Blackmoore(22)

I paused at a sound. At first I thought it was the wind—the sound that came to me. Then I realized it was weaker than wind. It came in spurts and sputters, and as I cocked my head, puzzling, and concentrated on the sound, I realized I recognized it. It was voices, coming to me on the wind of whispers, raising the hairs of my neck.

I pinched my candle out, the smoke rising to sting my nose, and held as still as I could while my heart raced. But though I strained to make out the whispered words, I could not discern what was being said or from whence the whispers came—from the hallway, beyond the tapestry I hid behind, or from some secret passageway on the other side of this wall.

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Footsteps sounded, soft and scraping, and the whispers teased me, just out of reach of my comprehension. Sylvia’s stories of ghosts haunting this wing floated through my mind, and I shivered with a sudden chill.

Without warning, I was gripped in terror so complete it seized every thought, every impulse. The tapestry hung heavy around me, trapping me. I dropped the candle and scrambled, pushing against the heavy tapestry, frantic to break free. When I stumbled from my hiding place, I col-lapsed against the wall, breathing hard and trembling. The corridor was dark, just as it had been before. I could no longer hear the whispers that had started my terror. In fact, I wondered if I had heard them at all, or if it had only been the wind or my active imagination.

I pressed my hand to my chest and willed myself to breathe slowly, to calm myself, to refuse to allow my imagination to rule my reason. Turning to the window, I looked at the scene below me. The moon was three-quarters full, and from this window I could see the full stretch of ocean.

The silver-white light of the moon on the water calmed my soul, and after a few minutes I could breathe and think clearly again.

I had merely frightened myself by looking for the secret passageway. I had imagined the whispers and the footsteps. There were no ghosts. There was no such thing as a haunting. But just as I had finished telling myself this, I heard them again: the footsteps. I spun around, pressing my back to the wall.

This time there was light—a single candle held aloft, highlighting a familiar face. Henry. The terror drained from me, and a smile eased the firm line of my lips. He stopped at the door across the hall from where I stood and knocked on it. He waited, then called softly, “Kate? Are you awake?” and knocked again.

I breathed in, my throat constricted with sudden emotion, and he turned his head and looked directly at me.

“There you are.” The moonlight bathed me in its silver-white glow, and the flame of Henry’s candle shone golden around him. He stepped 64



toward me, bringing his golden light with him until it merged with the moonlight.

“What are you doing, standing here in the dark?” he asked.

“I did have a candle,” I said, as if that would explain it all. My ner-vousness still coursed through me, causing my hands to tremble. “And what are you doing here? Why are you not downstairs enjoying Miss St.

Claire’s company?”

My voice held a sting, which I regretted as soon as I heard it.

He leaned one shoulder against the wall, turned toward me, and set his candle between us on the windowsill.

“I came to check on you. All alone, here, in the west wing? Sylvia would have already talked herself into seeing ghosts if she were in your place.”

“I am not like Sylvia.”

“I know.” A note of affection—a smile—sounded in his voice.

“But, Henry, in truth there is something about this house . . . this wing. I thought I heard whispers just moments ago, when I was behind the tapestry.”

His voice sharpened. “Whispers? Behind the tapestry?”

“Yes. I was looking for the secret passageway—you needn’t grin like that. You must have known I would look for it first thing—and as I looked behind the tapestry I thought I heard soft footsteps and whispers.

Is that madness?”

His eyes betrayed nothing, his face a mask of secrets. “Perhaps it was only the wind.”

“Yes. Perhaps.”

“You know, it will be much easier to discover a secret passageway in the daylight.”

“I know.” I smiled faintly. “I was just . . . passing the time.”

His brow furrowed. “Passing the time? Why did you not come downstairs?”

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a question instead of answering his. “Why am I here? At Blackmoore?

And do not tell me that your mother invited me, because it was obvious she does not want me here. I want the truth. Please.”

He looked at me for a long moment while my heart pounded. In my mind, I silently begged him to tell me the truth.

“You are here,” he finally said, “because I had a promise to keep.”

“And this is your last opportunity to fulfill it.”

His gaze turned sharp. “Why do you say that?”

“Sylvia told me. She told me that you intend to propose to Miss St.

Claire during this visit.”

Henry said nothing.

I cleared my throat, shifting from one foot to the other. “Is it true, then? You are going to propose?”

He studied my face for a long moment before answering. “It’s a possibility.”