Shades of Midnight

by

Linda Winstead Jones

writing as

Linda Fallon

New York Times Bestselling Author

By payment of required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this eBook. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented without the express written permission of copyright owner.

Please Note

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

The reverse engineering, uploading, and/or distributing of this eBook via the internet or via any other means without the permission of the copyright owner is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author's rights is appreciated.

Copyright © 2003, 2012 by Linda Winstead Jones. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.

eBook design by eBook Prep www.ebookprep.com

Cover design by Elizabeth Wallace designwithin.carbonmade.com

Thank You.

For Ron

Chapter 1

1885

Lucien Thorpe took long strides up the walkway toward the address to which he'd been summoned, the bag containing a change of clothes grasped in his right hand, the heavier case containing his equipment in the left. He took in the house before him, a clean and charming two-story cottage gleaming in the moonlight, a downstairs window glowing with welcome, the door painted a red so bright and cheery he could discern the color even in the dim light. Fallen autumn leaves of red and orange had drifted across the walkway and danced out of his way as he strode purposefully forward. The home before him didn't look at all like a haunted house—but then, they rarely did.

Crisp October air washed over Lucien, making him wish he'd worn his overcoat. He'd walked out and left it sitting... somewhere. Either in his rented room in a Wilmington, North Carolina boarding house or at his most recent assignment in Virginia. He couldn't remember exactly where he'd seen it last, hadn't even thought of the coat until the chill touched him. This was Georgia, after all, the Deep South. He hadn't expected to need an overcoat.

Truth was, he admitted to himself, he'd simply forgotten. The details of the last haunting had been playing through his mind as he'd packed for this trip, and it had been more important that he remember each piece of equipment he might need than to worry about something so inconsequential as a coat. The nonessential details of life frequently slipped his mind. There were so many more important details to think about, in the average day. Discoveries just waiting to be made, a breakthrough just out of his reach. Every now and then, though, he did forget something important.

When Lucien reached the small front porch, he placed the lighter of his two bags at his feet and lifted his hand to knock. Before he could do so, the red door swung sharply inward. Several lamps burned behind the woman who'd opened the door, making it impossible to see her face. And still, his heart skipped a beat.

"You're late," she said crisply.

He knew that voice so well that his insides tightened and fluttered as he lowered his hand.

Before he had a chance to explain, she continued without mercy, "But then again, I should have expected you to be late. Tardiness is one of your bad habits, Lucien, perhaps the most egregious of them all."

"I missed my train," he said.

"Of course you did," she responded dryly.

"But I caught the next one."

Eve took a deep, calming breath and glanced over his shoulder. Discovering that he was alone, she said, "You walked from the train station?"

"Yes."

A noise that sounded suspiciously like a disgusted grunt drifted his way, then Eve sighed and said, "I suppose I should invite you in."

"That would be nice, since I've come a long way in answer to your telegram." She stepped back, and he entered the well-lit entryway. Once he was inside, the door firmly shut behind him, he took a good look at the lovely Miss Eve Abernathy.

There was nothing pretentious or polished about Eve. She was not the kind of woman who walked into a room and elicited wide-eyed admiration or ostentatious ogling. But her quiet beauty had always affected him, from the first moment he'd laid eyes on her at the Graham haunting, four years ago. Her tightly restrained hair was the color of honey. She possessed gentle curves beneath her conservative clothing, and a nicely bowed mouth that was sometimes wicked and sometimes unbearably sweet. And her eyes—she had the greenest eyes in the world, he imagined. A man could get lost in eyes like those.

Even when Eve was unhappy, as she was at this moment, she remained dignified and graceful. And no amount of puckering could make her mouth unattractive.

Lucien frowned as he looked down at her. One of Eve's more admirable traits was her honesty. So why had she invited him here under false pretenses? It wasn't like her to lie.

"Why did you sign your telegram Evelyn Joyce?"

She pursed her mouth ever tighter, undoubtedly thinking she struck a terrifying pose. He found her more intriguing than fearsome. Eve was, if nothing else, kissable.

"That is my name, Lucien, minus the surname. I assumed that if you knew I was the one who'd summoned you, you'd refuse."

"Why would you assume such a thing?"

"Because I imagine you value your life," she said darkly.

Well, she did have reason to be angry, but he'd never think himself in physical danger. Not from Eve, and not after all this time.

Now was not the time or place to have this conversation. After an initial short, one-sided exchange, they'd been avoiding the subject—and one another—for the past two years. They could surely put it off a while longer. If he had his way, they'd postpone the unpleasant discussion indefinitely. "You have a ghost," he said. Down to business.

"Two of them," she answered, turning her back on him and leading the way into the parlor.

Lucien carried his bags there and carefully deposited them by the doorway. The parlor was much like Eve. Neat. Pretty. Clean and welcoming. Unostentatious, but inviting. It was the kind of parlor a man could comfortably live in. His own rented room was clean and serviceable and suited him well, but didn't have the amenities Eve had added here. Lace doilies. Decorative figurines. A warm throw for cool evenings. The room even smelled of her, subtly. Lavender, and tea with sugar, and ink. He shook that observation off as unnecessary and possibly dangerous.

Business he could handle. Business was so much more manageable and interesting than his pathetic personal life.

Over the past several years, Eve had documented several authentic hauntings in articles she'd written for journals and newspapers, and even a well-received book, making herself a part of the close-knit community in which Lucien worked and lived. She wrote articles that were informative without being lurid, that satisfied the public's thirst for knowledge of the spiritual world without offending those who worked in the community.

Lucien Thorpe was one of the premier spirit releasers working in the United States. He and Eve had worked together before, many times. They had once worked together quite well. Not in the past two years, though.

Eve looked briefly at the clock on the mantel. "Viola and Alistair Stamper died in this house nearly thirty years ago. The anniversary of the incident will arrive on Saturday."

Halloween. Five days. Perhaps long enough. Perhaps not. "How did they die?"

Again, Eve glanced at the clock. "From what I have been able to gather, Viola Stamper was seeing another man. Alistair discovered her infidelity. He killed her and then himself."

Lucien was not surprised. Most ghosts he guided to the other side had died violently. Many did not even know they were dead. He'd never had to reason with the spirit of a person who'd died peacefully in their own bed. "Where did you obtain your information?"

Eve lifted her chin defiantly. "I've interviewed several of the town residents who were alive at that time. We're fortunate that only thirty years have passed. Some of Viola's friends are still living, and are quite willing to talk about her."

"And Alistair's friends?"

Eve's lips thinned. Her eyes hardened. Yes, she could be an unforgiving woman. "From what I have found, he had none." Again, she glanced at the clock.

"Why are you constantly checking the time?" Lucien asked testily. "Are you expecting someone?"

Eve laid her eyes on him and smiled. It was not a happy smile. "I'm expecting Viola and Alistair. Every night, at ten-fifteen, they make their first appearance."

It was almost ten-fifteen. "Do they knock about? Move objects? Slam doors?"

Eve looked quite satisfied with herself. "Oh, Viola and Alistair do much more than that."

She tilted her head, lifted her eyes, and a half second later Lucien heard a muted thump. A moment passed and then there was another ominous thud, a scrape of something solid across the floor above. The rattlings of unhappy ghosts were quite common, in Lucien's experience, so he was not surprised.

Then he heard a voice—a woman's soft voice—drifting down the stairs. He couldn't make out the words, but yes... That was definitely a woman's voice. The voice was oddly clear, unbroken by time and space.

He glared at Eve. His heart began to beat harder than it should. "Is this some kind of joke?"

She shook her head. "No joke."

"This isn't your idea of... retaliation?"

Eve remained outwardly calm. "Why on earth would I waste my time on retaliation? You're not that important to me, Lucien."

A new excitement grew within him. His heart raced and his fingers twitched. "And you can hear them, too?"

"Of course I can hear them."

"They're auditory?"

"I'm afraid so."

Lucien often heard soft, distorted mutterings others did not, and sometimes the ghosts who spoke to him communicated in a way few understood—but only rarely did a spirit actually make its voice heard so that anyone and everyone could hear.

The female mutterings were followed by a long, low moan, and then another, and then another. Lucien kept his eyes on the ceiling, as did Eve. He held his breath. Voices, ghostly voices, mingled with groans and the occasional thud and, finally, a low cry.

"He's killing her," Lucien said as he stepped from the parlor and to the foot of the stairs. "My God, you can actually hear him killing her."

"No, Lucien..." Eve began, following him as he stepped onto the stairway. "He's not..."

A loud scream split the night, and Lucien took the stairs two at a time. Eve was directly behind him. "Which way?" he asked as he reached the top of the stairs.

"Left," she said. "The door at the end of the hallway. But, Lucien..."

He ran down the short hallway and threw open the door. Unmuffled by walls and space, the sounds continued. The bed creaked and moved gently. White sheets, rising and falling as if actual bodies were concealed there, drifted and danced. Lucien needed no added illumination to see the ghosts. Shapeless and hazy as they were, the spirits had a light all their own, a faint, pure glow of energy glimmering from beneath the white sheet that covered them.

A murmur of indistinct voices drifted from the bed. There was a verbal exchange between a man and a woman, followed by a faint trill of laughter. The woman moaned again and the sheet moved slowly. As if tossed by an impatient hand, the sheet fluttered up and down and off the bed, leaving the ghosts uncovered. Even though they were not fully formed, Lucien could see that they were intertwined. And the way they moved...

Lucien closed the door and turned about, almost running into Eve. He caught himself just before his body and hers collided. "No," he said, feeling the hot blush rise to his cheeks. "He's definitely not killing her."

"Yet," Eve said calmly, and then she turned and led the way down the stairs.

* * *

Eve had not expected the sight of Lucien to touch her this way. In fact, she'd been hardening her heart for days, telling herself again and again that she would not be affected at all by his presence.

Most of what she experienced when she looked at him was pure anger, in spite of her plan to remain calm and unaffected. A little anger was only natural, she reasoned. After all, the man had left her waiting at the altar, two years ago.

He had tried desperately to explain away the infraction, saying that he had merely been late. Three days late. But some things could not be easily explained away. Some grievances should not be forgiven.

She led the way back into the parlor, where she took the chair by the window. Not the couch, where he might sit beside her, not the more comfortable wing chair close to the couch. Here by the window she was isolated. Distant. This was as close to Lucien as she cared to be.

"They become more distinct as the anniversary of their deaths approaches," she said, keeping her voice businesslike and cool. "I didn't see or hear them at all, when I moved into the house in late July. Over time, I became aware of their presence, and in the past month they've been impossible to ignore. I'm not sure how distinct they might become, since apparently no one has lived in the house for very long, in the past thirty years. A few people tried to lease the house, but none stayed more than a few weeks."

"Who owns the place?" Lucien asked as he sat in the wing chair, stretching his long legs before him.

Eve stared at him. "I do."

He raised his rakish eyebrows in obvious surprise. Good Lord, he needed a haircut. His dark hair touched his collar, curling there just slightly. The man had to be reminded to do the most simple things. He was so addle-brained she was surprised he remembered to dress himself in the morning.

"This is your house?"

"It was quite a bargain," she said, smiling slightly. "And the location is perfect. My Aunt Constance lives in Savannah, which is a short train ride from Plummerville." Close enough for the occasional visit, not so close that her twittering cousins would be constantly underfoot. "And I do love this house. It's quaint and warm, not too large for one person and not too small. As soon as Viola and Alistair are gone, it'll be perfect." Viola and Alistair and him, she thought to herself. Lucien Thorpe was as annoying as any ghost. "I thought that perhaps they'd be easier to lead to the other side as they become more distinct, much like the Roxbury spirits."

"Perhaps. They appear to be replaying that last night of their lives. Do you think we will be able to communicate with them?" Lucien's blue eyes positively sparkled. Nothing else excited him like the prospect of speaking to a ghost or two.

"I don't know," she said softly. "I've tried, but they seem to be unaware of my presence. That's why I sent for you, Lucien." Maddening as he was, he did have a gift.

"If they can explain to us what happened that night, what led up to the murder, perhaps that will bring an end to the cycle."

"We know what happened," Eve said testily.

"Then why are they still here?"

Above their heads all had been quiet for a few moments, but Viola and Alistair began again, as they always did. Viola moaned, and the bed thumped onto the floor. Eve squirmed in her chair, just a bit.

"How long does this go on?" Lucien asked, glancing warily up to the ceiling.

"Another hour and a half, or so."

"Oh." That utterance revealed his distress. "What happens then?"

She had been documenting the phenomenon for weeks. "There's a period of silence, and then they come downstairs." Unable to remain still, she rose from her chair and walked to the doorway. It was a relief to turn her back to Lucien, to not have to look at him and maintain a calm demeanor. "Viola dies here, at the foot of the stairs. Crying." Eve shuddered. "Screaming. I have not seen or heard Alistair's death, but I understand his body was found with hers."

Lucien came up behind her and glanced over her shoulder, even though there was nothing to see, yet. She could feel him there, as if he agitated the air around him. "So he... they... ahem... for more than an hour and a half, and then he kills her?"

"Yes," Eve whispered. She didn't turn to look at Lucien, but she knew he was blushing. How could a man so tall, so strong, and so damnably handsome blush so easily? He always had, for as long as she'd known him. Dealing with the living had always been difficult for Lucien. He could be a well-spoken scholar one moment, and stumble over the simplest words the next. "They make passionate, noisy, earth-shattering love for well over an hour, and then he chases her down the stairs and thrusts a knife into her back."

She turned to see that Lucien had gone beet red. Good. She didn't want him to be comfortable when she could not. Upstairs, Viola laughed. A moment later she moaned, then cried aloud.

At one time, Eve had believed that Lucien was the man who would show her what it was like to moan and cry and laugh in the dark. Unfortunately, he loved his ghosts more than he'd ever loved her.

"Tea?" she didn't wait for an answer, but turned and headed for the kitchen. "We have a while to wait before the murder takes place."

"Tea would be lovely," Lucien said. She heard him open one of the two cases he'd carried in and he began to remove his equipment.

Eve sighed. She did not want to ask. More than that, she did not want to care. "Did you have supper?"

There was a short pause before he answered. "No, I don't believe I did."

Eve shook her head. The man needed a keeper! He couldn't even remember when he'd last eaten. And to think she'd almost volunteered for that position... Lucien Thorpe's keeper. His wife.

Perhaps he had done her a favor by leaving her at the altar. Humiliating her in front of her friends and family. Leaving her there for hours to wonder if he was hurt or ill or simply didn't love her. Letting her sit there until midnight had come and gone, and everyone else had left, and she'd come to the realization—there in the dark—that she wasn't the kind of woman who would ever be on the receiving end of the powerful kind of love she was prepared to give.

Lucien's explanation, delivered three days later, that he'd been on a very interesting case and the day had slipped past without notice, had only strengthened that realization. Men didn't fall madly in love with women like Eve Abernathy. She was too simple to incite passion, too plain to enflame undying love for life. Men like Lucien expected that women like her would wait forever. Well, she might be simple and plain, but she did have her pride. She would not abide being forgotten.

If she had been able to think of any other solution to her problem, she never would have contacted Lucien Thorpe.

As Eve boiled water for tea and viciously sliced ham and bread for a man who couldn't even remember to eat, Viola screamed and the house shuddered.

Poor Viola. When Eve compared her own problems to those of the murdered woman, she actually felt grateful for her less than illustrious life. Viola Stamper had married a man who, from all accounts, had loved her madly. And she had loved him, too. To those who looked on, their marriage had been ideal.

But things are not always what they appear to be. Somewhere along the way Alistair had begun to neglect Viola for his work. He had relegated her to second best, behind his business ventures. Eve knew how that felt. It was painful to be second best. It was excruciating to be forgotten.

Viola had problems of her own. She had become restless when their three years of marriage did not produce a child. The lonely woman, neglected by her husband and without a child to lavish her attentions upon, had allegedly fallen into an affair with another man.

Alistair had discovered his wife's infidelity, and from what Eve had learned—and judging by what she saw and heard every night—it appeared that he had forgiven her. But he hadn't forgiven, not really. He had only pretended to forgive her foolish mistake.

On Halloween night, 1855, Alistair Stamper had thoroughly seduced and then coldly murdered his unfaithful wife.

