A Dark & Stormy Night Page 6

  "I'll have Mrs. Marvel see about getting you some lunch," he said abruptly, releasing her foot and moving away.

  She felt oddly dizzy, but she wasn't going to let him see it. "Why?" she said. "I'm not particularly hungry."

  "Aren't you? You were looking at me as if I were a piece of blueberry cheesecake."

  If he'd mentioned any other kind of food she would have been all right. But why in the world would he pick the one food, the one secret vice she found irresistible? He didn't say strawberry cheesecake, or cannoli, or apple pie. He said blueberry cheesecake, as if he knew the depths of her soul.

  "I don't like blueberry cheesecake." The lie came out of nowhere, an instinctive defense against God knew what.

  The moment the words were out of her mouth a crack of thunder rattled the leaded-glass windows, and Katie jumped guiltily, as if caught by the Almighty in a falsehood. "Then I'll have her bring you some gruel," O'Neal said.

  Katie rose to her feet, favoring the one tentatively. She wanted to get away from him, as fast she as she could. Her foot was tender, but not unbearably so.

  "That's all right," she said. "I can look out for myself. I'll leave you in peace."

  She half expected him to say something dour and dramatic. She half expected him to try to stop her, but this time he simply stood still and watched her limp to the door, carefully skirting the remnants of the broken coffee cup.

  "Do you mind if I wander around a bit?" she asked.

  A faint smile twisted his elegant mouth. "There are no hidden rooms or secret dungeons, Katie Flynn. Wander to your heart's content. I have no secrets in these stone walls. And no ghosts named Fiona, either."

  She didn't believe him. There were ghosts, and secrets that haunted him, and if she had any sense at all she'd grab a book and immure herself in her allotted bedroom and keep her foolish curiosity at bay.

  But common sense was a highly overrated commodity, she always thought. Her unwilling host was a mystery, and Katie had never been able to resist a good mystery. Particularly when the alternative seemed to be dusty Victorian novelists.

  "If you say so, O'Neal," she said politely enough. And she closed the door behind her with silent care.

  The kitchen was deserted—Mrs. Marvel was nowhere to be seen. There were a few fresh muffins still on top of the old kitchen range. Katie helped herself to one, then wandered over to the refrigerator in an unsuccessful search for diet Coke. Coffee was all well and good, but she needed carbonation and chemicals to feel human, and this house was sadly lacking in both. The power had come back on at some point, though the sparse electric lighting did little to dispel the gloom of the day.

  "Mrs. Marvel?" she called out tentatively, suddenly lonely.

  "She ain't here."

  Katie fumbled her muffin, almost dropping it as Willie loomed out of the shadows. He was absolutely huge—six and a half feet of bulk. He loomed over her, coming much too close, and she backed up nervously, unable to help herself. She was being foolish, shamefully so, and she knew it. The poor man couldn't help what he looked like, couldn't help the fact that his mental acuity wasn't all that it should be. In the electric light she could see a long, jagged scar across the top of his forehead, beneath his shaggy hair, and it gave him the eerie look of Frankenstein's monster. Perhaps he hadn't been born that way, after all, perhaps it had been an accident…

  He touched her. He lifted his giant, hamlike hand and stroked her hair, and it was all she could do not to shudder. It wasn't gentle simplicity she saw in his eyes. It was malice, clear and plain.

  "Willie!" Mrs. Marvel's voice was sharp and full of warning. "Leave the girl alone."

  Willie dropped his hand, lowering his eyes as he stepped away from her, and Katie realized she'd been holding her breath. "Yes, Ma. I didn't mean no harm."

  "Of course you didn't, my boy. But you know what I've always told you about young ladies."

  "Yes, ma'am," he muttered, shuffling away from her and taking a seat at the table.

  Katie looked down at her hand. The muffin was crushed in her fist, and crumbs were falling on the floor at her bare feet. She looked down at the same time Mrs. Marvel did.

  "Never you mind, my dear," she said in her soft, soothing voice. "A kitchen's made for spilled food. But what in heaven's name happened to your poor foot?"

  "I stepped on some broken china. O'Neal dropped his coffee cup."

