“There you are!” she gasped when she stepped into their home. “You must come immediately. Please.”
The entreaty was heartfelt, but it still took Giselle back a step.
“Please,” Susanne continued. “I know you hate us and rightly so, but we need your help.”
Her father would disown her if she ever refused such an honest entreaty. Besides, she knew how little control women had over what their fathers did. Of all the people at fault here, Susanne was the least of them.
“What has happened?” she asked.
“I think Father’s going to kill Jonathan.”
Gwenivere abruptly slammed down her book. She was not one to forgive anyone easily. Especially since she’d once been Susanne’s best friend. She’d taken Susanne’s loss as hard as Giselle had at Jonathan’s disappearance.
“Who is going to kill Jonathan?” she mocked. “Did you say your father? Yourdeadfather.”
“Yes, I did!” Susanne cried. “I never doubted you! Now please help us.”
And since Giselle did not have a hard heart, she reached for her cloak. Gwenivere was there beside her, though her face was still angry.
“You needn’t come,” Giselle said.
“You aren’t going alone,” her twin retorted.
Then they both squared their shoulders and headed out to confront a ghost from their past and a literal ghost at the same time. Why couldn’t the dead leave the living in peace?
Chapter Four
Jonathan sat inhis library with a brandy in one hand and a bloody handkerchief in the other. The latter was pressed against the gash in his throbbing temple. If only the damned book had landed elsewhere on his body. At least he’d have two places in pain rather than double on the side of his head.
His mother was pacing off her agitation next to the cold fire grate. She was mumbling something. A prayer? He didn’t know and truthfully, he didn’t want to know. He was as faithful as the next man—which was to say he attended church and did his best to be a moral man. But beyond that, he had no firm opinion. He dwelt in the here and now, leaving the afterlife to, well, afterwards.
Unfortunately, the events of this afternoon had shaken him. He wasn’t about to drop to his knees and pray for God’s mercy, but then again, he wouldn’t object if someone else did.
“I’m all right, Mother,” he said for the thousandth time. “It’s just a bruise. I was hurt worse when I fell off my horse.”
She shot him a hard look. “That’s not comforting! You fell not three weeks ago!”
“My horse shied at something. An insect, most like.” Though he hadn’t seen anything.
“And you fell. Nearly snapped your ankle in half!”
That was true. He’d been in the process of mounting when his normally quiet horse had screamed and taken off runningas if a great big monster was chasing it. Jonathan hadn’t seen anything, but horses were touchy animals. They shied at waving grass.
“I’m fine,” he repeated.
“Until the next mishap. I swear I’m afraid to go anywhere. Calamity stalks us! And yet, I’m terrified—terrified—to stay at home alone.” She pressed a handkerchief to her mouth and resumed her pacing. She was nearly out the door when she paused to face him again. “I spoke to Father Bertran about this.”
His head shot up. “You what?”
“I told him about all the mishaps, all the things that keep happening.”
“Mother.”
“Oh, don’t start. He said the same thing you did. Accidents happen. There is nothing—”
“Do not say it!” he snapped.
She pursed her lips. “He doesn’t even believe in exorcism and suggested I repeat a prayer when I am frightened.”