Eve shuddered. Perhaps she really was better off forever unmarried.

Chapter 2

While Eve prepared tea, Lucien unpacked his equipment and set it up, taking extra special care with the newly redesigned Thorpe Specter-o-Meter. When it was working properly, the device was able to measure the amount of ghostly energy in the air, which was indicated by the fluctuation of a red needle. Unfortunately, it didn't work properly as often as it worked improperly. Still, he had great hopes for the machine. It was a promising work in progress.

The Thorpe Ectoplasm Harvester was simpler and more likely to function correctly. Unfortunately, one had to be directly upon the spirit for the apparatus to work. He imagined he could carry the harvester upstairs and lay it on the bed where the ghosts frolicked, but that seemed... rude, even where the dead were concerned. He'd try it downstairs, at the point of the murder, first. If that didn't work, then he would try another, more intrusive method.

As he carefully assembled the equipment, he listened to the sounds of Eve puttering about in the kitchen. She had forgotten that he had exceptional hearing... or else she didn't care that he heard her occasionally mutter words like jackass and dimwit and another, more vile word he had not imagined she even knew. Those words were complemented by the random banging of pots and a thwack that sounded suspiciously like a knife hitting soundly against a cutting board.

He smiled as he adjusted the needle on the specter-o-meter. Eve tried to be a proper lady, but thank God she was not. There was too much fire in her blood for proper. And she had always been able to surprise him, with an intelligent comment or a full-throated laugh. At one time he had been looking forward to a lifetime of surprises, with her as his wife. She wasn't like other women, not at all. She didn't waste her time on tedious activities like primping or embroidering or planning unnecessary parties. Intelligence made her eyes sparkle, curiosity made her occasionally brave and often bolder than she should be. Eve Abernathy was a world of surprises, he imagined. He hadn't known she could be so damned unforgiving.

He hadn't intended to leave her waiting at the altar. He'd been summoned to rid a house of its pesky ghost, and from the information he'd been given he had assumed that the job would take no more than a few days. Usually he was in and out of a house in well under a week.

But the ghost of Winifred Kent had been resistant. More than that, her hands had been incredibly visible, as she knocked up and down the stairs, apparently unable to move elsewhere. Winifred had broken the specter-o-meter he'd been developing at the time, sending the needle right off the scale. She had tried to talk to him, he knew it, but like most ghosts—unlike Viola and Alistair—she had been unable to make a sound. Mrs. Kent had refused to use his own body to speak through; he had sensed her fear at that prospect. So there they were, needing to communicate but unable to do so, Winifred's hands expressive and insistent, Lucien's powers failing him in a most unusual way. How many hours had he stood on those stairs, knowing that the words the spirit wanted to say were floating just out of reach? Winifred had, eventually, made her wishes known, and Lucien had led her to the other side, where she could rest in peace.

He never knew what might be holding a ghost on the wrong side, caught between life and death, unable to move on. Sometimes the reasons were shocking. Sometimes, as with Winifred, the reasons were small. Not at all the sort of thing you might expect. Winifred had fallen down the stairs and broken her neck. At first Lucien had, of course, suspected that she had not fallen, but had been pushed. Sometimes a spirit demanded justice, and would not rest until it was delivered.

But Winifred had not been searching for revenge or justice. In the end it was determined that she had, indeed, fallen. She'd been on her way down the stairs to weed her garden. Winifred had loved her garden. She'd spent hours every day caring for it.

Once Lucien had discovered that fact, he'd taken a chance and led Winifred down the stairs, into the library, and out the French doors into her beloved garden. They had talked a while—well, he had talked and Winifred had listened—and he'd shown Mrs. Kent how carefully her daughter was now tending the flowers that grew there. The phantom that had been Winifred Kent became still and calm, and then she'd moved on.

And an hour or so later, Lucien had seen a calendar and remembered Eve and the wedding date that had passed.

But had she listened to his explanations? No. She'd stood before him still and quiet, downright stony, her spine rigid and her eyes hard as emeralds while he stumbled over his explanation. Stubborn woman.

By the time Eve returned to the parlor, Lucien had the equipment set up and ready to go. Eve came in carrying a silver tray bearing two cups of steaming tea and a plate piled high with meat and bread. She always tried to feed him too much, for some reason.

She studied his equipment and sighed in what might be despair. "After Viola and Alistair make their final appearance for the night, you can go to the boarding house and secure a room."

"At this hour?" Lucien asked.

"You can hardly stay here," Eve said primly. "It wouldn't be proper."

Lucien grumbled. Of course she was right. It was different when there was a large group investigating a haunting, as was usually the case. This time there was just the two of them, and for him to remain here with Eve would certainly be considered improper. But he cared little for what was proper, and so did Eve, as he remembered.

"Where is this boarding house?"

Eve smiled. "Just a block down from the train station."

"I don't suppose you have a horse I could borrow."

"No," she said calmly. "I always prefer to walk to town. The exercise is good for me, and this time of year the cold air can be invigorating."

He had quite a walk ahead of him, and Eve knew it. She also knew that the October air was quickly turning from invigorating to icy. "Fine," he said as he took the plate containing his late supper, and Eve placed his cup of tea on a nearby table. She took her own teacup and saucer to a table on the opposite side of the room. All night, she had walked away from him.

Upstairs, the bed Viola and Alistair occupied creaked and scraped across the floor. The voices drifting down were softer than they had been before, but still crystal clear and undeniably amorous. Lucien's collar became quite tight. Maybe if he continued to talk, the sounds emanating from above stairs would be less distracting.

"Why me?" he asked as he swallowed a bite of ham and bread. "I'm not the only specialist in this field, you know."

Eve huffed. "You were not my first choice."

"I thought not."

"Hugh Felder is in London, and he won't be back until well after Halloween. I was afraid to wait that long. The anniversary of the incident might be important."

"Hugh is quite good," Lucien allowed. "I can see why you might try to contact him first." There was no insult in being chosen after anyone as talented and dedicated as Hugh Felder.

"You weren't my second choice, either," Eve said without emotion. "Unfortunately, Lionel Brandon fell down the stairs at his last job and broke his leg. He'll be housebound for several more weeks."

"Really?" Lucien tried not to smile. He had never liked Lionel. The man grinned entirely too much, and Lucien had found Brandon to be much too friendly with Eve, not long before the aborted wedding. She had brushed the inappropriate behavior off as the young man's normal gregarious manner. Lucien had not been able to be so cavalier. "Was he pushed by a spirit not yet ready to depart?"

"Tripped over a board not properly nailed down."

So, he had not been her first choice or her second. They worked in a small community. There weren't that many ghost chasers for her to choose from. Lucien took a long sip of tea, and in the ensuing silence, Viola wailed. "What about O'Hara?" he asked as he set the tea aside, anxious to continue the conversation. Anything to keep his mind off what was going on above his head.

Eve pursed her lips. Her nose twitched as she said, "O'Hara is a moron."

Lucien lifted his eyebrows, confused. He'd always considered O'Hara quite competent, and at one time Eve had thought him brilliant. And now she preferred facing him and their unfortunate history to contacting O'Hara. "A moron?"

"Yes," Eve snapped. "That left you."

"A last resort." Lucien stared at Eve for a few uncomfortable minutes. Looking at her had never been a chore, and it wasn't now. "But O'Hara..."

"I'd really rather not talk about O'Hara, if you don't mind." Eve lifted her chin stubbornly.

She looked most childlike, most innocent, when she was trying to appear staid and unyielding. That attempt at building a sober facade had always struck him as being like a child playing at being a grown-up. Only in this case, it was a lovely, sweet young woman playing at being as hard and inflexible as any man. Which she was not.

He brushed off the thought that if Eve were now truly harder and more inflexible than she had once been, it was his doing.

"I don't understand," Lucien said. "O'Hara is young, but he has an apparent natural talent, and he's always seemed friendly enough..."

"O'Hara attempted to put his hand up my skirt at the Tristan haunting," Eve interrupted sharply, losing her patience and her rigid expression. "He got a little bit too friendly for my liking, and I had no desire to invite him to my home. There, are you satisfied?"

Lucien set his food aside, no longer hungry. "That incompetent, vulgar philanderer," he said through clenched teeth. "Where is he now, Eve? You seem to know where everyone else is. Where can O'Hara be found? As soon as I get rid of your ghosts, I'm going to..."

"Stop this," Eve said softly. "You have no right to become incensed, and no reason to defend me. I can defend myself."

"I'm sure you can, but..."

Her hands balled into small, pale fists. Her green eyes hardened. "Lucien Thorpe, you gave up the right to be proprietary when you left me standing in the church in my best dress, waiting for you in front of everyone I knew and loved."

Lucien held up both hands. He had tried to explain once, and Eve had refused to listen. Would she listen now? "I had a visible spiritual body part on my hands... so to speak. I did not forget you, Eve, I simply forgot what day it was." The manifested hands of an avid gardener were probably not impressive to a woman who presently had two seemingly well-formed ghosts mating in her bed. But at the time, he had been dazzled.

"Apparently it wasn't a very important day," she countered. "At least, not to you."

"Eve..."

She held up a hand. "Can we call an end to this discussion? You're not here to relive and explain away ancient history. You're here to get rid of my ghosts. That is all."

"Fine," he said, settling back in his chair. A ghostly laugh drifted down. Something, a headboard perhaps, banged against a wall. He said no more. Torturous as it was, listening to two ghosts make passionate love above their heads was preferable to continuing this conversation.

* * *

Every other night since she'd become aware of the haunting, Eve dreaded the approach of this time. Eleven forty-seven. She hated to hear Viola scream and cry... she hated to hear the woman die at her husband's hand.

But tonight she'd be glad to get it over with.

Tonight the silence that always preceded the end of the evening was heavenly, more so than usual. To be forced to sit here and look at Lucien without visible emotion while amorous antics went on above their heads had been torment. Pure torment.

A few minutes of perfect and peaceful quiet always came before the final, violent event. In that eerie silence, Eve glanced at the clock, then nodded her head to Lucien as she stood. Together, they stepped into the foyer. He very carefully placed his ectoplasm harvester at the foot of the stairs. The Thorpe Specter-o-Meter was already sitting nearby.

Right on time, Viola appeared in the hallway on the second floor. She was clearer tonight than she had been last night, and last night she'd been more distinct than she'd been the night before. She was still a pale, white transparent figure, but each night the details became a little clearer. Eve couldn't help but wonder what Lucien, who always saw and heard more than anyone else, saw when he looked at Viola.

"Fully formed manifestation," he muttered, completely in awe as Viola, hair flowing and wrapper dancing around her legs, ran down the stairs. At the foot of the stairs, she stopped, looked into the parlor, and then turned away. The red needle on Lucien's specter-o-meter jumped and twitched. The spring broke, and with a final twist the needle jumped and fell crookedly and broken to one side. Lucien hardly seemed to notice his equipment's failure as the vision that was Viola threw her head back, screamed, and crumpled to the floor.

She didn't die right away; she never did. A wounded Viola lay there, facedown, and cried. She wailed, as if her heart was as broken as her body. Her wrapper slid down her back, as if someone... her killer... her husband... removed it slowly. When the wrapper passed her waist and revealed her backside, Lucien reached out and covered Eve's eyes with one large hand.

She slapped his hand away. "Oh for God's sake," she whispered. "I've seen this before."

Viola spoke, but her words were indistinct, as if they traveled over a long distance and could not quite reach the ears of the living. She sounded as if she were pleading; she probably did just that. Pleading with a man who had made love to her and then stabbed her. Begging the man she loved to spare her life. No wonder she haunted this house.

The woman lay, naked and shimmering, on the floor. Fair hair fell over her face, around her shoulders. Her back, marred by her own blood, rose and fell as she struggled to breathe. She tried to rise but the effort was weak, as if she knew struggling was useless.

Eve's heart jumped in her chest as Viola jerked violently, as the apparition was stabbed for the second time. She cried out, and this time the word she cried was distinct enough to send chills dancing down Eve's spine. Alistair. The woman on the floor crumpled, and the vision that was Viola faded.

For a long moment, both Eve and Lucien were completely quiet. The violence of the encounter hung in the air. The sadness for a life taken in that way was not dimmed by the passing years. Viola had been young—twenty-four, three years younger than Eve was today—when she'd died. It wasn't right.

"How horrible," Lucien said softly.

"Yes," Eve agreed.

Lucien squatted down and retrieved his ectoplasm harvester. It was full to overflowing. He glanced at the specter-o-meter and cursed beneath his breath. And then he looked up at her. "This happens every night?"

She nodded. "Just before midnight. At first I couldn't hear anything, and Viola and Alistair weren't well formed at all. They were bits of soft light, like the ones we saw at the Warwick haunting."

Lucien nodded and looked away, and Eve immediately regretted mentioning the Warwick case. She'd fallen in love with Lucien as they'd investigated that house, and she had believed he'd fallen in love with her. Turns out she'd been nothing more to him than a passing fancy, one easily dismissed.

Viola and Alistair were gone, and they wouldn't be back until tomorrow night, about ten-fifteen. They'd be more distinct than ever, come tomorrow. Louder and more vivid as they relived that last night of their lives once again.

Lucien had already gone to comfort and cuddle his specter-o-meter with gentle hands. "Off the scale," he muttered as he sat on the floor and fiddled with his contraption. "Amazing."

"Well," she said with a relieved sigh. "That's it for this evening. I'll see you tomorrow. You can leave your equipment here, if you like."

The expression on his face was one of revulsion.

"I won't touch anything," Eve assured him.

Lucien looked up from his position on the floor. "You don't really expect me to walk to the boarding house tonight, do you? Everyone there will surely be asleep, and besides... it's a long walk and it's cold out."

"Well, you can't stay here."

"Why not?"

She rolled her eyes in exasperation. The man was half-witted! "I live here in Plummerville. This is my home, and will be for many years to come. What would the neighbors think if I allowed a man to stay overnight?"

"What neighbors?" he asked blithely. "The nearest house is a quarter of a mile away."

Eve pursed her lips. True enough. "That detail is of no importance. Besides, I have four bedrooms upstairs, but only two are actually furnished with beds. My room and... Viola and Alistair's room. There's no place for you to stay."

"Let me fix this," Lucien said, returning his attention to the damaged contraption in his lap. "And when I'm done I'll sleep on the sofa."

Eve glanced at the serpentine-backed sofa in the parlor. It was about five feet long. Lucien was six foot two. "Fine," she said. "Ruin my reputation. Brand me as an immoral woman among my neighbors. Stay here so that no decent man will ever think of courting me."

"All right," Lucien said absently, his mind already elsewhere as he fiddled cautiously with his malfunctioning contraption.

Eve stomped one foot, another gesture that went unnoticed, and then climbed the stairs, leaving Lucien to repair the damage Viola had done to his specter-o-meter. She glanced down into the foyer as she reached the top of the stairs, and the anger she'd worked so hard to put on her face faded. Inside her, all that anger melted. Dissolved.

It wasn't fair. Lucien Thorpe was a genius. He could be kind, on occasion, and though he didn't smile often, when he did the effect was dazzling. He was handsome, tall, lean, dark, and even now, when she looked at him, her heart leapt in her chest and her stomach did flips. Many people said he was odd, and in truth she couldn't argue with that accusation. But when she looked at Lucien she saw more than an oddity. She saw all of him.

He'd kissed her, more than once, and he was a very fine kisser. In those moments when they'd embraced he hadn't been odd or a genius. He had just been a man. Her man. She could imagine, too well, what it would be like to laugh and moan in the dark, with Lucien touching and kissing her.

As she stood in the upstairs hallway and looked down, her heart sank. She would never know what it felt like to be with any man in that way, because the only man she would ever love was more fascinated by the dead than he would ever be with her.

Chapter 3

Lucien awoke to the unpleasant sensation of a solid object poking at his ribs. Repeatedly. He opened one eye to see that a frowning Eve stood over him, leaning slightly forward as she nudged him almost angrily with a cane. "Wake up," she insisted.

No one should be so beautiful in the morning, he thought dreamily. Even with that frown on her face and the unflattering brown dress stark against her fine skin, Evie was most beautiful. He was tempted to tell her so, but since she was armed with a walking cane and likely to whack him across the head if he said anything she might consider improper, he kept his thoughts to himself.

