ENCOUNTER OVER A MEAL
The view out of the solar was gray and dull. Dougal, sitting at breakfast, the tapestry drawn back from one archway to let in light, found himself looking at leaden sky. He shrugged.
Strangely, for the first time that morning, he had woken with an appetite. Len, the one man still working in the house, had brought up a dish of bread and hard-boiled eggs from the kitchen. He ate with relish, thinking as he did so. Thoughts of Joanna strayed into his mind, and he wished she were here at the table with him. He pushed those thoughts aside, made himself focus on the more important matters at hand.
There is a ghost in this place.
The thought filled him with a cold, dead despair. It wasn't that he feared the dead. Rather, he worried what would happen as a result. The servants had already left, leaving him with Bet to bake bread, and Len to maintain everything else. He brought his steward with him, but how long before Greer too decided to leave him? And what of the guards? His tenants?
I don't like this. I don't like this at all. However, what could he do?
Joanna's confidence had given him hope, too. He was not sure how long her influence would last. It was clear the servants believed in her absolutely – something which he felt resentful for – but would that prevail?
He chewed the hard bread, thinking. Could he really turn things around here?
I don't know if I can do as Father wishes.
That was the worst part. This extra holding in the north could bring his father tactical advantages. Make him that much more useful to the king, as little as that may be. His father, wealthy, in favor with the monarchy, always working, needed him to do this. Nevertheless, he would not be pleased if Dougal lost it for him.
Moreover, how will I hold the place against some outside danger, if I can't hold the men here against an inside threat?
That was what worried him most.
Someone coughed in the doorway, disrupting his gloomy thoughts. He looked up, hoping to see Joanna, and felt his heart sink to see the gaunt, serious face of Greer, his steward, whom he had brought with him from Castle Blackheath.
“Yes?” He sounded irritated and hoped the man didn't notice.
“Sir, It's...” the steward licked his lips, looking around nervously. “It's the rents. I'm...it's difficult. Um...”
“What, man? Out with it!” Dougal felt his heart beat faster and knew he looked worried and couldn't hide it.
“Some tenants refuse to give their share,” his man said, looking away from him. “I sent the men there and even with my presence they...they refused us.”
“What?” Dougal felt his worry convert to sudden fury. “You're my representative! With my rights...”
“Um, yes. Quite,” the man said, eyes fixed on his long, knotted hands.
“What are you trying to say, steward?” Dougal breathed.
“They don't want you here.”
Dougal gasped. To hear it said so blankly was a shock.
“Sorry, my lord,” his steward was hesitant again, instantly apologizing. “But that's what they said. They don't want you.”
“Why?” He snorted. “Because I'm cursed?”
It was Greer's turn to look surprised. “Yes. How did you know? Who told you?”
Dougal let out a shuddering breath. “Call it a wild guess.” he chuckled ironically.
Greer looked worried. Dougal, seeing that, felt as if all his energy had been drained from him. He had enough to worry about, without new problems with the rent!
“I'll...I should go, milord,” his man said. He licked his lips, clearly nervous.
“Yes,” Dougal said wearily. “Thank you, Greer.”
Greer said his farewells and exited hastily from the room, leaving behind him a monumental headache.
Dougal closed his eyes as his head pounded.
“”What am I going to do now?”
He opened his eyes again, and looked over the slate roof of the great hall, out to the hills and lead-gray clouds. If he had been so inclined, he would have wept. He felt like it. Instead, he stared out of the window, watching as some birds – sparrows, he thought – tumbled past the window, calling crossly in the cold air. For some reason their sudden liveliness cheered him somewhat. Let him feel a little flame of hope.
“My lord?”
Dougal looked up, heart suddenly pounding. He knew that voice!
She was in the doorway and she cleared her throat again. “My lord?”
“Enter,” Dougal said tiredly. “Please,” he added. “I would offer you to break your fast, but it seems strange to welcome you into your second home.”
Joanna smiled. She looked into his eyes, her own narrowed, as if she searched for the irony in his words. There wasn't any. He meant it.
“Thank you, my lord,” she said, and took a seat opposite him and then proceeded to help herself to bread. She buttered it, sniffing as she did so. “It's rancid. I should talk to Will about it.”
Dougal shook himself. Tried to concentrate on the present. He had been watching her soft pink lips as she took a bite, the way a crumb stuck to the moist paleness of her mouth. She looked up at him, eyes wide, and a little moue of surprise pursing her lips. Even the expression made his loins ache with wanting.
“My lord?”
He groaned.
I want her too much.
“Sorry,” he said, hand waving in dismissal. “Got distracted. You were saying?”
“I just said I should contact our farmer,” she said, looking at him a little askance. “The butter should have been here yesterday. This is a week old.” She sniffed.
Dougal watched as she ate it, feeling amused. She was a hearty eater, and something about that made him smile. She looked up to see him watching her once again.
“Sorry, my lord,” she said quietly. “Did I say something that offended you?”
“No!” he said quickly. “No. Not at all. Carry on.”
Joanna frowned at him. She chewed her bread, then swallowed it, then cleared her throat. “Pardon me, Lord Dougal. But you seem strangely out of sorts. Is something amiss?”
Dougal let out a heavy sigh. “Would you like to know? Or should I say what isn’t going wrong – it's a short list.”
Joanna smiled. She had a soft smile, he thought. Sweet and tender, crinkling the corners of her gray eyes. He felt warmth fill him. He smiled back.
