Page 3 of Broken

“Who else did you imagine it might be?” Winter’s composed veneer blurred away fast under the influence of brandy. He sat forward, eyes alight with anger.

Giles had no answer other than the truth. “I was told your daughter died years ago, sir.”

Lord Winter’s face turned an ugly shade of red. “And who told you such a blatant falsehood?”

As a rule, Giles preferred to speak the truth, but in this case, he hesitated. He did not like to meddle between a man and his wife, but if Lady Winter had spread lies, the baron had a right to know. “I’m afraid your wife informed me, sir.”

Lord Winter slumped in his chair, rubbing a hand over his face. When he looked up, the baron’s face held pain. “What is a man supposed to do when the mother of his child would rather her be dead?” Lord Winter sobbed on the last word, rusty grief shattering the peace of the room.

In his entire life, Giles had never been in the presence of a crying man. Drunk, vomiting, or fucking, yes. Occasionally all three on the same night, but never crying. Where was one supposed to look?

Lord Winter cried like a man who had held back years of anguish. Giles sat silently, waiting uncomfortably for the storm to pass. Lord Winter shifted in the chair, finally turning his face away. The man surely had to be embarrassed.

Perhaps he should pretend he hadn’t heard the sorrow. Giles rose from his chair, poured Winter another drink, and then moved to the window to look out into the stormy night. But his body screamed for flight.

Years ago, Winter’s daughter had fallen from Cottingstone Bridge into the stream that ran, flood full, through the property. She’d only been a young girl at the time, and her injuries were so serious that their betrothal had been severed soon after. When Giles had crossed paths with Lady Winter wearing mourning black in London, she had spoken of her lost daughter with credible grief. But why would Lady Winter wish people to believe her daughter was dead?

He glanced at Lord Winter as several odd things about his behavior fell into place. Lilly remained unwell after all this time. Had Lady Winter given up home and rejected the burden Lilly’s care would impose on her?

Behind him, Lord Winter blew his nose, then clinked glass against teeth as he took another drink. “I know my search for a cure cannot continue. I have to accept that, but I cannot take her home. Living at Dumas would certainly speed her death.”

The baron paused to clear his throat, as if his words had suddenly stuck. Giles was half-afraid Winter would suggest he still marry Lilly. Surely, God wouldn’t torture them both with such an ill-advised union.

“I have heard there is a place in Wales that might take her, a home of sorts. I have made plans to see it soon, but I do not believe Lillian can handle the journey yet. With your agreement, I would like to leave her here while I inspect the situation and make arrangements. She will be no trouble. It’s why I pressed for the invitation to visit. You see, Cottingstone is on the way. If it is acceptable, I will return and take her there as soon as she can travel again.”

Giles swallowed a sigh of relief, but panic still threatened. Giles had a well-deserved reputation as a rake and Lord Winter was so upset that he was not thinking properly. “You cannot mean to leave her in a bachelor household?”

“I know it is beyond the pale to impose on an old association. I would not consider it normally, but you see how she is. Travel is very hard on her; she can barely stand an hour in the carriage. If Lillian can rest here for a time, she will be stronger for the next stage of the journey. The nurse is capable of taking care of her. You need do nothing to entertain her. I hadn’t initially intended to tell her where we are, but she recognized the dog and remembers this place, it seems. She said to thank you for inviting her to stay.”

Giles caught his open-mouthed reflection in the night-dark glass and swiftly closed his mouth. Thank God his back was to Lord Winter. Giles hadn’t expected her to remember him; he hadn’t spoken to her since she was a child.

Try as he might, he couldn’t think of an excuse that would have them both gone tomorrow but the obvious one he’d already brought up. Lord Winter had to know of his reputation. His presence could ruin any innocent woman’s good name just by breathing the same air she did, no matter her physical state.

The baron must be barking mad to consider leaving his daughter without an army of stiff-backed chaperones between them. It was the grief talking, Giles thought. Come morning, the baron would see reason and change his mind.

Giles made a noncommittal sound, turned to the sideboard, and poured himself a very large brandy. God, he was going to need it. When Lord Winter eventually bade him good night, Giles took his brandy decanter to bed with him.

The ghost haunted his dreams that night.

In brandy-infused visions, the white-clad girl glided round and round him as he lay back on his soft bed. He yearned for her touch, but she remained elusive, just out of arm’s reach. Her soft whisper spoke to him of earthly delights she could no longer share.

Giles dared her to come closer, to spread her tattered soul over him, to ease the ache they both shared. A cold touch slid along his straining leg muscles. He breathed raggedly, begging her to come near, to keep her hands on him. Ghostly fingers brushed against his thigh and he groaned, kicking the remaining sheet off his body, overwhelmed by need.

Lightning cracked outside the manor and he woke with a start. He was alone, as if the ghost had never been. Flashes of light danced on the walls as he blinked away the remnants of sleep and sat up against the headboard of his large empty bed, breathing hard.

The memory of the ghost had plagued him the last two years, disturbing his dreams, invading his waking moments too sometimes. The little sprite had the instincts of a bloodhound and found him every time he dabbled in pleasure within the walls of Huntley House in London.

Tonight’s dream was different. The sense of being together was strong, more like the moments she appeared in his waking hours. Present but apart from him. Her watchfulness added to his arousal, but she usually kept a distance. Only he dreamed of further intimacies.

Giles’ laugh echoed in the empty, dark room as thunder boomed outside.

What folly. He lusted after a ghost—a dead woman.

* * *

Bartholomew Barrette clenched his fists to keep from strangling the blacksmith. Worthless, empty intelligence was all the imbecile could sprout. Instead of doing as he pleased, watching the blacksmith’s eyes bulge as he crushed his throat, Bartholomew barked an order for his groom to give the dirt-encrusted behemoth something for his trouble. Then he’d wait in the taproom for his carriage to be ready.

Voices stopped as he stepped through the low doorway. He paused to get his bearings. Farmers with sun-branded faces turned to watch his arrival, no doubt stunned by his fine appearance. It wouldn’t be every day that a man of his distinction graced this hovel, a village too insignificant to be recorded on any map. No doubt his presence would be the highlight of their puny, miserable lives.