"It was sunrise before I got to sleep," he said, considering that explanation enough as he closed his eye.

"Too bad," she said, poking harder. "I'm expecting a delivery from the general store this morning, and Mrs. Markham is supposed to call before noon. You can't stay here. I can't have visitors arriving to find you sleeping on the parlor floor!"

"The couch was too short," he explained.

"Lucien!"

He sat up slowly. The woman was unmerciful. Beautiful, yes, but also quite unmerciful.

"If you insist on sleeping the morning away, you can use Viola and Alistair's room," she said, her voice tight and her spine rigid.

"You're up," he said as he stood carefully and stretched stiff muscles that protested his sleeping arrangements. "Why can't I sleep in your bed?"

"No!" Horror flashed in her eyes, and spots of color rose to her pale cheeks. "It wouldn't be proper."

"When did you get so all-fired concerned about what was proper?" he asked, collecting his jacket from the sofa and his shoes from the floor.

"When I came here to make a home." She sighed. "Viola and Alistair never appear before ten-fifteen at night. They won't bother you."

"My concern is that I will bother them. Now is not the time to disrupt their home, and they're obviously most... uh... comfortable in that particular room."

Eve followed him as he headed for the stairs. "I've never seen or heard any sign of them during the day," she said, stopping at the foot of the stairs as he continued upward.

"Perhaps they won't mind, then." Lucien stopped at the top of the stairs and turned to look down at Eve. Yes, she was always beautiful, but she was even more stunning when she smiled. And she had the most wonderful laugh, real and sweet. He had missed that laugh, in the past two years. Would he ever hear it again? "Who's Mrs. Markham?"

She didn't smile, but her eyes did light up. "Justina Markham. She was a friend of Viola's. She discovered the bodies."

Lucien's eyebrows popped up. "She did? And you're just now speaking with her?"

"She's been in Alabama visiting with her daughter, and only returned two days ago. She wanted a day or two to rest before speaking to me, but she agreed to stop by this morning."

"Wake me if she has anything interesting to say."

"Of course," Eve said brightly and much too sarcastically. "I'll just ask her to wait a moment while I go wake the man who's sleeping in my house!"

"Take notes, then," he said as he turned and headed for Viola and Alistair's bedroom.

"I always do."

The bed in the chamber at the end of the hall was neatly made. No sign of the ghostly activities that had taken place here last night lingered. Lucien closed the door and looked around, searching the darkest corners for signs that he was not alone. He often saw what others did not. A flash of light, a shimmer, a disturbance in the air. Spirits who showed themselves were visible to him long before they became visible to others. It had always been that way.

All seemed quiet here. He saw nothing, and still he felt that perhaps he was not alone.

He placed his jacket over the back of a chair and his shoes on the floor. "I don't want to disturb you," he said softly. "I only wish to rest in your bed for a few hours."

Nothing. Not a sound or a speck of light that did not belong. Perhaps Eve was right and the spirits only came at night. Timely hauntings were not an unheard-of phenomenon. He removed his shirt and trousers and underthings, and threw back the coverlet. If he had remembered to pack a nightshirt, he might wish he had carried his bag up the stairs, but as he had not it mattered little. He usually slept naked, anyway.

The bed did look wonderful, after a couple of hours of sleeping on the hard parlor floor. Felt wonderful, too, as he slipped beneath the sheet and heavy quilt and the mattress sagged beneath his weight. Tonight would be another late night, he imagined, and he'd need to be well rested.

He didn't fall immediately to sleep, but drifted unerringly in that direction. Half asleep, comfortable at last, he let his mind wander to Eve. In the past two years he had devoted himself to his work, only rarely allowing himself to think of Eve and what his life would be like if he hadn't mucked things up. There were few people in this world he could truly talk to about his work. Eve was one of those people. There were even fewer who understood. Eve understood. He wanted to believe that there were other solutions to her current spirit problem than calling on him for help. He wanted to believe that she'd contacted him because she wanted to see him again. It was a nice idea, that this particular haunting might be more than a job. That it might be a second chance.

A sharp knock sounded on the door before he could fall asleep with that pleasant thought in his mind. "Come in," he muttered, stifling a yawn.

The door swung cautiously open, and Eve's head appeared. "Your bag," she said coolly, dropping his smaller case onto the floor by the door.

"My equipment!" Lucien said, sitting up as he came instantly awake.

Eve turned her head so she would not be subjected to the sight of his bare chest. She apparently found a spiderweb in one corner fascinating. "Don't worry. I won't allow anyone to study or harm your precious equipment. The ectoplasm harvester and the sample you collected last night are stored in the dining room, under the buffet, and I moved the specter-o-meter to a corner of the parlor and covered it with a crocheted blanket, so no one will see it. I would have put it in the dining room also, but it was too heavy for me to move that far without assistance."

"Thank you," he said, much relieved. "I do trust you with my equipment, Evie. But no one else can touch it. No one." He yawned again.

She slammed the door.

* * *

Eve opened the kitchen door to a knock she had become familiar with, since arriving in Plummerville, Georgia. A fit older man, Gerald Porter looked to be somewhere in his fifties. Late fifties, if Eve was judging correctly. He had no family that she knew of, but seemed to be on good terms with everyone in Plummerville.

He lived in a room over the general store, and did odd jobs all around town. One of his regular jobs was delivering for the general store, as well as a few other businesses in town. Since Eve didn't have a horse, much less a horse and buggy, she had relied on Gerald several times. The walk to the main street and the shops there was lovely and brisk, but she had no desire to attempt to carry her purchases all that way home.

Gerald carried in two small burlap sacks containing the supplies she'd chosen from the general store yesterday morning. As always, he greeted her with a warm smile and a wink. He had thick white hair, twinkling pale blue eyes, and a quick smile. It was that smile, she imagined, that made him seem instantly like a friend she'd known for years.

Since Gerald had lived here in Plummerville thirty years ago, he had been an invaluable resource for information on Viola and Alistair. Apparently he had been doing odd jobs even then, and had actually worked for the Stampers on occasion. Yardwork, primarily, though he did remember doing a few minor repairs to the house itself.

"Seen any shades?" he asked with another wink.

Clear-eyed and without blinking, Eve lied. "No, I'm afraid not." Even though she liked Gerald and hated being dishonest with him, she didn't want or need a bunch of curious townspeople poking their noses into her business. And Gerald, gossip that he was, would surely spread the tale all over town.

Everyone knew that the house was supposedly haunted, and several residents had teasingly asked her if she'd seen Viola and Alistair. It was easy to deny their existence, and those who asked were laughingly relieved to hear that there were no ghosts. No one was around to contradict Eve. None of the people who had actually lived in this house in the past thirty years remained in Plummerville. For most of that thirty years the house had stood empty. Those who had lived here, for short periods of time, had all managed to move on. Rather quickly from what she heard.

If the rumors of ghostly sightings started all over again, there would be at least a few curious neighbors who would not or could not stay away. Children would dare one another to come to the door, brave souls would drop by hoping for a glimpse. She would become, "that lady who lives in the haunted house." Yes, it was best that everyone believe the house to be ghost-free. Hopefully, it soon would be.

Gerald took the coin she pressed into his large, rough hand. "I always knew those ghost stories was hogwash," he said. "You're a good, sensible woman who's not likely to imagine something silly like ghosts. But you know how easy it is to stir people up, and when folks find out there was a murder and a suicide in this house, their imaginations just take over." He shook his head. "People can be so foolish."

"That's probably true."

Gerald leaned against the counter and pocketed his coin while Eve unpacked her supplies. She never had to worry about what to talk about when she was with Gerald. He always carried the conversation. "It's such a sad story, though," he said with a sigh. "Poor Miss Viola, she was a kind, thoughtful woman. And that Alistair, he had a lot of people fooled. Seemed like a nice man, most of the time, but he had a temper." The older man shook his head. "And that temper of his killed Miss Viola. Thirty years past, and I still can't believe he did it."

She'd never asked Gerald any personal questions about the Stampers. Such information was more easily discussed with another woman, and Eve had been able to find several who didn't mind sharing a little bit of old gossip.

But time was running short. If she was embarrassed to discuss such delicate matters with a man, well, perhaps it was best to put that embarrassment aside and think of the more important issue. Ridding her house of unwanted spirits.

"He was very jealous, I imagine." By all accounts, Viola had been a strikingly beautiful woman. Alistair, nine years older than his wife, had guarded her as if he were afraid he could not keep her. And he'd been right. "Hearing that she'd taken up with another man must have destroyed him." So why did they frolic so happily in their bed before he killed her? Alistair had indeed been cruel, if he could pull off that charade. If he could convince Viola that he loved her and forgave her, make love to her for hours, and then stab her in the back, then he had been truly evil.

She was beginning to think all men were evil, each in their own way.

Gerald leaned in close. "You're right. He was a jealous man."

Eve decided to push a little more. "Old rumor is so unreliable, but I did hear that he had good reason to be."

Gerald took the bait. "From what I heard back in those days, Mr. Stamper was livid when he found out what Miss Viola had been up to, and rightly so."

Eve nodded as she handed the empty sacks to Gerald. "I can imagine." She tried to appear only mildly interested in the old story. Curious, but not obsessed. "And you're sure no one knows who this man Viola took up with was?" She had asked the question before, had posed it to several women from town, but she had never gotten a satisfactory answer. From anyone.

Gerald shook his head. "Miss Viola was discreet, I'll give her that. After the Stampers died there was lots of talk, but it was mostly just guessing. Some said it was a stranger passing through town that caught Miss Viola's fancy, others said she'd taken up with the Baptist preacher."

"The preacher?" This was news she had not heard before now.

"He was a young, good-looking fella, back then." Gerald lowered his voice. "Some said he was sweet on Miss Viola from the first day he saw her."

Eve tried to appear completely nonchalant. "This wasn't, by chance, the same Reverend Younger who preaches fire and brimstone each and every Sunday?"

Gerald nodded. "One and the same. Of course, he wasn't married then, and if I remember correct-like he was at least a couple of years younger than Miss Viola, not much more than a kid. Probably nothing to that rumor." He leaned in and waggled his bushy eyebrows. "But you never know."

Eve tried to picture the preacher she knew, a staid, priggish man, seducing a married woman. She couldn't. But then, thirty years was a long time, and young men did foolhardy things in the name of love.

She could hardly wait for Mrs. Markham's arrival.

* * *

Lucien smiled. What a lovely dream. He felt himself growing alert—slowly but surely—but he did not want to wake. Not yet. In his dream soft hands caressed him. Evie's hands. She wasn't angry anymore, she had finally forgiven him. She must have, otherwise she wouldn't be dragging the sheet off his body that way, she wouldn't be fluttering her fingers across his chest and down to his belly, and she definitely wouldn't be...

That wasn't Eve. Lucien's eyes flew open and he sat up as the sheet that had been covering him slid off the bed and fluttered away. The quilt he had pulled to his chin as he fell asleep was already there, in a heap on the floor. Had he thrown it off? No, he didn't think so.

The air around the bed bent and shimmered, and once again Lucien felt hands on his body. Bold, caressing, cold hands.

"Viola?" he whispered.

The spirit answered, or at least she tried. He could almost hear her. It was as if she spoke beyond his hearing, as she had last night when she'd pleaded for her life, but the sound was less distinct than it had been last night, just as Viola herself was less distinct. She was a shimmer, a glow flitting around the bed and over his body. She was very close for a moment, and then she skittered away.

He couldn't save her, he couldn't stop the murder that had taken her young life. But he could guide her spirit to a place of peace. It was what he did, after all.

"I'm here to help you." He scooted to the edge of the bed and reached down to snag the sheet. Ghost or living being, dead or alive, Viola Stamper was still a woman. He pulled the sheet across his midsection and sat up. "Let me help you."

Lucien inhaled deeply and took himself to that place he and very few others could find. He opened himself to the endless possibilities of this vast universe, he shut out the world as most people saw it. He left a part of himself behind and opened his mind to the other side.

"Viola," he whispered.

She joined him on the bed, hovering above and all around him. He saw her, in a glimmer of light and a shift of the air. For a moment, a split second, it was as if he truly saw her, then she was a vague light once again.

"Alistair." The single word drifted to him, almost out of reach but much clearer than before.

"Is he here, also?" Lucien didn't see Viola's husband, but that didn't mean he wasn't present.

A hand appeared for a moment and reached for him, before dissolving. "Yes, you are here."

"No," Lucien said, realizing the spirit's mistake. She was confusing the living with the dead. She was confusing him with her husband. "I am not..."

He felt her chilly hands on his neck, hands he could no longer see but which he felt quite well. Those hands drifted lower, caressing his chest again. Fingers fluttered. She was alternately bold and afraid.

"Why?" she asked, her voice heartbreakingly sad. "I loved you. Why?" Her hands moved lower. "Do you only love me for my body? Does my heart mean nothing to you? I gave you my heart, Alistair."

Lucien had been talking to spirits all his life, but only once before had he communicated with a ghost who actually formed a voice others could hear, as Viola and Alistair did. They were strong spirits, capable of almost anything. That kind of power could be very dangerous, though at the moment Viola didn't seem at all frightening. She was lonely, and very confused. She continued to caress him, easy one moment and then so boldly he felt the touch to his very bones.

"Viola, you must listen to me," Lucien said sternly. "I am not Alistair. My name is Lucien, and I am here to guide you home."

She would not be so easily dissuaded. And her hands were maddeningly cold and moving ever lower. "I am home," a disembodied voice whispered. Icy fingers brushed against his lower belly, delved beneath the sheet and took hold...

"Viola!" he shouted, shocked by her touch and the unbearable iciness of her fingers on his privates.

She released him and faded away, slowly, surely, and one last time he heard her wail, "Why?"

The door to the room flew open and Eve rushed in. She tripped over the throw rug by the door, stumbled across the room with arms flailing as she attempted to right herself, and fell onto the bed. Her momentum carried her squarely across Lucien's torso and knocked him flat.

Embarrassed and flustered, Eve blushed a pretty pink. Dressed primly in matronly brown, her hair tightly restrained but for a few errant curls, she was the picture of propriety—except that she now found herself lying crosswise over a naked man. She tried to find a safe space to look and could not. Apparently she had forgotten all about the spider-web in the far corner, as her gaze landed on his legs, his chest, his face. She jerked her head to the side in an effort to find a prudent place to look, and found their reflection in the mirror mounted above a walnut dresser on the opposite wall. His eyes met hers in the reflection, and her lovely face turned even pinker than before.

Her skirt was tangled around her legs, one of her combs had come loose and a few curls brushed her cheek. Lucien squelched the urge to reach out and brush that hair away from her face, to put both arms around her and hold her in place.

He did nothing. He knew full well that his assistance was not wanted, at the moment. Not the kind of assistance he wished to offer, in any case. As a flustered Eve struggled to get off him, her delicate hand accidentally landed where it had never been before.

Unlike Viola, Eve was wonderfully, arousingly warm.

If Eve hadn't been wearing a corset, she might have been able to scoot off the bed quickly. But she was so tightly bound she could probably barely breathe, much less move quickly. Lucien placed the flat of his palm against her back, as her hand very quickly moved down and away. Her fingers brushed against his thigh, and again her hand made a quick twist of attempted escape. Her body was crushed to his, but she definitely did not want to touch him.

In the past they had kissed, nothing more. Stolen kisses, full of promise and light. Their engagement had been short, less than three months, and his work had taken him away from her for weeks. A full month, once. At the time, waiting for the wedding night to take Eve into his bed had seemed like the honorable thing to do.

Now he wished they had not waited. He was afraid he would never know what it was like to lie in bed with the woman he loved beneath him. He wanted to know what Eve looked like with her hair down and those prim clothes of hers tossed aside. He wanted her naked beneath him, atop him, all around. He wanted to make love to her, to hold her, to sleep with her. If she truly didn't love him anymore, none of that would ever happen. This awkward moment would be the only time he'd ever have Eve in his bed.

He could probably help her up, but he didn't. She'd likely just slap his hand if he tried to assist her in any way. Truth be told, he wasn't quite ready to let her go. If he had his way, he'd never let her go.

