords of his about.”

  “Where is he?”

  “I lost track of him—”

  “Royce!” Kendrick exclaimed. “Your duty is to control him. You can leave Seakirk to keep him in hand. I cannot.”

  “Kendrick, he’ll come ‘round sooner or later. He always does.”

  Kendrick was hardly pacified. Nazir was one of the more uncontrollable members of the undead, and Kendrick shuddered to think of the mischief the Saracen warrior could stir up. If only Kendrick weren’t bound to Seakirk—

  “It isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, you know,” Royce said.

  “What isn’t?” Kendrick asked, unnecessarily. Royce could read his thoughts as easily as he could read Royce’s. It was amazing the things a mind could accomplish when not fettered by a mortal body.

  “Roaming. At least you have a home. I’m unable to stay in one place more than a night.”

  “At least you can travel about as you wish,” Kendrick grumbled.

  “Roam and roam and roam. It grows tiresome after a few hundred years, my friend. Be grateful for the beauty of your hall and the woman you share it with. You coul
d be much more unfortunate.”

  Kendrick didn’t have an answer for that. He hardly knew which fate was worse, but he suspected it wasn’t his. He smiled sadly at his friend.

  “I’m sorry. ‘Tis my fault you cannot—”

  “Merde,” Royce said with a smile. “I chose to remain and you know it. It was nice of Matilda to give me a choice, wasn’t it?”

  “You think she was a witch?”

  Royce laughed as he rose. “I’ll give you my answer the next time I see you. Farewell, Kendrick. Kiss that sweet wench of yours a time or two for me.”

  “Hell would have to freeze over first,” Kendrick muttered, knowing it would be just that long before he would ever have a body again to kiss with.

  After Royce had gone, Kendrick wandered up onto the battlements, hoping the sight of the sea crashing against the shore would soothe him. He wasn’t surprised that it didn’t.

  Perhaps it was the visit from Royce that had so undone him. A wistful smile touched his lips. How sweet had been those days when Artane had been filled to the brim with his family, grandparents, aunts and uncles, cousins and siblings. There had always been some child about a bit of mischief or amusement. Nay, he had never been lonely in those days. He and Royce had been as close as two friends ever could have hoped to be, closer even than Kendrick had been with his brothers. Their only disagreement had been over Matilda. Royce had detested her. Kendrick had called him a fool.

  Nay, he had been the fool. Matilda had been a witch. Kendrick didn’t believe in witches, but he couldn’t deny the strange feeling that had come over him as Matilda had cursed them both. She’d bid Royce to roam forever, never finding peace. She had only suggested to Kendrick that it was past time he found hearth and home to stick close to. Prophetic bitch.

  Only Nazir had escaped such restraints. Perhaps his infidel beliefs had kept him safe. Kendrick knew only that his Saracen servant had a penchant for stirring up trouble and took that much more delight in knowing that Kendrick could not come after him. He scowled fiercely. The bloody wretch would regret it one of these days.