“What?” she said gently.
“I'm sorry, my lady,” he said, feeling drained. “It's me. I'm bad company. It's just...these problems. The servants, the guardsmen. Now the farmers, as you say. And, apparently, tenants too. At least according to Greer. My steward,” he explained, when she looked slightly curious.
“Oh,” Joanna said briefly. “What happened to Lewes?”
“Who?”
“His lordship’s steward. He was here last time. Managed the place for years.”
“Oh.” It was his turn to be confused. “No idea, my lady.”
“Well, we should try and find out,” Joanna said lightly. “The tenants won't like some strange man coming to take their tribute. Let Lewes do it – he always did it well. He knows their stories.”
“Well,” Douglas agreed, lifting the mug of warm ale – boiled, again – that sat opposite his place. “I suppose that's common sense.”
“Yes!” Joanna smiled. She grinned dazzlingly, and when her eyes shone like that, it made his heart flip.
He laughed. “Well, Lady of Common Sense. I am glad to have you with me on this mission.”
Joanna blinked. He had the rare pleasure of seeing her blush. It was spectacular. It surprised him, too – so worldly and confident, he had not thought he could catch her off balance. He felt a warm pleasure at having complimented her.
“I...thank you, my lord. I think.”
They both laughed.
Dougal found his appetite returning, and they shared some of the bread, companionable silence filling the room as she tapped the eggshells and peeled them, brow frowned in focus.
“Did you sleep last night?” Dougal asked. He couldn't stop himself from thinking of her in her gown.
“Actually, well.” Joanna said. She laughed. “I surprised myself. I thought I'd dream badly.”
“Oh?” Dougal frowned. “You have nightmares?”
“Not exactly,” Joanna said. She looked uncomfortable, and Dougal decided it was better not to pry. He changed the subject.
“This...happening...we saw...”
“The visitation?” Joanna said brightly.
“Yes,” Dougal said, surprised that she could talk of it so lightly. It worried him. More, really, than he wanted to tell. Ghosts were not things to be laughed off. He wanted a priest at least, perhaps two or three, to face this thing down. Even then, he would not feel comforted. Not until he was sure its baneful presence had departed.
“It's not one,” Joanna said.
“I beg your pardon?” Dougal, his reverie interrupted, blinked and focused on her. What did she mean?
“I said the haunter. It's not a ghost.”
“Oh.” Dougal felt a shudder down his spine. If it wasn't, then what was it? A demon? Some other foul occupant of hell?
“No,” she said. “It’s human.”
“What?” Dougal said. He stared at her. “But how...?”
“Don't ask me how,” Joanna said solidly. “I just know. We need to catch him. Or her. I don't know yet who it is.”
Dougal stared at her. He had lifted his slice of bread. Very deliberately, he lowered it again. “What?”
Joanna cleared her throat. Looked at him. Enunciated well. “The thing. The ghost in your castle. It's a person. Somehow disguised as Uncle Brien. We can find out who, and we can stop the hauntings. Then your servants will come back and,” she added, reaching for a beaker, “we can all relax and return to a vague state of normality.”
He laughed. She was amazing! How could she be so confident, so assured all the time?
“My lady!” he said.
“What?”
Her eyes, meeting his, were so strong, so sure. He wanted to fall into their gray depths and remain there. He knew, now, how it felt when his own men went to battle, how reassured they felt by his strong hand. However, in this battle, he was unarmed. She, it seemed, had all the armor. Thankfully, she was sharing it with him. Lending him her strength. It was a unique feeling. He had forged his own way all his life. For him to find an ally, someone who could stand beside him, offer him a hand, was unheard of.
She was laughing, too. They sat together, tears washing their cheeks, as they laughed wildly at the small, but remarkable thing that had happened. They were starting to be friends.
The laughter was slightly hysterical, Dougal noted, both of them feeling the burden of their position. Both feeling relief, it seemed, in finding each other.
They sat for a while, just looking at each other. Her face was flushed, her gray eyes bright, the redness of her cheeks in stark contrast with their depth of color. She looked vital. Alive. Joyous.
He drew a sharp breath between his teeth. He would give anything to have that face across the table from him more often. To see her in his solar, in his garden. In his bed. He swallowed hard. He would love to have his lips against her own, to feel those soft ones part beneath his tongue, her soft body snuggled to his own.
“I...”
Joanna looked at him. “What?” Her voice was gentle, and reached to the depths of his soul.
“I'm just glad to have you here,” he said.
Joanna beamed.
“Well, then. That makes two of us,” she said briskly. “We should get to work. Plenty to get done.”
Dougal smiled. That hadn't been what he meant. He was glad to have her here because he liked her. Not glad to have her here so he had her to help solve his trouble. Though that was true also.
“Well, then,” he said softly.
“Well, then.”
Neither of them moved. His hand, on the table, was an inch away from hers. He looked at it, noting her long fingers, pale, pink-tipped, tapered, the nails trim.
“My lady,” he said raggedly. “Forgive me,” he added. “I must leave.”
“Me, too,” she said quietly.
Their eyes met.
Clearing his throat, feeling his whole body ache, Dougal stood. His heart full, aching with regret, he made himself walk out of the door and to the hallway.
Leaving her alone at the table, her eyes slightly unfocused, red lips open in a look of surprise.
He had to leave. He had work to do.