"Why are you here, Evie?" he asked, his voice low.

With one knee on the edge of the mattress, she was finally able to gain some control and lift her body off his. Immediately, he missed the weight and warmth of her.

"I heard you shout," she said.

Lucien smiled. "And you were worried? You rushed up here to save me from Viola?"

Her lips pursed as she very cautiously scooted to the side. "Of course not. I was simply curious. I didn't think Viola and Alistair were about during the day."

"Oh, they're about," Lucien said absently. "At least, Viola is."

Eve sat on the side of the bed, catching her breath and placing a slightly trembling hand to her mussed hair. Her face was still flushed, and while he could not hear it, he was quite sure her heart pounded hard and fast.

Two years was too long. "Evie," he said softly, "I've missed you."

He would have thought her completely unaffected by his confession, if her lower lip didn't tremble. "You should have thought of that before you left me waiting..."

"I made a mistake," he interrupted. "I forgot the date. I never forgot you." He reached out and gently grasped her wrist. "Never."

Eve left the bed quickly, snatching her arm away and heading for the door without glancing back. "Don't you have a nightshirt?" she asked, completely ignoring his heartfelt declaration. "A decent man would wear a nightshirt to bed."

"Of course I have a nightshirt," he said, angry and embarrassed and... lost. "I just forgot to pack it."

"Of course you did," Eve muttered as she rushed out the door, slamming it closed behind her.

Lucien sighed deeply. "But I never forgot you." Damn.

Chapter 4

Justina Markham arrived shortly after the noon hour, and about ten minutes after Eve had impatiently decided she wasn't coming at all. Mrs. Markham knocked softly, and when Eve threw open the front door, the woman seemed almost surprised, as if she had expected that no one would be at home to receive her even though she'd been invited.

For an older woman, Justina Markham was quite handsome. Her smooth, thick hair was more black than white, and the wrinkles on her heart-shaped face were not deep or many. She still had a fine figure, one which was shown off well in her widow's black. She was fifty-three years old, and she had been Viola Stamper's dearest friend.

"I haven't been to this door in thirty years," she said softly, glancing inside and showing no intention of crossing the threshold.

Eve was grateful to have a subject to turn her attentions to, after the disastrous events of less than an hour ago. She certainly didn't need to dwell any longer on how exciting it had been to lie against Lucien, even for such a brief and bothersome period of time. She needed to forget how hard and warm he'd been, how she'd wanted so badly to stay there in his arms.

How silly she'd been to go rushing into the room. For a few horrifying minutes, she'd actually thought he might be in danger. Ha.

She'd much rather think about Mrs. Markham, and what the woman might tell her about Viola.

"If you find entering the house too upsetting, we can walk around to the garden while we have our conversation," Eve suggested. "Let me grab my shawl..."

"No." Mrs. Markham stepped inside tentatively, her eyes immediately going to the foot of the stairs. "Perhaps I need to do this." She walked to the center of the foyer, and clasped her hands as she stared down at the spot where Viola died each and every night. "It was horrible," she whispered. Tears sprang to her eyes.

"I'm sure it must have been," Eve said gently.

"Viola was a sweet, beautiful woman. She deserved better than to be stabbed in the back by the man she loved. She deserved better than to be left completely unclothed in a pool of her own blood." The woman shook off her sorrow and became angry. "I came here that morning because Viola was going to teach me to make apple butter. Apple butter! How does the woman who makes the best apple butter in the county end up murdered?" Justina Markham drew a handy handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed at her eyes.

"I know it's difficult," Eve said. "But I need to know exactly what you remember about that morning."

"Why?" Justina's eyes quickly went from sad to angry. "Why are you digging all this up now? Viola and Alistair are dead. They've been dead for thirty years." She paled visibly. "Don't tell me you actually believe that their ghosts haunt this house." She sniffled. "What rubbish."

Mrs. Markham might say the rumors of this house's haunting was rubbish, but the obvious fear on her face spoke differently. She glanced about the room, as if searching for a ghostly visitor.

Until now, Eve had roundly dismissed any suggestion from Plummerville residents that her house was visited by spirits. She smiled, she laughed, she brushed off the notion and changed the subject, so that she would have the privacy to do what had to be done, here.

While she was momentarily tempted to tell Justina Markham everything she'd seen and heard since moving into this cottage, she quickly decided she wasn't yet ready to take that step. "I'm sure you're right, but the stories do abound. What I've heard about the Stampers and the supposed ghostly appearances have made me curious, and I thought I might ask around and see what I could discover about the history of this house."

Mrs. Markham laid her dark eyes on Eve. "I am here, torturing myself with painful memories from long past, because you're curious?" The woman's coolness was well practiced and daunting, but it was not going to stop Eve from proceeding.

"I want to know what happened in my house," Eve explained. "Do you know, perhaps, who Viola was"—oh, there was no delicate way of putting this—"dallying with?"

Mrs. Markham's lips and eyes went hard, and Eve decided this was not a woman one would want as an enemy. There was fire in Justina Markham's eyes. "I have heard those ridiculous rumors," she said frostily. "Viola adored Alistair. They had a happy marriage. She would never have betrayed him by so much as looking at another man."

"I heard that perhaps the Reverend Younger..."

"No," Mrs. Markham interrupted sharply. "Viola was a fine woman. She did not dally with the preacher or anyone else."

"Then why did Alistair kill her?"

Mrs. Markham looked at the foot of the stairs again, remembering. "I don't know," she whispered. "But he did. I found them... Viola unclothed with those awful wounds in her back, Alistair lying over her, the knife in his hand and two stab wounds in his chest."

Eve puzzled over the picture Mrs. Markham painted. "Was Alistair also unclothed?"

"He wore a dressing gown."

"Viola was wearing a wrapper, wasn't she?"

Mrs. Markham shook her head. "No."

"Then it was lying close by," Eve prodded.

Again, Mrs. Markham shook her head.

She had seen Viola come down the stairs in that wrapper every night for a month. "Well," she muttered, "where did it go?"

Mrs. Markham glared at Eve. "What a strange question to ask. How am I to know where Viola's robe was? I imagine it was... in her bedchamber or perhaps packed away in her dresser."

It hadn't been, but there was no way to reveal that without telling Mrs. Markham exactly what she'd seen since coming here. "It just seems odd, that's all." Time to take another line of questioning. "What about Mr. Markham? Did he know Alistair? Were the four of you friends?"

Mrs. Markham turned her head away. "I wasn't married, at that time," she said. After a moment of silence she turned her head to look at Eve with questioning eyes.

"Alistair was not a perfect husband, as I'm sure you have discovered. He worked long hours, he was demanding and jealous and there might have been days when Viola regretted marrying him. But she was a decent person. She would never have committed adultery." Justina sounded defensive, as a good friend might.

"Then why did he kill her?" Eve asked for the second time.

"I don't know." Mrs. Markham was unable to hide her frustration as she answered the question once again. "Miss Abernathy," she said softly, "what do you want from me? Exactly why am I here?"

"You were Viola Stamper's dearest friend," Eve said gently. "When I invited you here and you agreed to speak with me, I did think that you might at the very least suspect that I wanted to ask questions about unfortunate past events. I truly didn't mean to upset you."

Again, Mrs. Markham let her eyes roam. Was she looking for ghosts? Or remembering days long gone?

"Perhaps we can sit in the parlor for a while," Eve suggested, indicating the room with a hand. "I'll make us a pot of tea and we can talk about anything you'd like." She was disappointed not to learn more new and exciting details from Viola's friend, but she wouldn't harangue the woman. The fact that Viola had been found naked was puzzle enough, for now. Was that a fact, or had the years twisted the memory for Mrs. Markham? That didn't seem like a detail one would forget, no matter how much time had passed.

"No, thank you," the older woman said. "I really can't stay long. There's so much to do at home, after my extended visit to Alabama."

"Of course."

In spite of her words, Mrs. Markham didn't make a move to leave. "I apologize for snapping at you, Miss Abernathy. You invited me here, but you certainly didn't force me to stop by. I think of Viola and Alistair often," she admitted. "Too often, to be honest. Some days, at the oddest moments, they just pop into my mind. Sometimes as I remember them from happier days, sometimes... the way I found them. Perhaps I thought a visit to this house would help to rid me of my own ghosts."

"I understand."

Eve found a spark of hope, where a moment earlier there had been none. Now that some of the tension had faded and Justina Markham had admitted that she did think often of the Stampers and their terrible end, perhaps she could learn something new. A forgotten tidbit, a well-kept secret. There were things Eve did not yet know about the Stampers. Many things.

Lucien, blast his hide, came waltzing down the stairs as if he lived here. Neatly dressed in a black suit and white shirt, hair combed, a smile on his handsome face, you would never know that an hour ago he had encountered a ghost while lying naked in his bed. Her bed, she amended. This was not his house, and nothing in it belonged to him. Especially not her.

"You must be Mrs. Markham," Lucien said brightly.

"Yes," she said, taken aback by his sudden appearance. "Good heavens," she muttered, shaking off her obvious surprise. "You gave me a bit of a start. You look very much like Alistair. Same hair and height, same... nose, I believe."

"I'm Lucien Thorpe," he said, extending his hand as he reached the bottom of the stairs.

"The medium," a delighted Justina said as the two of them shook hands as if they were conducting a business deal. "I've heard about you. I believe I read an article in the Savannah newspaper a few years back. Something about a hidden box of jewels and the ghost of the woman who had hidden them from her sister. Fascinating reading."

Lucien's smile faded. He positively hated being called a medium! He said the designation lumped him in with tricksters and overly sensitive women who wailed and spoke nonsense and called it a power. He didn't care much for being recognized, either. He considered his work and unusual gifts unworthy of the attention he sometimes received. Most of all, it just annoyed him.

"Actually," he said, "I'm a scientist specializing in studies of the spiritual world."

"He's an exorcist, too," Eve added spitefully, knowing how much he hated that label.

Lucien cast a quick, cutting glance Eve's way. "I do occasionally assist unhappy spirits in finding their way to the next plane, but that hardly makes me an exorcist."

Mrs. Markham looked puzzled. "Mr. Thorpe, what are you doing here in Plummerville?" After a moment's consideration, her eyes widened and her face paled. "Dear God, the stories must be true. Viola and Alistair haunt this house!"

"Well..." Eve began, as she tried to quickly formulate a reasoning for Lucien's presence that wouldn't give away her secret.

"Oh yes," he said brightly. "They're definitely in residence."

After a moment of silence, Mrs. Markham fainted. Lucien, sometimes alert and occasionally handy to have around, caught her.

* * *

Mrs. Markham came to after a few moments, found her own two feet, and bid Eve a hasty and garbled farewell. After extricating herself from Lucien's grasp, she all but ran for her horse and buggy, skirt in hand and eyes unerringly ahead.

Lucien sighed. For some reason, Eve was angry with him. Again.

"Why did you tell her Viola and Alistair haunt this house?" Eve asked sharply.

Looking out the parlor window, Lucien kept his eyes on Mrs. Markham's retreating buggy. "Because it's the truth. If you wanted to lie and tell her otherwise, you should have informed me of your ruse."

"You should have stayed upstairs and out of my way!"

Lucien turned to face Eve. The pink flush on her face was caused by anger this time, not embarrassment. "You don't want anyone to know your house is haunted."

Eve fisted her hands and glared at him. "No, I do not. I want to build an ordinary life here. I don't want to be the crazy ghost lady. I don't want people to point and whisper when they walk by my house or when I see them in town. Dammit, Lucien, I want to be normal!"

Lucien shook his head in wonder. "Why on earth would you want to be normal?" Eve was an extraordinary woman. Beautiful, intelligent, sparkling with curiosity. Normal women were boring.

"You wouldn't understand," she said, spinning around and walking away from him with her head high and her spine too straight.

"You're right," he said, doggedly following her as she walked into the foyer. "I don't understand at all. How could I possibly understand why the most exceptional woman I've ever met wishes to be ordinary?"

She snorted beneath her breath. "Exceptional," she muttered. "What hogwash."

Lucien caught up with Eve and placed a hand on her shoulder, bringing her escape to an end near the foot of the stairs. "It's not hogwash, Evie. You are exceptional."

"Don't call me Evie," she insisted, and even though she tried to be stern he could hear the tears in her voice. Her wavering demand broke his concentration, more than any angry words she could throw at him, more than any logical argument.

Lucien dropped his hand. Tears from a living woman terrified him. Perhaps if he didn't physically hold her back, Eve would escape and they could finish this conversation when she was less emotional. He could not handle emotional.

But Eve didn't walk away, she turned around to bravely face him. "You gave up the right to call me Evie. You gave up the right to sweet-talk me." Tears made her eyes bright, but they did not fall. "Maybe if I can be an ordinary woman, an ordinary man will love me. I want to have children, and learn to make apple butter, and go to church on Sundays to sit with my neighbors. I want a home, a place where I belong. Maybe if I can build a new life here, I'll quit dreaming about the life I will never have."

Her lower lip trembled, and she grew visibly angrier. Lucien relaxed a little. He could handle anger much better than he could handle tears.

"Dammit," she said forcefully, "I don't want to spend the rest of my life in love with a man who is more comfortable communicating with the dead than with the living!" With that she spun and ran up the stairs.

She was almost at the top before a stunned Lucien followed, taking the stairs two at a time. "Aha!" he said as he bounded into the upstairs hallway.

Eve stopped outside her room. "Aha? Have you just discovered something miraculous?"

"Yes," he said, walking toward her slowly. "I have."

"What?"

"You still love me."

Her eyes went wide. "I most certainly do not!"

"You said..."

"I once loved you," she said, trying to amend what she'd said in anger. "While I admire your professional capabilities, on a personal level I don't even like you." She waved a dismissive hand. "You're a Yankee, after all. And on top of that you're annoying and forgetful and unfeeling."

He didn't believe her. "Oh, I feel. And so do you."

Eve pursed her lips tightly for a moment before replying. "I do not love you. I feel absolutely nothing. What is it going to take to get this ridiculous notion out of your head?"

He thought a moment, and the solution that came to him was perfect. "Kiss me," he said.

"What?"

"One kiss." He took a step toward her. "If you feel nothing, I will concede that perhaps you really don't love me anymore, and our relationship can continue on a purely professional level."

"I'm quite sure I'll feel nothing," she said softly as he took another long step. "Nothing at all. There's no reason to continue."

"What kind of experiment would it be if I just take your word that you'll feel nothing? I prefer to judge your response for myself."

"Lucien," she said as he stopped before her, "this really isn't necessary."

"I think it is." He took her face in his hands and lowered his mouth to hers. He'd wanted to do this since she'd opened the door to him last night, but until his lips actually touched hers, he hadn't realized how much he needed this.

Eve was unyielding, for a moment, stiff and angry and determined not to feel. He moved his mouth over hers, parted his lips, sucked her lower lip ever so slightly into his mouth.

She didn't succumb all at once, but very gradually melted. Her lips softened, her body relaxed, and she began to fall into him. Her hands rested on his waist, for a moment, as if she needed the support. Gentle hands, sweet hands. He loved her hands. Eventually, those hands slipped around his waist and she held on tight.

The kiss took on a rhythm, a sensual, unrestrained cadence in time with their heartbeats.

Eve's mouth worked gently against his, yielding and demanding. Her fingers clutched at his back.

He dropped his hands from her face and let his thumbs brush against her fine, soft neck. He reveled in the feel of her skin, marveled at the sensation of her velvety flesh against his rough hands. Eve was like silk, her mouth and her flesh, and he wanted her. He hadn't realized it was possible to want a woman quite this much.

The catch low in her throat was proof enough that Eve was not unaffected, as she had insisted she would be. The experiment was done; he had proven that she did still feel something for him. But he didn't want this kiss to end, not yet. Not ever. His arms circled around her and he pulled her close. The kiss deepened, reaching down to his very soul.

He couldn't help his physical reaction to such a kiss. With their bodies pressed close, Eve no doubt felt his response, but she didn't shy away from the evidence that he wanted her. Lucien knew he should end the kiss and step away, but he couldn't. Eve was the one to draw back, to gently break the union of their lips and to slowly shift her body away from his.

