“Why?” Finn repeated. “Weren’t they good enough for you?”
“It’s not that they weren’t good enough,” Camellia hastened to explain. “It’s rather…I knew I would not be happy in any of those marriages.”
“Then what type of marriage are you looking for?”
“A short one,” she said. At Finn’s surprise, she hurried on, “I don’t mean I want my husband to die—”
“A great comfort to know,” he said drily.
“Oh, it’s impossible for you to understand!”
“Because I’m a man?”
“Yes, and because you’ve never known what it’s like to be at someone’s mercy. To know that one false step would send you out into the cold. To know that you’re just—”
“Trapped,” he completed.
Camellia looked at him with wide eyes. “Yes.”
“Miss Swift, it’s not only a woman who feels that.” Lord, he knew all about being trapped.
“But you have freedom, you have rights.”
“I don’t have money,” he said bluntly. “Nor do I have a good reputation. Crude to mention, but it does make a difference. I would prefer not to lie to you, Miss Swift.”
“Do you lie to others?”
“Sometimes.” He shrugged. “I don’t mind lying to them, because I don’t care what they think of me. But you…” He stopped talking and leaned a little closer to her.
“What about me?” Camellia breathed.
“You’re different.”
“You met me two days ago. How could you know I’m different?”
“I felt as if I knew you right away,” he said. “And you are different from everyone else.”
“So are you,” she admitted. “Not that I have a great experience.”
He smiled slowly at her. “If I lose the bet about tonight’s story, we know my forfeit. You never said what yours will be.”
“I have very few secrets to reveal.”
He held up the book. “If it is the same story, you must promise to help me get to the bottom of the ghosts appearing. I know somehow there’s a connection.”
“That isn’t much of a forfeit. I’d help you anyway.”
“I am very happy to hear that, Miss Swift. Now run away, lest someone think you’re too much in my scandalous company.”
Chapter 12
Nightfall came quickly, folding the snowy hills in a blanket of reds and purples before growing black. No stars could be seen, as clouds massed overhead.
As the snow fell softly outside the castle, Mr Fitzgerald gathered the guests around the great fireplace again. The signs of Christmas were more evident every day. The servants had decorated the mantels with holly and evergreen. Spices were laced into more dishes. Candles multiplied, so that their glow competed with the fire in casting light and shadows.
Indeed, shadows danced along the walls: the curve of women’s bodies in their finest gowns, or men moving with a drinking glass in hand.
An extremely observant person might have noticed there were perhaps a few more shadow figures than could be accounted for, considering the number of guests. But perhaps a few people were simply in just the right place to cast their shadows on different walls. Perhaps.
