The Beckoning Ghost, page 12
Marissa got up from her work station and went to fetch mineral water from the kitchen. Returning to the porch, she decided that she'd be more comfortable on the wicker swing, so she picked up her papers and moved toward it.
She stopped halfway there. Someone was watching her. As she turned, she saw Brendan leaning against the open French door from the living room.
“Brendan! I wish you wouldn't do that. It's... unnerving. “ Beneath her surface annoyance, Marissa felt relief wash through her. He had come, as he'd promised.
“I'm sorry that I startled you. “ He smiled guiltily. “I fear that I'm not as practiced as I should be with my entrances and exits. “
Marissa simply stared at him a moment, drinking in his appearance. He wore the same sort of costume he'd worn in her dreams. White cotton slacks skimmed his long, muscular thighs and the open neck of his matching shirt revealed the burnished skin of his throat. Though dampened and brushed back from his forehead, his raven hair tended to fall across his brow when it dried. When it did, he usually combed it back with impatient fingers.
Momentarily mystified by her knowledge about the texture and wave of his hair, she let the thought slip by and shrugged. “It doesn't matter; I'm just glad you're here. “ She smiled shyly. “And thank you for the rose. “
“Next time I'll bring you something more unusual... an exotic flower to compliment your rare beauty. “ An amused smile touched his lips.
What a fine mouth he has, she thought, generous, mobile, sensually full. His neatly trimmed black mustache curved around it to end at the bottom of his chin. Her pulse quickened as she imagined how his mustache would tickle when he kissed her. Ah, yes... dangerous thought, that.
Marissa cleared her throat, wondering at the sudden huskiness in her voice. “I was going to sit on the swing. Care to join me?”
“I'd be delighted to. “ He moved across the porch in a smooth, brisk step that seemed incredibly familiar. She could have imitated his stride quite easily.
She sank into the soft chintz cushions and unconsciously waited for the swing to move under his added weight. As Brendan sat down at the opposite end, the wicker creaked and sank just a bit, as it should have. With his longer legs, he pushed off the floor, and the swing swayed gently.
Brendan leaned back into the cushions, throwing one arm along the top of the swing. “I see that you're wearing one of those abbreviated costumes that I mentioned the other day. “ His gaze slid up her long, bare legs. “Most attractive. “
Hot pink rushed to her cheeks. When she'd dressed today, she'd wanted to look reasonably attractive, forgetting that to a 19th-century man, her attire would seem seductive, perhaps even scandalous. Then she remembered the nature of Brendan's harem sketches and relaxed.
Demure compared to the deliberately provocative outfits that Eastern beauties wore, her conservative navy shorts were nothing to blush about. In his time in India, Brendan had been entertained by scores of nautch girls and had had the most alluring of concubines lavished upon him.
Damping a twinge of jealousy, she smiled breezily. “I find the shorts comfortable in the warm weather, but for you I'm sure they're a novelty. You're used to women in filmy silk outfits from the zenana, or ladies in stiff whalebone and horsehair padding. “ She made a moue of distaste. “Or those hideous bustles.”
With a short laugh, he stroked his mustache. “Believe me when I say that you'd look utterly desirable in whatever you choose to wear—even a bustle. “
“Thank you.” Marissa dropped her eyes to the papers in her lap. Curiously discomfited by the thrill of pleasure that his admiration stirred within her, she said, “You needn't shower me with empty gallantries. It's charming and romantically old-fashioned, but hardly necessary. “
Brendan scowled at her chilly tone. “I never give empty compliments. I thought you knew me better than to think that I ever would. “
Marissa looked up, the pinched line of her lips softening. “I'm sorry; I'm a trifle uneasy around you yet.”
His frown disappeared, and his mouth relaxed into a gentle smile. “Marissa, you know I would never let any harm befall you. I wouldn't come to you if I thought that you didn't want me here.”
Marissa nodded. “I took the message you gave me over to a friend of mine at the University, who translated it for me.” She paused. “It's a lovely quotation.”
“I chose it with you in mind.”