  "How odd," Mrs. Marvel said. "O'Neal is never clumsy." She looked at her curiously. "You must have an unusual effect on him. But that's not to wonder at, such a pretty thing you are. Still and all, O'Neal's never shown any interest in the frailer sex."

  Katie wasn't feeling particularly frail, and Mrs. Marvel scarcely fit that description, but she kept her opinion to herself. "I annoy him."

  "Oh, I imagine you do," Mrs. Marvel said comfortably. She moved closer, blocking her son's vacant stare, and she smelled of vanilla and fresh coffee and starched laundry. "Let me give you a little hint of warning," she said in a lower voice. "The men in this house aren't quite…right. My Willie wouldn't harm a soul, but there are times when he doesn't know his own strength. As for O'Neal—there's no knowing. I've worked for him for more than twelve years and I know less about him than when I started. If I were you I'd keep to myself while the storm lasts and you're here with us. It's safer that way." She patted her lightly on the shoulder.

  If Mrs. Marvel had meant to be reassuring she had failed miserably. Katie could feel a superstitious shiver run up her backbone, and it was only her fierce self-will that made her able to smile serenely.

  "O'Neal said it would be all right if I explored a bit this afternoon," she said. "There isn't much else for me to do. Unless I could help you…

  "Heavens, no, dearie!" She laughed comfortably. "I'm more than capable of taking care of this old house. I'll see that Willie keeps his distance, and you can explore all you want. There's not much to see, mind you. Most of the rooms are closed off. Just a bunch of dust and old furniture."

  "I'm just curious."

  "Best be careful, Katie," she said sweetly. "You know what they say—curiosity killed the cat. You've already been a bit accident-prone, and this old house isn't the safest place in the world. Some of these rooms have been shut up for decades or more."

  "I'll be fine. If I don't show up by dinnertime you can send out a search party," she said lightly.

  Mrs. Marvel glanced back at her silent son. "I'll come find you myself," she said. "Safer that way."

  And for some inexplicable reason, Katie shivered.

  Chapter Six

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  As a child Katie had loved nothing more than to read. Losing herself in a book had always been her favorite form of recreation and escape, and she still never went anyplace without at least two things to read in her knapsack, just in case she finished the first book.

  Unfortunately her stash of murder mysteries and romance novels were now being enjoyed by the fishes, and nothing on this earth would make her go back to the library where O'Neal reigned in gloomy majesty, all for the dubious reward of a Charles Dickens novel. Besides, the old stone house was like something out of a gothic novel. All she needed was a flowing white nightgown and a candlestick to fit the bill.

  Of course, that was exactly what she'd had the night before, as she'd gone in search of the brooding master of the house and had almost gotten kissed. Well, in actual fact he had kissed her, but not on the mouth.

  In the murky light provided by low-wattage light bulbs and stormy daylight, the room Mrs. Marvel had put her in looked distressingly barren. The only furniture remaining was the huge oversize bed, still piled high with quilts. The leaded-glass windows looked out over gray, storm-swept sea. The rain had slowed to a steady drizzle, lashing against the windows with monotonous regularity, and she peered up into the leaden sky, looking hopefully for a patch of light. There was none to be seen. For some reason the notion of a major hurricane was no longer nearly so enchanting.

  There were no c
urtains at the windows, no paintings on the walls, no rugs to warm the chilly, slate floors. She pulled on a pair of heavy kneesocks and headed for the door, stopping long enough to peer at her reflection in the wavery mirror. She had a noticeable bump on her forehead—it was a wonder her head didn't hurt beyond a dull ache. Her flyaway red hair had dried once more from its recent soaking, but the constant dampness was doing little to help control its wild tendencies. It curled around her face in a torrent of waves.

  She stared at her face for a moment, momentarily distracted. "You look different, Katie Flynn," she said out loud. "Maybe it's the ridiculous clothes, or the gloomy mansion, or one too many bumps on the head, but you don't look like yourself."

  The pale, elfin creature in the mirror didn't reply, and Katie shook her head. "Remember who you are," she ordered herself. "You're a sensible woman, old enough to know better. Just because you have a tendency to be superstitious, gullible and romantic…" Her voice trailed off with a sudden choke. She wasn't alone in the mirror.