Lucien smiled as he took her face in his hands once again. "I knew it would be wonderful," he whispered.

Eve's face blushed pink, and her lips were lusciously swollen. If his fingers brushed against her neck, he would surely feel how her heartbeat had increased. Her breasts rose and fell as she took a deep breath.

"You enjoyed your little experiment?" she asked calmly. "Well, that makes one of us. Purely professional from here on out, right?"

"Evie..."

"I suggest you obtain a room at the boarding house this afternoon, before it gets dark. You can leave your contraptions here, if you'd like, while you see to checking into your room." Her coloring returned to near normal. "I won't touch them, I promise."

"Surely you felt..."

"Nothing," Eve said softly. "I felt absolutely nothing."

She turned her back on him and opened the door to her bedroom. As the door slammed behind her, a confused Lucien muttered, "Right."

What a muddle this was. He could handle a much-too-friendly ghost, a murdering spirit, and sleeping on the hard floor. He wasn't sure he could handle making what had happened with Evie right again.

She wanted very badly to belong.

And he knew deep inside that she already did belong. With him.

Chapter 5

Plummerville was like a thousand other small southern towns. It was self-sufficient, thanks to the stores along main street and the farms just beyond the city limits. Many of the residents had been born here and would die here, most without even the desire to see what lay beyond the familiarity and comfort of home. All along the main street neighbors visited, or smiled and nodded to those who passed. Shops flourished. Women chatted with one another, in that mystifying way that always managed to astonish Lucien, where they all talked at once and seemed, still, to comprehend every word. They discussed everything, from the smallest details of their lives to the latest news they'd read in today's paper.

Since the rented room he called home, at the moment, was located in Wilmington, North Carolina, and many jobs in the past had taken him into this region of the country, he was accustomed to the southern accents that surrounded him. Here in Plummerville the accents were deeper, in some cases, as melodious as Eve's in others. As he walked down the street he listened, catching bits and pieces of conversations. A few of the people he passed wondered aloud about the stranger in town.

Whether they mentioned his presence aloud or not, the people along the way very carefully watched the outsider who walked down their street. The unfamiliar was always of interest in a small town like Plummerville, and outsiders were not to be trusted.

Yes, the streets were quite busy with the hustle and bustle of the living. And then there were the ghosts. Lucien could tune them out when he wanted to, but the fact of the matter was that the dead were everywhere. There were so many souls who could not or would not move on. Others, brighter lights that came for a brief time and then were gone, came to watch over a loved one. And life went on around them, oblivious.

Lucien had never been oblivious. His first words had been spoken to a ghost. His mother had been perturbed that her son had so many imaginary friends, then horrified when one of those friends had proven herself not to be imaginary at all. He would never forget the expression on his mother's face when, at five years old, Lucien had delivered a message from her long-deceased Aunt Bliss. They were living in his grandmother's house at the time, his father gone three years, his mother not yet remarried.

Lucien had walked over to his mother, tugged at her skirt, and said, "Aunt Bliss said to tell you her brooch is in the top dresser drawer, in the back under some old linens. She wants you to have it."

Mary Louise Thorpe had turned pale and swayed on her feet as if she might swoon, then rushed to the dresser drawer to discover that the brooch she had often admired was truly there. A practical woman, she had taken her son on her lap and tried to reason with him. And herself. He'd been snooping and had found the brooch. He'd overheard her and her mother talking about Aunt Bliss. The color came back to her cheeks as she began to convince herself of a more reasonable explanation. And then Lucien reached out and touched his mother's red curls, and said, "She has hair like you, only hers is not so curly."

Since Aunt Bliss had died more than ten years before Lucien's birth, and he had never seen a photograph of the woman, Mary Louise had been unable to explain away his observation.

And she had been terrified of her son since that day.

As he stepped into Miss Gertrude's boarding house, Lucien closed his mind to the past and to the ghosts who were everywhere. In both cases it was like shutting a door, solidly and surely.

"Good afternoon." The gray-haired woman who greeted him stood behind the counter that stretched along one side of the large room that apparently served as both lobby and parlor. Her smile brightened considerably as she placed the book of recipes she'd been perusing aside. Since she was pleasantly plump and wore a wide smile, and the aroma of something spicy drifted his way from the dining room, he assumed the food here would be good, at least.

"Good afternoon," he said. "I'd like to procure a room."

The curious proprietor, Miss Gertrude herself, he assumed, glanced behind him. "Just for yourself, sir?"

"Yes."

"How long do you plan to stay with us?"

"I'm not sure." As he reached the counter, Miss Gertrude presented a leather-bound book for his signature.

"With or without meals?"

Lucien hesitated. Evie liked to feed him, usually, but she had been testy of late and might be more than happy to allow him to go hungry. "With, I suppose."

She gave him a decent price, and he paid for the first three days in advance.

Miss Gertrude glanced at the signature in her book. "Well, Mr. Thorpe, what brings you to Plummerville?"

Again, he paused to consider his answer. Eve did not want everyone to know her house was haunted. Mrs. Markham might tell, but perhaps he should not. While he detested lying, and even a lie of omission seemed very wrong, at the moment he didn't want to do or say anything that might annoy Eve any more than he already had.

"Business or pleasure?" Miss Gertrude prompted.

"A bit of both," he said, feeling that to be a safe answer.

"Then you must have friends or family in town," the curious landlady continued.

Lucien smiled. "That I do."

* * *

Eve placed her copious notes across one side of the dining room table, then sat in a chair and began to shuffle the papers this way and that. After several weeks of investigation, she had almost too much information to sift through.

Justina Markham's insistence that Viola would never have cheated on her husband rang true, even though it contradicted everything else Eve had heard. But then again, Mrs. Markham might have been simply defending her friend, protecting her already damaged reputation. She had confirmed what others had told Eve, that Alistair was no one's idea of the perfect husband.

And where was the wrapper? Eve had seen with her own eyes that Viola had been wearing it when she'd come down the stairs to her death, but Mrs. Markham had said twice that her friend's body had been unclothed.

The papers, the research, it was comforting work, and she needed work to take her mind off that kiss in the hallway. Lucien had always been good at kissing, but he'd never kissed her like that before! His experiment had shaken her all the way to her toes, had made her knees weak, had made her wonder... things she should not wonder.

She would have thought herself terribly weak if Lucien hadn't displayed his own response to the kiss. At least she was able to hide her reaction. Oh, she hoped her reaction had been well disguised! If Lucien knew she still loved him, she'd be in for a lifetime of always being second best, of always being forgotten. She couldn't bear that, to give her life and her heart to a man who could dismiss her so easily.

Since she'd lied and told Lucien she'd been totally unaffected by his kiss, they'd turned their minds to business. He'd procured a room in the boarding house, and she'd taken the time while he'd been gone to gather her wits. He'd returned, displaying his key as if he had to prove that he now had his own room, and for the rest of the afternoon they'd discussed what they knew of the night the Stampers had died.

Lucien sat on the floor by the buffet, studying the ectoplasm he'd collected last night. He'd removed his jacket and loosened his tie, and as he bent over the dish of gunk his dark hair fell across his cheek, hiding a portion of his face from her. He seemed to think he could decipher details about the spirits by examining the sticky goo he collected. On occasion he was successful.

"Viola wants to know why Alistair killed her," he muttered without looking up. "I think that's what keeps her bound to this house."

Like Justina Markham, Eve wanted to dismiss the notion that Viola Stamper might have betrayed her husband. But so many people swore it was true she couldn't completely ignore the possibility. "If she was unfaithful, she knows the why of it."

"What if Mrs. Markham was right and Viola wasn't unfaithful?"

"I want that to be true." She had come to like Viola. Too much, perhaps. "But everyone says..."

"Rumor, Evie," Lucien said absently. "Dismiss the rumors you've heard and concentrate on the facts."

"It's been thirty years." A familiar frustration bubbled up inside her. "All I have is rumor!"

Lucien pushed his dish of gunk aside and turned to face her, his body lying lengthwise across the floor, his head propped in his hand.

Evie frowned. A scientist wasn't supposed to have great muscles and strong legs. Maybe carrying around his damned specter-o-meter had built those muscles. She'd seen them close up now, after flying across the room and landing in his bed, where he'd been stretched out wearing nothing but a strategically placed sheet.

"Don't fret," he said, mistaking her consternation for worry about the case. "Start with what we know as fact."

"And that is?"

He smiled. "What we know from Viola and Alistair."

She refused to be intimidated. She would not be shy or coy or embarrassed with Lucien. "They were sexually compatible."

"Extraordinarily so," he added.

"And according to you, Viola wants to know why her husband killed her."

"Yes." His easy smile faded. "What other absolute facts do we have?"

"It was Halloween night," Eve said. "It rained. Since everyone remembered the storm that came through that night, I think we can take it as fact."

"I'll concede that one."

"Thank you so much," she said caustically. "We know that at ten-fifteen Viola and Alistair were... you know, and just minutes before midnight, Alistair stabbed his wife in the back. Sometime later that night, or in the early hours of the next morning, he killed himself."

Lucien screwed up his mouth and wrinkled his nose. "Stabbed himself in the heart. That's rather unusual. There was most likely a firearm in the house. Why not simply shoot himself? It's a much more common method of suicide."

"I think we can safely say that there was something not quite right with the way Alistair's mind worked." A man who would coldly murder a woman who adored him... no, that was definitely not right.

"Might he have forgiven her, as some of your informants have claimed, but then simply snapped on the evening in question?"

"Perhaps." Eve rested her elbows on the table and placed her chin in her hands. "We haven't much time. Halloween is in four days! Once that day passes, it'll be almost another year before the spirits who haunt this house will be forceful enough for us to see and hear them. If we can't solve this mystery soon, I might have to wait another year to get rid of the ghosts."

"And of course, you can't begin your ordinary life until Viola and Alistair move on," Lucien said dryly.

"There's nothing wrong with what I want," she said defensively.

"It's a waste," he said, returning his attention to the dish of ectoplasm on the floor. "A complete and total waste of an exceptional woman."

Apparently not exceptional enough.

When someone knocked soundly on the front door, Eve almost jumped out of her skin. Lucien, intent on studying his goo, seemed not to hear.

"I'll get it," Eve said, rising sharply to her feet. Lucien muttered something unintelligible, and she rolled her eyes as she walked past.

Eve opened the door to Douglas Hunt, Alistair's old business partner and the man who had sold her this house. From the expression on his face, something horrible had happened. In the last light of day, it was quite clear that he was livid.

"I want you out of this house," Hunt said as he pushed his way inside.

"Excuse me?" Eve asked. "Is there a problem?"

"Yes!" Hunt turned on her and raked a hand through his gray hair. "There is most definitely a problem. I hear you have ghosts, Miss Abernathy."

Word certainly traveled quickly. "Perhaps..."

"I took you for a sensible woman who would not become hysterical and imagine... ghosts."

"I'm not the first to report such sightings," Eve said calmly. "Isn't that why this lovely house stood vacant for so long?"

This house had been quite a bargain, since it had been sitting empty for so long. She could not have afforded anything so nice, otherwise. In the past three months she had painted, cleaned, repaired... all on her own. This was her house. She had come to love it.

Hunt gritted his teeth. "It's been years since anyone tried to drag up the past."

"That's because it's been years since anyone lived here." She cocked her head and studied the man's florid face. "Why are you so upset? If there are indeed ghosts, I'm the one who has to deal with them. Not you. If Alistair and Viola's spirits are present, then they are residents of this house and none of your concern."

Hunt's eyes examined every corner, much as Justina Markham's had, as if he searched for signs of another presence. Did he wish to see them? Or not?

"Alistair and I were partners in the mill for seven years," he said softly. "I introduced him to Viola, for God's sake. I thought..." He caught his breath, as if catching a confession before it could escape. "I thought they would suit one another well. If not for me Alistair never would have married Viola, much less..." He choked on the words that would not come.

"You have no reason to feel guilty." She didn't like Hunt, particularly, but at the moment she felt a little sorry for him. Thirty years of self-reproach was a heavy burden.

"I only begin to feel guilty when someone comes around asking pesky questions about things that should have been buried years ago." Hunt's face flushed red, his lips thinned. "I want you out, Miss Abernathy. Out of this house, out of Plummerville. I'll give you a tidy sum over and beyond what you paid for the house. Just... leave."

"No," Eve said calmly. "I've made this house my home and I won't be run off. Not by ghosts, and not by you." She cocked her head and studied Hunt's hard face, his tortured eyes. "Did you care for Viola very much? Is that why you suffer so?"

Hunt reached out and grabbed her by the shoulders, his grip too tight. He didn't answer her question, which was answer enough for Eve. "You think a couple of ghosts are a problem? Tangle with me and you'll regret it. Sell me the house, make a tidy profit, and leave this town and this sordid story alone."

"And what will you do if I accept your offer?" Eve asked. "Sell the house to someone else? Let it stand here and rot?"

"I'll burn it to the ground, which is what I should have done thirty years ago." With that, he gave Eve a little shake.

Lucien came up behind Hunt and forcibly pulled the man away. Eve held her breath as a furious Lucien slammed Hunt into the wall and leaned in close, bending down to place his face close to the shorter man's. "Lay your hands on the lady again, and you'll regret it," Lucien said darkly. His neck corded with tension, his jaw tensed. His fists flexed threateningly.

Hunt, rightfully intimidated by the sight of an enraged Lucien, took a shuffling step to the side. "You must be the fortune-teller."

Lucien closed his eyes and took a deep breath, and Eve suppressed a smile. She knew he hated the label fortune-teller much more than medium or even exorcist. Hunt was in serious trouble.

"I'm not much of a fortune-teller, " Lucien said as he opened his eyes and laid them on Hunt, "but I do see that if you don't apologize to Miss Abernathy and get out of her home, you're going to be in serious pain within a matter of minutes."

Oh, she hadn't known Lucien could get so angry about a situation that involved living, breathing humans. Normally he saved his passions for the dead. He was intriguingly handsome and appealing when he defended her this way, though she would never tell him so. It was painful enough to admit such a thing to herself. Still, she couldn't help but smile as Hunt backed toward the door, mumbling an insincere apology and keeping his eyes on Lucien the entire time.

When the door closed on Douglas Hunt, Lucien ran his fingers through his mussed dark hair. Eve fought the urge to help him.

"How dare he shake you and talk to you that way?" Lucien asked. "And who the hell is he?"

"Alistair's business partner," she said. "He's not particularly happy about me asking questions, and he's definitely upset about the news that the ghosts are in residence." She replayed the short visit in her mind. "I believe he was in love with Viola. Do you think he might have been the man she was seeing? Her husband's business partner? That would have been messy. Quite a scandal."

Lucien looked her in the eye, deep and questioning. The anger faded from his face, and was replaced by something akin to wonder. "Evie," he said softly, and she didn't even think about correcting him, "what if Alistair didn't kill Viola? What if they were both murdered?"

* * *

Intrigued by the new idea, Lucien took the stairs two at a time. He'd met Viola in the bedchamber she and her husband had shared. That was probably the best place to find Alistair.

"No!" Eve called as she followed him, her footsteps light and quick on the stairway. "It's too dangerous. Everyone says Alistair killed Viola. Even Viola! Why else would she ask why?"

"Because she thinks he murdered her, but in reality it was someone else." Lucien threw open the bedroom door. He saw nothing, but he sensed them here. Both of them. Eve followed him silently into the room. "It was almost midnight, it was very dark. Someone came up behind Viola, perhaps... said or did something that made her think he was her husband, and then he stabbed her in the back. We saw what happened next. He drew down her wrapper and stabbed her again, and if Mrs. Markham's memory isn't faulty, he then took the bloody garment with him. Why?"

He walked the perimeter of the room as he puzzled on this new possibility. "It rained," he said softly. "What if he got a muddy hand print on the gown, and had to dispose of it so no one would suspect someone from outside the house was here that night."

"It's possible," Eve said. "I'll go over my notes and see if I find anything that supports that supposition."

Lucien shook his head. "No. Notes won't help us with this. There's only one way to find out."

"You can't channel Alistair," Eve said sternly. "I forbid it."