Their gazes met and held. Astonished by the depth of feeling in Brendan's black eyes, Marissa felt her heart skip a beat. He leaned toward her and his hand dropped from the back of the swing. With his thumb, he slowly brushed back a tendril of hair that had escaped her braid, his grazing touch a whisper of movement along her temple.
Marissa sat perfectly still, afraid of her own forceful impulse to take his hand in hers and press it to her cheek. She wanted to smell the scents she knew instinctively would perfume his skin, the sandalwood and leather, the spicy musk that was his alone. She wanted to taste the sun and salt on the tanned warm skin above his wrist.
Paralyzed by a fear of losing control completely, she did none of this, but sat quietly under his light caress. After a lengthy moment, Brendan withdrew his hand.
“Now I'm the one who must apologize, “ he wryly began. “I couldn't resist it. “
Marissa swallowed hard, and tried to defuse the charged mood. “I've been pulling together my notes about your wife. I have a few questions that you could answer for me. “
Brendan nodded in generous compliance. Though his face was serious, the knowing light in his eyes played havoc with her composure.
She cleared her throat, saying briskly, “The Minneapolis newspapers stated that after—after the fire, Rosalind came under the care of a prominent local physician. Dr. Winston Heffel. One account mentions that Dr. Heffel was noted for his work on 'nervous disorders, ' a nineteenth-century euphemism for mental illness. Granted, your— ah, demise must have troubled her deeply, but the paper implied that Rosalind was his patient before the fire. How serious was her complaint?”
Brendan frowned and rubbed his forehead. “She had become unmanageable. Dr. Heffel recommended that I place her in his sanitarium. Rosalind refused, saying that she'd kill herself first.“
He let out a long breath. “Curious, isn't it? A bizarre twist of Fate that I was the one who died, not Rosalind. “
“Rosalind must have been an unhappy woman, “ Marissa commented. Unconsciously, she leaned toward him on the swing.
“Yes, I'm afraid so... most of it due to me. “ Brendan rubbed his forehead, as if to blot out a hidden pain.
Marissa frowned. “But in my research I found that both depression and schizophrenia ran in her family. Her mother committed suicide within a year of Rosalind's birth, and her father never got over his wife's death. He drank himself to death two years later.
“You probably weren't aware of that, since Rosalind thought her parents were killed in a carriage accident. Her family also kept hidden the fact that Rosalind spent nearly a year in a private sanitarium after her return to England. “
Brendan said, “She'd seen horrible things during the Mutiny. Many people never recovered their sanity after that. When I met her, she seemed gay, carefree. That very lightness of spirit first attracted me to her.
“Later, I did find out about her troubled history. Years after our marriage, one of her cousins told me the truth. “
Marissa argued her point gently. “I don't see how any of that is your fault. Science has found that both of those diseases can be attributed to physical dysfunctions. Clinical depression often stems from a chemical imbalance in the body, while schizophrenia is frequently genetic in origin. That's why it runs in families. It's nobody's fault. “
Brendan sighed. “I'm not the hero of a fairy story, Marissa. If she'd married someone else, Rosalind might have lived a perfectly happy life. As it was, my selfishness caused her to become a pathetic invalid.” He made a fist and struck the arm of the swing. “I shouldn't have dragged her back to India, where she was unhappy, then on that around-the-world jaunt. I shouldn't have let her see that I... “
Marissa watched the guilty turmoil play across his fierce, handsome face. “What were you going to say?”
“Nothing.” His expression became deliberately neutral, bland.
“Other researchers have speculated about that last summer, given the unconfirmed reports that you had an affair. “ She persisted. “Is that why you feel guilty?”
Briefly, he shut his eyes and leaned back his head. When he opened them again to look at her, Marissa wavered under the intensity of his black eyes.
