Penmort Castle (Ghosts and Reincarnation #1)(71)

She lay awake in bed long after Cash got ready, came back to bed, pulled her hair from her neck and kissed her there after telling her he was leaving.

She didn’t just lay awake.

She lay awake gripped with fear.

Fear of ghosts.

Fear of Alistair’s intentions.

Fear of Cash.

Fear of her own weakness.

And fear that, one way or another, either propelled off the side of an ancient castle by a vengeful spirit, or conquered by a beautiful warrior, her life as she knew it was going to end.

Chapter Fifteen

Battle Stations

Abby waited until she’d gotten dressed and taken two more paracetamol to combat the nagging headache that started some time after Cash left. A headache that was only partially due to her misadventure with the ghost and also partially due to her crazy, screwed up life.

She waited until she was sitting on the train platform to slide open her phone and hit the speed dial number that would connect her straight to Jenny.

When Jenny answered, Abby proclaimed, “Battle stations.”

“Oh my God. What happened?” Jenny asked.

“I’m in Bath. I should be home in an hour. Be at my house when I get there,” and as an afterthought she demanded, “Bring donuts.”

“Oh no, is it a donut drama?” Jenny moaned, knowing exactly what that meant.

“No, it’s an ice cream and tequila drama but it’s only eight o’clock in the morning. We’ll wait until ten to break out the tequila,” Abby told her.

“Shit,” Jenny muttered, said good-bye and rang off.

A little over an hour later when Abby turned the key in her door and shoved it open, Zee darted out without saying hello.

Abby knew immediately why.

All three of Mrs. Truman’s spaniels came crashing toward Abby to give her a hearty doggie greeting.

Abby bent down to offer them strokes and Mrs. Truman appeared in the hall.

“Where have you been?” she demanded, hands on hips. “The coffee’s cold.”

Abby straightened.

Mentally, she cursed Jenny to perdition for letting Mrs. Truman in.

Verbally, she said good morning, took off her coat and hung it on the coat stand.

When she did, Mrs. Truman gasped.

“Is that blood?” she screeched and ran forward with the energy of a woman half her age.

Jenny came shooting out of the living room and her eyes widened at what she saw.

Mrs. Truman had Abby’s forearm in a gentle grasp and she was pushing back Abby’s sleeve to expose the bandages.

“Abigail, what on earth happened?” Mrs. Truman asked.

“Are you okay?” Jenny called, coming forward.

Abby squeezed Mrs. Truman’s hand and replied, “I’m fine. I need to change. Can you warm up the coffee? I’ll be down in five minutes.”

It was then Mrs. Truman’s eyes narrowed on Abby’s outfit.

“Abigail Butler, you’re wearing the same clothes from last night,” she accused.

“Um, yes,” Abby told her.

Mrs. Truman’s narrowed eyes came to hers. “Are you engaging in hanky-panky with your young man?” she snapped and Abby felt her face flush.

“Mrs. Truman –” Abby started to tell her this, above all, was none of her business but didn’t get anything out before Jenny spoke.

“That’s hardly the point. Her arm is covered in bandages!” Jenny had walked up close.

“It is the point, Jennifer,” Mrs. Truman shot back. “A good girl doesn’t do that before marriage.”

“You were awake when we celebrated the millennium, weren’t you?” Jenny returned and Abby pulled in breath waiting for Mrs. Truman to explode.

She wasn’t disappointed.

“Well, aren’t you Mrs. Fancy Pants?” Mrs. Truman asked sharply on raised voice and one of her spaniels yapped in support of its mistress. “It’s clear to see Abigail has enough emotional distress with losing her grandmother and her job and overall stress with all this banging and new roofs and men in and out of her house all day. Not to mention, her first romance after the death of her beloved. She doesn’t need sex mucking up the waters.”

Mrs. Truman was right about that. Alas, it was too late.

Clearly Jenny also knew the older woman was right. This was evidenced by her lack of retort accompanied by a stubborn glare.

Abby sighed.

“Ladies, can I change?” she asked.

Mrs. Truman let go of her arm. “You change. I’ll make more coffee. Warmed up coffee tastes funny. You need fresh when blood’s involved,” she declared with authority as if this kind of situation happened to her frequently.

Abby escaped to her room, tore off her dress, thigh high stockings and boots, threw on some jeans and a long-sleeved t-shirt and dashed, barefoot, to the bathroom.

She said good morning to the two workmen who were installing her basin, asked if they needed a cuppa (they didn’t, Mrs. Truman had serviced them) and then she ran downstairs.

The donuts had been arranged artfully on one of Gram’s china platters. It sat on the table in front of the couch with Gram’s silver coffee service and china.

Mrs. Truman had been busy.

Abby perused the selection of donuts.

English donuts were different than American. There was less variety, which was disappointing. But many of them involved custard and/or cream which Abby thought, as a plus.