He turned to face her. Eve stood by the door but didn't enter the room. To be honest, she looked poised to make a quick escape. Perhaps she did not want to be in the bedroom with him again.

"You forbid?"

"Remember what happened when you channeled Elliot Alvin? You almost killed O'Hara!"

"Knowing what I know now, perhaps I should have." The man would pay, one day, for getting fresh with Evie. He waved off her concern. "Besides, I'm stronger now than I was then, I have more control." The truth was, channeling drained him. The more control he had during the sessions, the worse he felt after. Last time a spirit had possessed him for a length of more than half an hour, it had taken him two days to recover.

"Lock me in," he demanded as he searched the room for signs of the ghostly couple. There they were, hovering by the dresser. In addition to feeling the ghostly spirits, he now saw them in bits of light Eve could not see.

"What?"

"In case I'm wrong and Alistair is dangerous, I want you safely on the other side of a locked door. I'll call you when I'm finished."

"No," she said stubbornly.

"Evie..."

"You'll need me to listen. You won't remember what he says."

"I'm getting better at that, too," he said. "I'll remember most of what Alistair says when he speaks through me."

"Most?"

"Enough."

Eve pursed her lips. "No!"

Lucien knew just how to send her to the safety of the hallway. He smiled. "You're concerned for me. That's very sweet, Evie. It's also more proof that you do, in fact, love me..."

She couldn't shut the door fast enough. He waited until he heard the lock turn and catch, and then he pulled a wing chair to the center of the room. He sat there, facing the dresser where he saw the flickering traces of light. His feet were planted firmly on the floor, his arms rested on the arms of the chair. His heart pounded hard and fast. No matter how many times he did this, it was always frightening. And exciting.

He took a moment to slow his heartbeat, to make himself connect with the light that teased and danced.

"Alistair," he said, his voice low. "Speak to me. Speak through me."

One of the fragments of light came toward him. Slowly, waveringly. Alistair was no more certain about this than Eve had been.

"I'm here to help," Lucien said, trying to reassure Alistair as he had earlier assured Viola. "Please, let me help you."

After a moment, where the light hovered, waiting, it shot unerringly and quickly toward Lucien's heart.

Lucien felt the spirit enter him. There was a moment of pain, followed by a sensation of a deep peace he never felt when he conversed with the living.

Alistair was here.

Chapter 6

Lucien knew what he was doing. He always did. As he often said, he was a scientist. An expert. He didn't take unnecessary chances.

Eve waited as long as she could, pacing in the hallway, wringing her hands and fiddling with the key she'd used to lock Lucien in that room. Who was she kidding? He did take chances, she knew that too well. He took dangerous risks on every job; he took chances every day of his life! And she'd allowed him to force her out of that room, as surely as if he'd picked her up and carried her!

A voice, Lucien's and yet not Lucien's drifted to her through the closed door.

"That's it," she said, taking the key and inserting it into the lock. "I'm not going to stand here and... and do nothing!"

She threw open the door to find Lucien sitting in a wide, padded chair that had been placed in the middle of the room. His head rotated slowly as she entered the room. He smiled at her. That was not Lucien's smile.

"Well, hello," he said, his deep voice colored by a Georgia accent. Lucien's own voice was usually more clipped, more precise and with a hint of New York, where he'd been born. "Aren't you a pretty one?"

Eve's eyes widened. She held her breath. She'd heard that before his marriage, Alistair had been somewhat of a ladies' man, a charmer. Apparently that was true. She was rarely called pretty, and even then... it was usually her aunt who made that kind observation, or perhaps one of her cousins. "Hello, Mr. Stamper," she said when she found her breath again.

He lifted a hand and motioned for Eve to come closer. Against her better judgment, she did. She had seen Lucien channel a spirit before, several times, and it never ceased to amaze her. Lucien was here, and yet he was not. Alistair Stamper was dead and had been for thirty years, and yet he was present in this time and place. When she stood beside the chair, Lucien... Alistair... reached out and took her wrist in his hand.

"You're so warm," he said softly, a hint of longing in his voice. "I miss... warmth. There are times of reliving and remembering when the warmth seems almost to be there, but this... this is good and real and alive." His fingers rocked over her wrist as his smile faded completely. "Viola isn't warm anymore. She hasn't been warm for a long time. She's punishing me, I suppose, taking away the warmth I crave. Coming to me and then... running away when I call to her."

A chill worked down Eve's spine as Alistair continued to caress her wrist. Lucien's fingers were warm, but she also felt a hint of the spirit's coldness, as if a touch of cold air manacled her.

"Perhaps Viola has good reason to run from you," she said, trying to make her voice steady.

"I tried to tell her I'm sorry," he whispered. "She won't listen to me."

"She's afraid of you," Eve said softly, making an effort to keep her voice even. Her own fear was very real at the moment. She knew Lucien would never hurt her; she could not be so sure about Alistair.

"I gave her no reason to be afraid," he said angrily, the grip at her wrist tightening. "I just made one small mistake!"

"Murder is not a small mistake," Eve said.

Lucien's head snapped up, and the eyes that glared at Eve were not those of the man she loved. They were darker. They were the eyes of a stranger. "Murder?"

Something sharp shot through Eve. At first she thought it was a knife, that she'd been stabbed in the back just as Viola had been, thirty years ago. But the pain faded quickly and she was filled with a strange sensation, as if light became substance and flooded her entire body.

Eve was no longer alone in her own body. Viola was with her, inside her, a part of her. She experienced the spirit's fear, and confusion, and love as if they were her own. Most of all, she felt love.

"Viola," Alistair whispered, seeing, sensing, or feeling the presence of his wife in Eve. A wry smile crossed his face, the grip on her wrist gentled.

Now Eve knew why Lucien didn't stand. Having Viola's spirit inside her weakened her considerably. Her legs began to buckle, and as if he knew what she was feeling and that she was about to fall, Lucien pulled her onto his lap. She dropped there gratefully.

"Why?" Eve whispered, and the question was not her own.

Lucien's fingers traced her jawline, brushed her cheek, trailed down her throat. "How many times do I have to say I'm sorry? I couldn't help myself. It was an impulse I could not control. I'm a weak man, imperfect and impulsive."

Eve shook her head. "I thought you loved me."

"I do."

"Then how could you..."

Lucien drew her close. His lips hovered over hers. "We were never good with words, Viola. Let me show you how I feel. Let me make love to you, while we're warm and soft and alive."

"I shouldn't want you," Eve whispered.

"But you do." He kissed her, softly at first and then hard. His tongue delved just inside her mouth, teasing her own. When he began to unbutton her dress, starting with the button at the top and working his way down, Eve didn't even think to protest. She wanted to know what it felt like to have Lucien's hands on her body, and Viola wanted to feel Alistair. No matter what he'd done. No matter that he had killed her.

Eve closed her eyes when Lucien slipped his hand beneath the bodice of her brown dress and caressed the swell of her breasts. His fingers were warm, tenderly and unexpectedly arousing. It was startling and yet right, as if she'd waited all her life for him to touch her.

"So many clothes," he whispered, as he finished unbuttoning her dress, parting the fabric to reveal her yellow corset. "Such pleasant surprises beneath," he drawled in a teasing voice. "A corset of yellow like sunshine, bright and pretty as spring flowers, hidden underneath that drab brown dress. What else do you hide?"

He kissed her mouth well as he blindly unfastened the hooks and eyes down the front of her corset. In the back of her mind, Eve knew she should order him to stop... but she allowed Viola to take over, for a while. She let the unexpected passion rule, just for a moment. This sensation was too delicious to push away.

The corset fell open, and Lucien's hand returned to her breasts. He didn't just touch, he caressed, he teased. He rolled the nipples between his gentle fingers, plucking at the sensitive tips and then laying his mouth against her throat to suck at her hungry flesh.

She was alive everywhere, her blood danced through her veins, she throbbed.

Lucien often talked about how becoming a home for a spirit, even for a short while, was draining. There had been an initial weakness, but right now Eve didn't feel drained at all. She was alive and tingling. The blood rushed through her body, washing away all her fears, her anger, and her indecision. There was just sensation and love, and they were both powerful. And wonderful.

"Touch me," he whispered.

Eve didn't hesitate, didn't even stop to think. She unbuttoned Lucien's shirt, laid the fabric back, and pressed her hands against his bare chest. Firm and well shaped and hard, he was unlike anything she had ever touched before. A sprinkling of dark hair teased her fingers as she ran her hand across his chest. She laid her mouth against the hollow of his throat, tasting his salty flesh, flicking her tongue over his skin. Something shot through her... like electricity, a jolting charge so powerful it shook her to her bones.

"God in heaven, I love you," he said softly.

For a moment she had thought Lucien was wrong about the exhaustive properties of channeling, but no... he was right. In spite of the charge that shot through her, the presence of a spirit was indeed draining. All of a sudden she felt oddly weak, her legs and fingers trembled. She wanted nothing more than to fall against Lucien's chest and stay there.

No, she didn't want to stay here. She wanted him to pick her up and carry her to that bed where they'd lain, so briefly, that very morning. She wanted him to take off every stitch of clothing, hers and his, and caress her everywhere the way he touched her breasts and her throat.

This was so confusing. Excited and drained, she didn't know what she wanted.

It was Viola who did this to her, Eve reasoned in the back of her muddled mind. This was Viola's passion for Alistair, nothing more.

Unexpectedly bold, realizing this was a chance that would never come again, she reached down and touched Lucien intimately, found him hard, stroked his length. It was Viola doing the touching, Eve reminded herself, but still... she liked it. She liked the power of making this man want her; she liked knowing that even if he didn't love her, even if she would never come first in his life, he did desire her.

"Forgive me," he whispered.

Eve brushed her lips against Lucien's chest, tasting him. Inhaling him. And for a moment he held her there, close and tight.

And then he leaned her over backward, across his lap, so that she was exposed before him, half dressed and rumpled and wanting. For a moment he stared at her, at her face and her exposed breasts, and then he lowered his head to take one nipple between his lips. He cradled her in his arms while he touched her in a way she had never expected, drawing her deep into his mouth. Sparks shot through her body, tugging at her spirit, her desire, the center of her being.

"I didn't forget you," he whispered as his mouth barely lifted from her breast. A tongue flicked there. "I could never forget you."

Her fingers stroked his erection, dragging along the length, wondering how it was possible that...

Forget her? "Lucien?"

He murmured something she could not understand, his mouth busy as it worked its way up to her throat once again.

"Where's Alistair?"

Lucien lifted his head and shifted his dazed eyes to the other side of the room. "Over there, with Viola." He put his mouth on her throat again, and his fingers continued to tease her bare breasts.

Eve's caressing fingers rose up slowly. She placed her hand against Lucien's chest and pushed, just a little. "Lucien," she murmured. He did not respond at all. "Lucien!" she said, a bit louder.

He lifted his head and smiled at her, wicked and gentle at the same time.

"How long has Alistair been gone?"

"A few minutes," he said.

"And you continued to... to..."

He laid a finger over her lips. "Don't blame me. Viola left first."

"Oh." Eve felt slightly deflated. "How long was she with me?"

"No more than a minute or two. She left as soon as she told Alistair that she thought he loved her."

Disgusted with herself and with Lucien, Eve stood, trembling legs and weak knees fighting her all the way.

"Don't feel bad. You haven't had much practice channeling. A minute or two is a fine start. Viola must trust you to come to you so easily." Lucien grabbed her wrist and pulled her back onto his lap. She fell there, realizing as she landed with a bump that her breasts were still uncovered. She very quickly began to remedy that situation.

"You took advantage of me," she said softly.

"I did not," he argued. "If I had been intent on taking advantage of you, we would be in that bed right now, and we would not be talking."

"I had no idea you were so... so unbearably crude," she accused.

Lucien grinned. "And I had no idea you were so passionate."

Eve left his lap with an indignant huff, and stalked from the room without a shred of her dignity intact.

She didn't dare ask Lucien who'd been in control when he'd said I love you.

* * *

A man could not possibly survive a constant state of arousal. It was unnatural. Painful. Distracting. Lucien cursed as he sat on the parlor floor and tinkered with the specter-o-meter. Anything to take his mind off Eve. Stubborn woman.

He smiled as he adjusted the spring mechanism. Stubborn, yes, but also very passionate. And she tasted like honey. Warm, sweet honey. No, she tasted better than honey.

She hadn't spoken to him since they'd channeled Viola and Alistair. The encounter hadn't gone exactly as planned, but he wouldn't call it a waste of time. Aside from the more obvious benefits which had led to his current state, he knew Alistair, now. He was more certain than ever that the man had not killed his wife.

The sofa scooted, the chair leg scraping across the wooden floor. The needle on his specter-o-meter jiggled just slightly. Lucien lifted his head, wondering if Eve had come silently into the room while he worked. But the sofa was unoccupied.

And then it wasn't. The needle on the device he was working on jumped. Twinkling lights hovered above the sofa. Lucien glanced at the mantel clock. Eight-forty-five.

"Evie!" he shouted.

He heard her skirt swishing long before she ran into the room. "What?" she snapped. "Is something wrong?"

"I thought you said your lascivious ghosts never appear until ten-fifteen."

"They don't," she said, wide-eyed.

"Then what are they doing on the sofa?" The last thing he needed was to watch and listen to those two, when he knew Eve was out of reach and probably always would be.

"I don't see anything," she said innocently.

"You will," he said darkly. He always saw and sensed things before others did. Usually he thought of his abilities as a gift. Tonight, as the energies that were Viola and Alistair Stamper came together on the sofa, he felt like they were a curse.

Viola sighed, and the sound washed through the room like a gentle wave.

Eve stood in the doorway. Still, she saw nothing. "Why does she continue to love him?" she asked, shaking her head slightly. "He... he killed her. How can she forgive that?"

Lucien stared at her, glad to have an excuse not to look toward the sofa. "I don't believe he did kill her."

"He said as much."

"No, he apologized. He did not say for which mistake he offered his regrets."

"Obviously..."

"No." Lucien shook his head. "He was inside me, Evie. I felt him. He's not a murderer. I sensed a woman's involvement." Lucien frowned as he tried to recall each sensation he'd experienced earlier in the evening. Yes, he was getting better at remembering what happened when he channeled, but he lost a lot, too. It was as if he wasn't supposed to remember.

"He was unfaithful?" Eve snapped.

"Perhaps."

She seemed uncomfortable, there by the entrance to the foyer. She actually fidgeted a little. Evie rarely fidgeted. This afternoon had shaken her. And him. "Do you... remember everything that took place when Alistair was with you?"

"Of course. Don't you remember what it was like when Viola entered your body? And after?"

She shrugged. "I'm not sure. The entire afternoon is rather a blur."

She did remember, he suspected. At least, she remembered everything that had happened after Viola left her body. Every word. Every touch. "Close your eyes and think," he urged. "Was she afraid?"

"Yes," Eve whispered, eyes wide open and locked on him.

"Of Alistair?"

Now she closed her eyes. "Yes."

"And yet she came to him when he was with me."

Eve's lips parted slightly. "She loves him, still. No matter what he's done, no matter..." She swallowed hard. "Oh, Lucien, it's tearing her apart. She loves him and she doesn't understand." Two lonely tears ran down her cheeks. "She wants to understand, but... she can't. She remembers the love and she remembers the pain, and..." Her eyes flew open. "How did I know all that?"

Lucien grinned. "Ordinary, my ass. You have a gift."

Eve shook her head. "No. I document. You dazzle."

How could he convince her that she was dazzling? That to live the ordinary life she thought she wanted would be a waste of talent and intelligence and beauty?

The sofa moved, and Eve's eyes flew there. "Oh, no," she said. Viola and Alistair took shape, there on the sofa. They had color tonight. Color! They remained transparent, but still... two fully manifested spirits who had actually achieved color and sound were presently fondling one another on Evie's parlor sofa.

"Do you... see that?" he asked, wondering if tonight's vision was for him and him alone, or if Eve shared this experience.

"Yes," she whispered.

Lucien watched, fascinated. This was another instance of reliving that night thirty years ago, he imagined. Viola was happy, her smile wide and carefree. She had so much joy within her, so much love.