  It had to be her overwrought imagination, of course. The mirror was ancient, the reflection distorted, and the light in the room untrustworthy to say the least. Outside, the wind howled like a hungry wolf, tree branches tapped against the windows, and inside, a pale, ghostly face stared out of the mirror beside Katie Flynn.

  She didn't want to turn her head, to look over her shoulder and see if the apparition was truly there. If she did so it would be to admit that she believed, and if she believed then she was prey to…to everything. So she kept her face straight ahead, staring into the mirror, expecting to see the willowy wraith of Fiona.

  But it was no flaxen-haired child staring at her with such fixed determination. Standing behind the shoulder of Katie Flynn, the reflection was a bearded, red-haired man of late middle age and genial temperament. She hadn't realized the ghosts were in color, she thought absently. Fiona was so pale she'd seemed almost invisible. The man in her mirror was pale, as well, as if a veil of gray stood between them, but there was still no mistaking the grizzled red of his hair, or even the bright rosiness of his cheeks.

  He leaned closer to her reflection, close enough to whisper in Katie's ear, but she could feel no one behind her. The ghost was in the mirror and nowhere else. She stood, transfixed, watching as the man whispered in her reflection's ear.

  "Watch yourself, Katie dear." The voice was thickly Irish, directly in her ear, and she whirled around, the spell broken, ready to confront the trickster who'd crept up behind her.

  There was no one there. She turned back to the mirror, but he was gone there, as well, only the wavering reflection of her own troubled face staring back at her.

  And the oddest thing of all was that she wasn't frightened. Confused, perhaps. Disturbed. But not frightened. Whoever had materialized in the mirror and whispered in her ear, he meant her no harm.

  The absurdity of the situation suddenly struck her, and she whirled away from the mirror. Believing in ghosts and superstitions was one thing, actually seeing and hearing them was another. Maybe she'd hit her head harder than she thought. Maybe she was living in some old "Twilight Zone" episode. Maybe her car had really gone over the cliff and she was now suspended in some strange world between life and death.

  Or maybe she was simply letting an always gullible imagination get out of hand. She reached for the doorknob, ready to step into the hallway, when at the last minute she spun around and peered into the mirror once more. There was nothing in the silvery reflection but a troubled young woman.

  "Well," she said in a practical voice, "at least it isn't vampires. They wouldn't show up in a mirror." And on that note of dubious comfort she started her explorations.

  There was no doubt about it—the majority of the old house was barren indeed. She'd been hoping for something out of A Secret Garden—hidden rooms and miniature ivory elephants. Instead she found what looked like cells, small rooms carved out of larger ones, with barred windows, narrow iron beds and dusty tables. It didn't look as if anyone had set foot in them for decades, and an air of melancholy clung to the place, like the cries of lost souls.

  But there were no ghosts. In those rooms where tormented people had once lived, the air was still and empty. No wandering spirit haunted the rooms, looking for ease. If the huge old mansion were truly haunted, it wasn't by the former inmates. Both Fiona and the old man had seemed far too cheerful.

  Unless, of course, Katie Flynn was the one going mad.

  She didn't really think it likely. Mental health was one thing her family had always had in annoying abundance. Katie herself had ruled out life as an artist early on. Much as she loved to paint—loved the sensuous wash of colors on a canvas, the smooth pleasure of a brush in her hand—she simply wasn't neurotic enough or impractical enough to choose such an unlikely calling. Though if she spent long enough at this house even she might turn a bit odd.

  She left the cells behind, happily enough. There were other, larger bedrooms, just as barren, and beyond the dusty, streaked windowpanes she could see the day growing darker as the storm drew down on them again. Each of the rooms had been stripped of anything of value—no books, paintings and, thankfully, no mirrors were left. Only haphazard, broken furniture. Except for one bedroom.

  The moment she opened the door she knew she should withdraw, immediately. It could only be O'Neal's bedroom, and she had no business nosing around it.