“I cared deeply for another woman, but it wasn't a tawdry affair, by any means. Rather innocent— what you would call platonic. “ He paused. “Rosalind didn't believe me, and we had a savage quarrel about it, just before the fire. “
“Was it Arabella St. John?” she asked, her in-sides twisting with jealousy. “Rumor had it that you fathered her child before your marriage. “
“No... after I married, my contact with Arabella was limited to occasional visits to see the boy. “ His face shadowed, he added, “He never knew of his true parentage, of course. “
Marissa touched his hand briefly. “He would have been proud if he had known, I'm certain of that. “ She paused, the mystery woman's identity still troubling her. “If not Arabella, then who?”
His eyes rested on her for a long moment, as if he were debating something. Then he shrugged. “It doesn't matter now. “
A sudden thought hit Marissa and made her catch her breath. “Brendan... you don't think that Rosalind set the fire in a fit of jealousy? She was already seeing that doctor—”
Brendan stood up abruptly, and the swing shook violently back and forth. “I've gone over that in my mind a thousand times, but I don't see how she could have. She was suicidal, not murderous. Yes, she threatened to burn my manuscripts.... “
“Burn your manuscripts! Why in heaven... “
“Precisely the problem. “ His scowl looked positively demonic. “She thought I was denying myself a place in her ordered heaven by writing and translating what she considered filth. “
“Oh, Brendan.” Marissa got up to stand before him, longing to put her arms around him. “That's why you said she had a motive for hiding the manuscripts away. Perhaps she did burn them after all. “
Brendan shook his head. “I'm sure the fire was an accident. I don't think my wife could have actually thrown all my years of work into the flames. In a twisted way, she took pride in my talents. It was only after we ran into that crazy Calvinist missionary in Polynesia that she became deranged about her religion. “
“That fits the pattern, “ she said. “Often schizophrenics develop religious or similar manias as a symptom of their worsening dementia. “
Again, Brendan rubbed his forehead. “Can we talk about something else? All this talk about Rosalind and her insanity bothers me. I did love her, in my own way. “
Marissa nodded. “I understand. I'm afraid that sometimes my puzzle-loving brain leads me into situations where I could be more sympathetic, less clinical. Robin used to call me 'Sherlock' when I got into one of those moods. “
“Who is Sherlock, and who is this Robin of yours?”
“Sherlock Holmes—the most famous consulting detective of the nineteenth century. He's still revered today. “ Marissa blithely neglected to mention that he was a fictional character. “He said that to solve a problem, you must first eliminate the impossible, and whatever remains, however improbable, must be the solution. “
“I see. “ Brendan nodded sagely. “The idea has a certain logic to it. And Robin?”
Without thinking, she answered, “In Boston, we lived together. “
“Oh, a woman friend, “ he said, giving her a benevolent smile, “like your Kelsey. “
With a squirm, Marissa wondered how to tackle his misapprehension without offending his 19th-century sensibilities. “No, “ she began diffidently, “Robin Stuart was a male colleague of mine at Harvard. “ Hesitating, she debated saying more, then added in a rush, “He's out in California now, so he won't be around to bother us. “
Brendan became very still, his jet gaze fixed on her face. She couldn't help but blush under his unblinking scrutiny.
At last he said quietly, “I see. I assume... you shared his bed also. “
“Yes. “ Marissa wanted to smooth the tiny lines that formed around his eyes. Why did it matter so much to him... and why did she care so deeply about his feelings? Unconsciously, she stepped toward him, but he turned away to face the lake.
In the stiff set of his back and shoulders, Marissa could read his hurt. After a long moment, he asked in a hushed tone, “Do you love this man— this Robin Stuart?”
“No, “ she said honestly, moving to face him. “I thought I did, but I realize now that I mistook need for love. If I'd truly loved Robin, I'd be with him now. “
She flushed under the scrutiny of his gaze. “I'm ashamed to admit that as soon as I moved here and discovered you, all lonesome thoughts of Robin disappeared. “ She laughed without humor. “That makes me sound rather cold and heartless, doesn't it?”
“No... believe me, I understand. Much more than you imagine. “ Brendan reached up and brushed her cheek, the distance in his eyes replaced by deep affection. Marissa swayed toward him, intent on closing the gap between them. Gently, he caught her shoulders, desire and caution warring on his expressive face.