Something was not quite right with Alistair, though. When Viola was looking at his face, he smiled at her and seemed as happy as she. When she turned away or closed her eyes, his smile faded. The mistake he had spoken of earlier haunted him. A woman, Lucien suspected. He wasn't certain, but it seemed right.

And yet, he could not imagine a man who loved his wife as much as Alistair loved Viola having an affair. That most definitely did not feel right.

Alistair unbuttoned his wife's dress and peeled the fabric away to reveal her breasts. There was no annoying corset in his way, nothing beneath that dress but bare flesh, as if she had been expecting this. Viola dropped her head back and closed her eyes, allowing her husband to love her, to touch and caress her, to whisper words no one else could hear into her ear.

Eve watched, wide-eyed and utterly fascinated.

Of course she was fascinated. The scene unfolding before them was so real. They saw Viola breathe, saw her breasts rise and fall as Alistair caressed her.

Eve knew what that felt like, now. She knew how powerful it was to touch and taste, to lose yourself in sensation. Lucien had no doubt that he was the first man to touch Eve as she had been touched earlier today. He wanted more. He wanted everything. And he wanted to be the only man to ever make her shudder and moan.

He could still taste her, he could still smell her. Would she always be inside him this way?

The spectral lovers moved slowly, unbuttoning, unfastening, touching, and even laughing. Alistair lifted Viola's skirt to reveal bare legs that parted at his touch. He stroked a thigh, feathered kisses over Viola's face and her chest while he stroked her bare thigh. Her eyes drifted closed.

Alistair kissed his way down her partially clothed body, moving slowly, pushing her skirt higher until he knelt before Viola and his head rested between her spread legs. He ran his hands up the length of her legs, kissing her inner thigh long and slow. Viola breathed deep and reached out to touch her husband's head, to pull him closer.

Eve's eyes got wider.

Lucien jumped up from the floor. "I'm hungry," he said. "Why don't we grab a bite to eat in the kitchen. And tea!" he said. "I would really love a cup of tea. Please, for the love of all that is holy, tea."

As he reached the doorway, Eve cocked her head to one side and carefully studied the all-too-clear ghostly lovers. "Lucien, what is he... oh!"

He reached out and placed his hand over her eyes. "Really, Eve. It isn't proper for you to watch."

She didn't slap his hand away, not this time. Beneath his hand, she smiled. "Are you protecting me or them?"

"I'm not sure," he grumbled.

He had endured tests in the past. Tests of strength, of faith. This was surely another test, one he was not sure he could survive.

Eve grabbed his wrist and pulled his hand down. The lovers continued, noisily as usual, but Eve didn't so much as glance in that direction. She looked Lucien squarely in the eye. "Knowing what I now know, having Viola with me for such a short time, it makes this so much harder," she whispered.

"What's that?"

"Every day, I know her a little better. And every night when she dies it hurts a little more."

He touched her face, trying to comfort her. "I know."

"Viola Stamper's been dead thirty years; she died before I was born. You would have been a new baby. My mother was alive and my father had not yet started his... his crusade to find proof of life after death. Viola comes from a world that existed before I was in it, and yet I grieve for her. I ache as if her pain is my own. I even wonder, sometimes, if maybe we can't stop her murder from ever taking place."

"We can't change what happened to Viola," he said. "That's the one thing we can never do."

Her nose wrinkled. "I know, but, Lucien... we have to send her on. You have to send her on, to a place where she can find lasting peace. I can't bear the thought of Viola stuck in this cycle forever, dying every night, wondering why the man she loved would hurt her."

"Together we will send her home," he assured her.

Viola cried out, practically screamed, and across the room the sound of a spring giving out—that damned unreliable specter-o-meter—came on the tail end of the ghost's cry. Lucien tensed. Because this was a private moment between two lovers thirty years dead? Or because he wanted to make Evie scream like that and he didn't know if he'd ever get the chance?

Eve's eyes were drawn to the sofa once again, as she leaned to the side to peek past him. "Mrs. Markham was right, Lucien. Alistair does look a little bit like you." Her hand brushed against her own cheek. "Something about the shape of the face, perhaps, and the hair is definitely similar. He could use a haircut, too." She frowned. "Good heavens, what is she doing to him?"

Lucien glanced into the parlor. Alistair was now on the couch, and Viola knelt before him. "Tea," he said once again.

"Oh!" Eve's eyes went wide. She was definitely not distracted by his offer of refreshment. "I think she's"—again she cocked her head to one side. This time she squinted—"doing to him what he did to her." Alistair moaned. The room shimmered and shook. "Well, not exactly," Eve continued, "but... mercy! I didn't know such a thing was possible." She blushed bright red.

This time Lucien forcibly turned Eve about, his firm hands on her shoulders. "Tea," he said. "Now." He didn't dare look back.

Chapter 7

Eve stared at the ceiling, blaming Lucien for the fact that she couldn't sleep even though it was well past midnight. Oh, he was the most aggravating man! He'd humiliated her, kissed her, pretended to be possessed by the spirit of a murderer so he could... Well it was best if she didn't think too much about what had happened this afternoon, even though when she allowed it she could still feel Lucien's hands and his mouth on her breasts, his warmth seeping through her. If she forgot who he was and that he had left her standing at the altar, she might even concede, only to herself, that she had liked it. She had loved it! Lucien was exciting and tender and she missed him terribly. More than that, she missed what might have been. No, she shouldn't think of a few lovely moments from an unusual afternoon. It was best to concentrate on Lucien's many faults.

Lucien Thorpe was easily distracted, forgetful, and socially inept. He stood out in a crowd, even when people didn't know what he did for a living. Like it or not, he was simply different, and always would be. Mundane matters, and mundane people, bored him. And he talked to ghosts! He not only talked to ghosts, he preferred the dead to the living, found them more interesting. He certainly preferred spirits to her.

After Viola and Alistair had vanished for the evening, Lucien had only grudgingly made his way to town and his own room in the boarding house, leaving her here alone as she wished. As she had insisted. He hadn't wanted to stay here for her sake, she was certain, but wanted to be close by in case Alistair and Viola returned. He didn't want to miss a moment with her ghosts. Tossing Lucien out on his ear had been a pleasure.

But now the house was so quiet. Too quiet. Eve had lived alone since her father's passing more than four years ago. Being alone never bothered her, and she normally liked the quiet!

She rolled onto her side and pulled the quilt to her chin. Yes, Lucien had his faults. Many, many faults. So why, as she lay here longing for sleep, did she remember most clearly of all that tonight when Viola had died, Lucien had gathered her to his chest and once again covered her eyes with a large, tender hand.

At the time she hadn't minded that he shielded her eyes from a sight he thought she should be protected from. The pain of watching Viola die was excruciating, and Lucien knew it. He felt that pain with her, for her, he tried to take away the grief. It was his way of protecting her, she knew, and maybe—in spite of her insistence that she did not need or want the man in her life ever again—that was a good thing. She didn't have many places to hide, and in Lucien's arms was as good a place as any. Better than most. The best.

Eve sighed and rolled onto her back again. She only had a few hours until sunrise, and she needed to sleep. She needed to rest her mind and her body.

"Viola," she whispered, "how do you do it? How do you set aside something so horrible?" It amazed Eve that the woman could pardon her husband for taking her life. That she not only forgave him, she still loved him.

Eve didn't consider herself to be unyielding, but she didn't easily forgive and forget. To her way of thinking, it made a woman weak to constantly dismiss transgressions. Why, a man would walk all over a woman if he thought he could! If she forgave something so significant as forgetting their wedding day, he would take advantage of her for the rest of her life. Wouldn't he? But she found herself asking again, "How?"

She didn't have Lucien's gift. She could not see or summon a spirit and demand answers to her questions. If Viola didn't choose to show herself, Eve would not see her. She would be jealous of Lucien's gift, if she hadn't seen him suffer for it too many times.

He tried so hard to be scientific, logical, and completely distanced from the emotional aspect of his work. She suspected that was his shield, the way he protected himself.

But it didn't always work. She had seen him take on the pain of a man dead more than a hundred years, seen him suffer when a tormented spirit resisted his assistance. She'd seen him sit on the steps of a haunted house and place his head in his hands, when he thought no one was watching. She'd seen him agonize.

Eve pulled the quilt over her head. "I don't want to sympathize with Lucien Thorpe," she said softly. "And I certainly don't want to love him!"

But the way he had comforted her as Viola died all over again, she couldn't deny that it had been very sweet. Very tender. She finally fell asleep with the memory of arms around her so real, at one point she could almost imagine he was in the bed with her.

* * *

"Mr. Thorpe!" a disgustingly cheerful Miss Gertrude called as he tried to make his escape. After three hours of restless sleep, Lucien was not feeling particularly chipper.

"Good morning," he said, his tone much less than gregarious.

"Surely you're not leaving without breakfast," she said, undaunted by his lack of enthusiasm.

"Breakfast." His stomach growled.

"I have eggs, bacon, home-fried potatoes, my very best biscuits, and peach preserves."

His stomach growled again. It was possible that Eve didn't intend on feeding him this morning. She hadn't been particularly happy with him as he'd left her house last night. She might be perfectly content to watch him starve. "Perhaps I should eat," he conceded.

Miss Gertrude led Lucien to the dining room, where everything was laid out in warming dishes on the sideboard. "Mr. Camden, a traveling salesman who passes through often, has already eaten and taken his leave, but Mr. Adler and Mr. Latham are still abed." She shook her head. "Why, they miss the best part of the day, those lazybones."

Lucien didn't tell Miss Gertrude that if he'd had his way he would have been in bed until past noon. His need to get back to the house had awakened him too early. No, the memory of Eve and the need to get to her had awakened him. Would she be glad to see him so early in the day? Probably not.

His landlady saw him settled at the table with a full plate and a steaming cup of coffee, and when he was suitably settled, she sat in the chair directly across from him. "I do hope everything is to your liking."

"I'm sure it will be."

"I've won numerous awards for my peach preserves."

"I'm sure it will be delicious."

The older woman straightened her spine as Lucien began to eat, and quickly changed the subject. "You were awfully late getting in last night."

Lucien mumbled an agreement.

"I can't imagine what might keep a man out so late," she continued.

Lucien wondered if the tales had already begun to spread. Justina Markham had told Douglas Hunt that ghosts were in residence at Miss Abernathy's house. One of them had confided in a friend. That friend had shared the information with a few others. By sunset last night, everyone in town had probably heard the exciting news. Eve would not be pleased.

Lucien swallowed the bite of biscuit in his mouth and took a long swig of coffee before answering. "I was visiting a friend."

Miss Gertrude's eyes widened. "Not a lady friend at that hour!" she chastised. "I must tell you, Mr. Thorpe, I consider my guests like family, and like family their actions are a reflection not only on themselves, but on me."

Lucien took another quick bite, going for the eggs this time. "She's a bit more than a lady friend," he said. "I'm going to marry her." He paused with his fork in the eggs, struck by the truth of that statement. He was going to marry Eve, if he had to carry her kicking and screaming to the altar. "She just hasn't said yes, yet," he added in a lowered voice. "Well, she did say yes once, but there was a small problem. A big problem actually. Entirely my fault," he added quickly. "But if she said yes once, she will say yes again, right?"

"I have no idea," Miss Gertrude responded. "Who is this lady friend?"

"Eve Abernathy," he said. Immediately he regretted sharing so much with his landlady. If Eve found out he was spreading word that they were going to be married, she'd be furious. "I would appreciate it if you'd keep this between us, for the time being. She hasn't agreed, yet." Of course, he hadn't asked.

"If she allows you to stay in her house until all hours, I would hope she'd accept your proposal!" Miss Gertrude obviously didn't approve.

"She had other guests," he explained. "I didn't leave until they did, since I rightly suspected that she did not want to be left to entertain them on her own." Yes, the guests were long dead, but what difference did that make? "Miss Abernathy and I have never been alone in her home." That was the truth, and perhaps it would protect Eve's precious reputation. Proper, indeed.

Miss Gertrude seemed at least partially mollified. "Miss Abernathy. She bought the Stamper house."

Lucien nodded as he continued to eat. For a moment all was quiet, and he had the hopes that breakfast conversation was over. None too soon. He was wrong.

"That house has a sad history." The older woman shook her head. "Very sad."

Lucien glanced up from his breakfast. Of course! Miss Gertrude should be about the same age as Viola Stamper. Perhaps a few years older, but they certainly must have known one another. "Sad," he said simply. Knowing Miss Gertrude as he already did, that one word should be enough to urge her to continue.

She leaned slightly over the table. "Alistair Stamper murdered his wife and then killed himself. Oh, it was quite a scandal at the time, and every now and then someone will mention the Stampers or the house and then the stories will start all over again."

"Why did he kill her?" Lucien asked calmly as he reached for more preserves.

Miss Gertrude glanced to each side, as if to make sure no one else was about. "Viola Stamper was a... well, I do hate to speak ill of the dead but she was not a faithful wife."

"She was involved with another man?"

"Men," the older woman whispered. "Oh, I can't say any more, it wouldn't be appropriate." She sniffled and continued, anyway. "Poor Alistair."

Poor Alistair. Interesting. "Were you friends with Mr. Stamper?"

For a moment, he thought Miss Gertrude wasn't going to answer. She pursed her lips and leaned back in her chair. Her lower lip trembled. She suddenly looked older than before. Wrung out and tired. "Mr. Stamper and I were engaged to be married, before he met that... that hussy." She fanned herself with one plump hand. "Oh, excuse my language," she said. "It's just that whenever I think about that time I get upset."

"It was certainly not my intention to upset you by asking about the past," Lucien said.

"It isn't your fault," she said, calming down considerably and quickly. "I was the one who mentioned the house's history."

Miss Gertrude, who spent her days feeding strange men, had apparently never married after Alistair had thrown her over for Viola. How angry had she been? How... Lucien shook off the thought. Viola had been killed by a man, of that he was certain. She had thought the attacker to be her husband, so it must have been. And what woman had the strength to stab a man of Alistair's size in the chest? Twice?

Still, he wondered if Eve knew about Miss Gertrude's past history with Alistair. If not, she would be livid that he'd been the one to discover the tidbit she'd missed.

He wanted to come up with a way to discretely ask more questions about Alistair Stamper, but they were interrupted by a blur of denim and blue cotton, by stampeding feet and a head of bouncing pale curls.

"Chester Taylor!" Miss Gertrude said sharply. "Where are your manners?"

The little boy, who appeared to be somewhere around ten years old, stopped by the sideboard and grabbed a biscuit. "Sorry, Aunt Gertrude. If I stop to have good manners, I'll be late for school." He split the biscuit expertly and reached past his aunt for the preserves.

"Mr. Thorpe, this is my nephew Chester. My great nephew, actually. He's my sister Agnes's second oldest daughter Ruth's third-born son."

The explanation gave Lucien a headache, but he got the general idea. "Nice to meet you, Chester," he said. "Don't eat all the preserves."

"Don't worry," the boy said as he cast Lucien a quick glance. "Aunt Gertrude always has more." He lowered his voice. "My mom makes terrible biscuits. If I don't stop by here on my way to school, I'm starving by lunchtime!" With that, he took his biscuit which oozed peach preserves, and ran, yelling, "Thanks for the breakfast!" as he reached the door.

Lucien's plate and his coffee cup were empty. Miss Gertrude offered more but he declined, anxious to be on his way. He wondered if Eve was up and about or if he'd surprise her still warm and snug in her bed.

As he stood, so did his landlady. "I'm sorry to have burdened you with such old gossip," she said, smiling halfheartedly. "I don't know why I said so much. You just have that kind of face, I suppose."

"What sort of face is that?"

"A kind face. The sort of face that's easy to talk to." Her smile faded. "I would appreciate it if you kept our breakfast conversation in this room. You keep my confidence, I keep yours."

"Of course, if that's what you wish," Lucien said. "But why? Surely anyone who was here in Plummerville when the Stampers died knows that you were once engaged to Alistair. It's not like the betrothal was a secret."

Miss Gertrude went pale and she turned her back on him, mumbling something about a pot on the stove as she hurried to the kitchen.

* * *

"First of all," Eve said, half asleep and annoyed that Lucien's knock had awakened her, "you do not have an easy face to talk to. Miss Gertrude simply doesn't know when to be quiet. She talks constantly, and to anyone who will listen."