  It was also the only interesting place she'd come across so far, and clearly O'Neal was nowhere around, or he would have ordered her from the place quite loudly.

  "Go ahead, Katie." The male voice came from nowhere on the breath of a sigh, and this time she knew she wasn't talking to herself. "Watch your back," that same voice had warned her, and she found she trusted him.

  She stepped inside O'Neal's room and closed the door behind her. At one end of the room a row of glass doors led out onto a stone parapet, and the light that filtered through them was murky, giving the large room an almost underwater look. The bed was huge, ornate, hung with green damask hangings, the floor was tiled with a mosaic pattern that almost looked Roman. The marble fireplace still held the remnants of a fire, and the room was still warm despite the howl of wind, the lash of the rain against the glass doors.

  She walked over to them, peering out into the raging afternoon, at the wide parapet beyond the doors. On a clear, sunny day, the balcony that looked out over the ocean would probably be a lovely place to sit and read. Right now it brought the angry ocean almost to the door.

  She turned to look back at the huge old bed. It reminded her of a room she'd seen in the Metropolitan Museum in New York, years ago. The green and gold bedroom from a Venetian palazzo had seemed suspended in light and water, just as this room did. There was a multibranched candelabra at the head of the bed and haphazard piles of books. She picked one up and found herself smiling. It was the latest Star Trek novel. Who would have thought it of the dour O'Neal?

  "I must say, I approve." There was that voice again, the rough, whiskey-tinged Irish voice. She looked around her, but there was no sign of anyone, no sign of a mirror. "Women are too skinny nowadays." The voice went on to say. "I like a woman with meat on her bones. Glad I am that the lad is finally showing some taste."

  The room was empty…and warm—so much for the notion that ghosts brought an icy chill when they appeared. Not that this particular ghost had made another appearance. Only the faintly lascivious voice echoing in her head.

  "Who are you?" Her voice sounded unnaturally loud in the stillness.

  There was no answer, of course. Ghosts didn't seem to relish direct questions. The storm was increasing in intensity, battering against the glass doors and shaking them with the force of the wind. And then the voice came again, from the rain-lashed parapet. "You can call me Da if you've a mind to."

  There was a sudden flash of lightning, followed almost immediately by an earth-shaking clap of thunder, and beyond the glass panes she saw him again, untouched by the weather, grinning back at
her like an oversize leprechaun.

  She leaped for the door, pushing it open, but of course there was no one out there. Only the fierce storm that immediately soaked her, the wind that battled her for possession of the glass door.

  She fought, desperately trying to drag the door closed again, but the storm had a mind of its own, and her own strength was surprisingly puny against the fierceness of the wind. It was all she could do to keep hold of the door, to keep it from smashing against the outer stone wall, when a strong hand reached out of nowhere, covered hers as she clung to the handle and pulled the door shut, pulling her safely inside the relative haven of O'Neal's bedroom.

  She leaned against the door, panting, rain soaked, loath to look at her rescuer. She should have known it would be O'Neal. At least he was preferable to the leering Willie.

  "Oh, it's you," she said with a singular lack of cleverness.

  He shoved his hair away from his rain-damp face. "And who were you thinking it was?" he said sharply. "Everyone else in this house has the sense to grant me some privacy."

  "Well, you could have been the ghost," she said brightly.

  "I'm a little bigger than a teenage girl, aren't I?"

  "No, I thought you were the other one."

  He just looked at her. She was going from the frying pan into the fire, she thought dismally. It was bad enough that she was caught snooping around his bedroom, it was even worse when she started prattling about ghosts and such. "Another ghost?" he said with cool disbelief. "What is it this time? An Elizabethan lady with her head tucked underneath her arm?"

  "An old man," she blurted out. "Well, maybe closer to middle age than old. I thought he was out on the parapet, but when I opened the door he wasn't there."

  "I've lived here for fifteen years and I've yet to see a ghost."

  "That's because you don't want to."

  "And you do?"

  '"Well, not precisely…"

  "And you've got it wrong. There's nothing I'd like to see more than my sister Fiona again. But ghosts aren't real, Katie Flynn. They only appear to hysterical women desperate for attention."