“Brendan, “ she murmured, feeling a spellbinding need to be held close in his embrace.
With a brisk yet rueful smile, he set her away from him. “What do you say to a sail? I hear the breeze picking up. “
She spoke with difficulty, still mesmerized by his closeness. “You... want to go sailing?”
“Well, yes. That jaunty little craft down at the dock isn't yours?”
“No—I mean, yes, it's mine. “ Marissa shook off the seductive fog that had enveloped her at his touch. “We can go sailing, if that's what you want. “
“You sound a bit dubious. Is there a problem?”
Marissa stared at the toe of her blue Top-Sider. “Can anyone else see you?”
“To tell the truth, I'm not certain. I've never tried to appear to anyone, except you. “ He looked bemused. “Perhaps they must of be of a particular sensitivity, like you are. “
Marissa frowned. She didn't like the idea of being some sort of psi-phenomena detector.
“Where did you get the idea that I'm unusually sensitive?”
“It's very simple, actually. Your great-grandmother Maia Nordstrom told me. “
“But—but she's dead. “ Marissa blinked once. “Oh... oh, I see. “
“I am glad to find out that you do have reasoning faculties, after a fashion. “ With a gentle shove, Brendan opened the screen door and smiled wickedly. “After you, my dear. “
Down at the dock, Marissa quickly rigged the sails and dropped in the rudder while Brendan went over her Laser with amazed interest. He knocked on the blue hull.
He asked, “What sort of material is this made out of? It seems strong, yet lightweight. “
Marissa smiled. She'd forgotten that Brendan would be ignorant about modern technology. “It's called fiberglass. Most sailboats are made out of it these days. Even some cars. “
“You mean automobiles? I've watched you careen around in yours. Is that wise?”
“Mine's steel, “ she said. “Get in. “
He lightly jumped into the cockpit and she sheeted in the main and jib. As the sails bellied out in the stiff breeze, she steered the craft away from the dock with a twist of the tiller. Once they were clear, she tightened the sheets and the little sailboat picked up speed.
They had the bay all to themselves. Marissa relaxed at the helm and enjoyed the simple tranquility of skimming along the surface under wind power, while Brendan perched on the upper rail as they heeled over. He smiled at the same time she did, two souls in blissful communion.
When they reached the far side of the bay, Marissa loosened the jib sheet and made ready to turn the tiller. “Coming about!”
Brendan ducked as the boom swung across the boat. She sheeted in the jib and main, and once again the boat cut through the water.
“You have a deft touch at the helm, “ he said. “Mind if I try?”
“Be my guest. “ She moved over and let him take the handle of the tiller from her. She grinned then, wondering what someone with a pair of binoculars would see. A boat steering itself?
“I'm afraid there's no one to race today, “ she said.
The rough breeze blew Brendan's hair back off his forehead. “Just as well. I'm not used to this boat. She handles much easier than the scows we used to race here. Of course, she doesn't carry as much sail. “
Watching him at the helm gave Marissa the queerest sensation—that she'd done this very thing before. Was it deja vu? Then she recalled the dream she'd had the first night in the cottage. Was it precognition, a past life memory or simply a dream?
“You're so quiet, “ he said.
“I'm thinking. It isn't often that I go sailing with a ghost. “
“Ah. Perhaps you should forget that, and just think of me as a man. “
That's the trouble, she thought. You already seem too real to me. That Persian message made me believe that I didn't imagine you, but is a ghost any easier to believe in, or more to the point, to live with?
“I think of you as a most fascinating man, “ she said.
“Why, thank you. “ A pleased grin played across his face. “And I find you the most charming of biographers. “
“Gee. Thanks. “
Her lack of enthusiastic response made Brendan look at her. “Ah, I see. Damned with faint praise, eh? Well, let me add that I'd rather be here with you, than anyplace else—on heaven or earth. “
Marissa reveled in the sincerity of his voice, and smiled suddenly. “That's sweet of you. “