"But..."

"And besides, if she and Alistair had really been engaged at one time, I would have heard it by now. Someone would have told me."

"Not if it was a secret," Lucien argued.

Eve threw up her hands. "A secret engagement no one else in town has ever heard of! Really, Lucien, you are so gullible."

"I am not!"

Eve shook her head. "You are. Miss Gertrude is a lonely old woman who loves to talk. You were there, you listened." She shrugged her shoulders. "She told you a fanciful story, nothing more."

"You didn't see the expression on her face."

Eve closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

"She said Viola was seeing more than one other man."

Eve's eyes flew open. "No! That's not possible."

"Why not?" Lucien asked sensibly.

"It's just... not." Eve felt herself blush. "Why can't you simply accept that things here happened exactly as they appeared to? Viola made a mistake. Alistair pretended to forgive her, but in fact he did not. He seduced her, and then he killed her." Her hands worked as she spoke. "Alistair could not forgive her one indiscretion, and yet Viola continues to love the man who murdered her! How could she?"

Lucien smiled. "Perhaps she is simply a woman who has more mercy than vitriol in her heart."

Eve's lips pinched together. Was he trying to say that she had no mercy? That she was filled with vitriol? Ha. She could be as merciful as any woman! "What are you grinning at?"

Lucien's smile didn't waver. "You look particularly lovely in the morning."

Eve had glanced at her reflection in the hallway mirror as she'd hurried to answer his knock, and knew better. "Sarcasm does not become you, Lucien."

"I'm perfectly serious. Your hair curls around your face going this way and that, your cheeks are a lovely pink, your eyes are dreamy and, if possible, more green than I remember." His smile faded. "And that particularly ugly and cumbersome wrapper cannot disguise the fact that you are not wearing a corset. You look so soft and..."

"Lucien!" she interrupted, grasping the lapels of her wrapper and pulling them together and up to her chin.

"It's the truth, Evie."

She didn't know whether to argue with him or run up the stairs. He didn't give her a chance to do either, but collected his specter-o-meter from the corner near the window and dropped to the floor to examine once again the damaged needle. She could swear that he cradled that device every bit as tenderly as he'd cradled her.

She moved to stand behind him, while he fiddled with his contraption. "Why are you so intent on proving that Alistair didn't kill Viola?"

"Perhaps the truth needs to come out before they can move on."

"The truth has been apparent for thirty years," she said sensibly.

"Then why are Alistair and Viola trapped here?"

"Because... because Alistair betrayed Viola and she cannot forgive him."

"You said she still loves him, even though she believes he killed her."

"She does, but... but..."

He lifted his head. "Can't we simply accept that there is the slight possibility that Alistair did not kill his wife and himself?"

Eve wrinkled her nose. "I suppose I could concede to a slight possibility."

"That's all I ask. We must approach this with open minds. Anything at all is possible. What do you have planned for today?"

He was looking at her that way again, as he had in the entryway a few minutes ago. He saw too much, he saw too deep. Time to run upstairs and get herself properly coiffed and armored for the day.

"I'd like to pay a call on the preacher."

Lucien's smug expression changed subtly. Preachers rarely understood or appreciated his talents. She had seen Lucien in church before, had seen him pray. But he always sat in the back pew and remained quiet, and he steered clear of personal contact with the preachers. She suspected that something had happened, before she met him. Something that made him leery of men of the cloth.

"You don't have to go with me," she said, trying to appear nonchalant. "It's not like there's anything you can do, and besides, it would be better if we weren't seen together in town."

"Why?"

"Lucien!"

He continued to stare at her. "It doesn't matter. I already told Miss Gertrude that we were going to get married."

"You did what?" She grabbed the closest thing to her and threw it at the man sitting on the floor. Luckily for Lucien, it was a soft afghan he caught and set aside. "Half the people in town have heard that rumor by now! Miss Gertrude is the biggest gossip in Plummerville!"

"When you insisted that I stay there rather than sleep on your couch," he said calmly, "you didn't share that bit of information."

"Oh!" She grabbed something else to throw, then glanced down at her mother's hand-painted vase and thought better of it. She placed the vase carefully on the end table by the sofa.

"If it makes you feel any better, I did tell her that you had not yet said yes." He returned his attention to the specter-o-meter. "My diligent pursuit will explain away my persistent presence and the fact that I might be seen following you doggedly around town."

His presence did have to be explained away somehow, and a persistent suitor was better than a ghost chaser, she supposed. But there was always Justina Markham.

Who had apparently told no one but Douglas Hunt that the spirits of Alistair and Viola lived on in this house. If the rumors of ghostly hauntings had begun, Lucien would have heard from his landlady. And Eve would have had people knocking on her door by sunset last night. Curious.

"If we're going to track down the reverend, perhaps you should get dressed," Lucien suggested absently.

Chapter 8

In the past Eve had always been so objective when it came to a haunting that Lucien could not believe her stubborn insistence that in this case he was wrong. She had either lost all sense of neutrality, since the haunted house in question was hers, or she had changed considerably in the past two years.

Then again, perhaps she simply enjoyed arguing with him. If he said the sky was blue, would she insist it was actually as green as the plain day dress she wore? If he informed her that the month was October, would she argue that it was really November?

They hadn't said much on their trek to Plummerville, taking a route he was getting disgustingly familiar with. It wasn't an unbearably long walk, but Eve did live at the edge of town. Thirty years ago, it had surely been even more secluded. And there Viola had been, perhaps lonely and too far from her friends for her liking. Did she feel isolated in that cottage her husband had built for her? Trapped? Was she so achingly lonely that she was easy prey for any man? He had a hard time seeing Viola as a hussy, as Miss Gertrude had so unkindly called her, but in truth they knew very little about her. And if she had been truly lonely, anything was possible.

Lucien knew what it was like to be lonely. As a child, even his own mother had shunned him. In fact, she had been afraid of him, and as a child he had not understood why. Not until much later, years after her death, and even then understanding had been difficult. The mind of a child could not grasp why a mother would look at her own son that way, why she would sometimes flinch when he came near.

And now... spirits often visited their loved ones, watched over them unseen, reached out a silent, invisible hand of comfort. Lucien saw these spirits. He felt their presence and the warm light of love. He never saw his own mother. Was she afraid of him still?

He had lived his life as an oddity, and at one point he had convinced himself he was insane. It was a logical explanation, and at the time—he'd been sixteen, orphaned and confused, and his stepfather of three years wanted nothing to do with him—he'd actually preferred the concept of insanity to admitting that the ghosts who presented themselves to him were real.

Hugh Felder had saved Lucien's life and his sanity, teaching him how to control his gift, convincing him that it was a gift. And still, Lucien was always searching for a way to scientifically explain away his abilities. He was convinced that somehow scientific proof would make things better. That if he could explain what he saw in a logical and methodical manner, he would no longer be considered an oddity.

He owed Hugh so much, more than he could ever repay. The man had quickly become the father Lucien had never known. Hugh Felder had saved Lucien's life and his sanity, taught him how to use what he'd been given, and introduced him to Eve.

The only time in his life that he had truly not been lonely had been his too-short time with Eve. She didn't see what he did—at least not usually—and still she understood. She was his in a way he had never expected a woman to be; she had the power to push away the loneliness forever... and he had ruined everything by letting a date slip by. So simple. So stupid.

"You don't have to go with me," Eve said as Plummerville's main street loomed before them. Was it his imagination, or was her voice softer than before? Kinder? "I know you don't care much for churches."

"I love churches," he argued. "The most magnificent architecture in the world can be seen in houses of worship. They're usually the grandest buildings in town." He gestured to the spiraling bell tower at the opposite end of Plummerville. "Is that it?"

"Yes," she said. "That's the Baptist church. The Methodist church is newer, and they haven't yet raised the money to build a bell tower."

"They will," he said, squinting at what he could see of the stately structure that was their destination.

Eve was quiet again, thoughtful, her eyes on the bell tower ahead. Once again she was tied up and proper, in dull green and sensible walking boots, her hair pulled back and up and secured with tortoiseshell hairpins.

Lucien knew he could say no more about the sensitive subject she had broached, and Evie would ask no more. While she was always receptive to his infrequent bursts of conversation that veered away from work-related subjects, she never pried. She had never been one of those who leaned in, hungry-eyed, and whispered, "What's it like?"

But if this was the woman he'd spend his life with, she needed to know more. She needed to know everything.

"I actually like churches," he continued. "God is everywhere, but it does seem that sometimes he can be felt more distinctly in a church. There's peace in a proper church. Serenity." He saw the unspoken why on her face. Evie knew he had an aversion for dealing with religious types.

"When I was five, my mother started taking me to preachers who might be able to fix me." Lucien took a deep breath.

"Fix you?" Eve asked incredulously, casting him a sideways glance.

"I was broken, after all. I had obviously been born wrong. Who better to repair a damaged soul than a man of the cloth?" He made the statement dispassionately, as if it no longer mattered.

Evie pursed her lips, bless her, and while she didn't say a word he saw the anger and disbelief on her face.

"For four years, she dragged me from one preacher to another, from one town, one church, one traveling revival tent to the next. I was blessed time and again, baptized nearly unto drowning, starved, burned..."

"Burned?!"

He glanced at the woman beside him. Eve wasn't curious; she was livid.

"My hands and feet. My hands healed well but you can still see the scars on my feet. They're faint, though. Almost completely gone."

They continued to walk, were passing by the first of the shops in town. Eve seemed not to notice that people stared at them as they passed. She was fairly new to Plummerville, and didn't know everyone well. He himself was a perfect stranger. Of course people stared.

"That's so horribly wrong," she said angrily. "How dare they... how dare she... Lucien..." Eve wasn't in tears, but she blustered and her eyes shone too bright.

Should he even bother to continue? This was a discussion he'd never had, not with anyone. He usually preferred to keep his past buried, where it belonged. But since he'd started, he might as well finish.

"When I was nine years old, she took me to a revival tent. She had great hopes for this one. This particular preacher was... different. More..." Intense? Powerful? Insane? Lucien shook off the need to describe the man. "When he found out what I could do, he wasn't afraid like the others. He saw a nice bit of profit in a child who could communicate with the dead. He wanted to make me part of his show." When he thought about it, he could still smell the tent. He could still smell that awful man.

"He got me on stage, but not being a showman, I didn't say what he wanted me to say. I refused to lie. I tried to explain to him that spirits came to me in their own way, and that it was different every time. Some I could see, others I could not. Some I heard as if they whispered in my ear, while others I could hear only in my head. He wanted me to draw down spirits on command, which I could not and would not do.

"But he insisted, so I did my best to comply. I told him his mother was crying in heaven because her son was a liar and a cheat and a murderer. I asked him why he'd killed his wife and buried her in the grove. She was a very unhappy woman, I can tell you, watching him play holier than thou only months after burying her in the woods behind their home."

"Oh, Lucien," Eve said softly. Did she know what was coming?

"He told his congregation, a tent full of sweating, noisy, frantic people, that I was the spawn of the devil, a fountain of spiteful lies, and as a man of God it was his duty to beat the devil out of me. He tried to do just that, on a raised stage, while the men, women, and children who had come to hear him preach clapped and shouted amen."

For a moment, all was silent, then Eve whispered, "What did you do?"

"I tried to run," he said logically and without outward emotion. "There were men who caught me quickly, though. I didn't even make it off the stage. They dragged me back to the reverend. They held me. I fought, I fought hard. I kicked and struggled and shouted until my mother ran onto the stage." The memory still brought a lump to his throat. A coldness to his heart. "I thought she had come to save me, for a moment, but then she put her hands on my shoulders and helped those men hold me down, whispering all the while that this was for my own good. That when this was over, I'd be better. After that, I didn't fight anymore. I just stood there while the unholy preacher shouted his blasphemous prayers and beat me until everything went black."

Eve looked away from him and raised a hand to her face. Was she wiping away tears she didn't want him to see? "Tell me that's not true," she said softly. "Tell me you made that awful story up simply to shock me."

"I'm afraid it's all true."

When she looked at him there were tears and fire in her eyes. "And the preacher? Where is he today? How can a man like that live with himself?"

"He didn't have to live with himself long. A year or so later a fallen woman he decided to beat the devil out of, after he'd spent several hours with her, of course, pulled a knife and stabbed him in the heart. Eight times."

"His death came too quickly, then," she said angrily. "He should've suffered."

"When I heard he was dead, months after the fact, I was just... relieved. I used to have nightmares that I'd come awake and he'd be there by my bed, with his whip and his fists, and his damnable smile." His mother was always there in those nightmares, to hold him down.

"And your mother?" Eve asked angrily.

"I told her, after that night, that there would be no more preachers. No more churches. And I said it in such a way that she was terrified of me until the day she died, six years later."

"What a... a..." Eve sputtered.

"Say it, Eve," he prodded.

"What a stupid woman! I'm sorry, Lucien, I know I shouldn't say such a thing about your mother, but... how incredibly stupid!"

"More ignorant than stupid," he said, more kindly than he would have a few years ago. "She didn't understand."

"There are a lot of things I don't understand, but I would never... I can't imagine..." She stopped suddenly, stopped speaking and walking as the Baptist church loomed before them. "Oh, Lucien, I can't ask you to go in there with me to talk to the Reverend Younger."

"And I won't allow you to go in there alone."

She was determined to argue. "All I'm going to do is ask a few questions..."

Lucien took Eve by the shoulders and looked her in the eye. Green eyes, beautiful and bright and intelligent. "If I'm right about Alistair and Viola being murdered, and the Reverend Younger was indeed involved with the lovely Mrs. Stamper, then he is a logical murder suspect."

"Surely not," she said softly. "He's a..." The words died on her lips. A preacher. A man of the cloth. In the end, simply a man like any other, and capable of anything, as any man is capable of anything. "How can I ask you to go in there after what you just told me?"

He gave her a smile. "In case you haven't noticed, my dear, I'm not nine years old any longer. I'm not afraid of your reverend, or anyone else." His smile remained steady. No, he wasn't afraid. But every now and then he looked at a man in a collar and experienced a bone-deep chill.

* * *

Lucien was almost a foot taller than she was; he was definitely stronger. So why did she keep stepping between him and Reverend Younger? Lucien hardly needed to be protected from a white-haired, rail-thin preacher with a receding hairline.

Eve shook, deep down where she hoped no one could see. She was furious! Incensed! Not for Lucien, she tried to convince herself, not for this infuriating man she did not love, but for the child he had been. A man who would beat a child deserved a death more excruciating than a quick knife in the heart. A mother who would allow that to happen didn't deserve the gift of a child.

Reverend Younger led them into his office, where he motioned to the two hard chairs on one side of his desk. He had a rather smug smile on his face. Eve knew what the good reverend suspected; a couple visiting him during the week usually meant they'd be making arrangements for a wedding. Not this time.

She curtailed those suspicions quickly. "Reverend Younger, this is my colleague, Lucien Thorpe."

The preacher's eyebrows raised slightly at the term colleague. "A pleasure to meet you," he said as he offered his hand across the desk. After a moment's hesitation, Lucien shook his hand. "That name is familiar. Have we met?"

"No," Lucien said simply.

The reverend brushed off the familiarity of the name. "What can I do for you today?"

They all took their seats, and Eve calmed herself with a deep, stilling breath as she perched on the edge of her chair. "You know that I purchased the Stamper house last summer."

"Yes. Mrs. Younger has commented more than once how much nicer the place looks these days. You've done a wonderful job with the landscaping. It had been so terribly neglected." The preacher laid his eyes directly on her. "Have you hired someone to help you with the yard or are you doing the work yourself?"

"I'm doing it all myself." She straightened her spine. "I've always longed to be somewhat of a gardener."

Lucien turned his head and glared at her. "You have?"

"Yes," she said, only slightly testy. Heavens, there were so many things she longed for, and Lucien knew nothing about them. Nothing at all. "But that's not why I'm here," she said, ignoring Lucien and leaning purposefully toward the desk and the preacher behind it. "The people who lived in the house before me..."

"The Andersons," Reverend Younger interrupted. "Lovely couple. Goodness, that was years ago. They didn't stay in Plummerville very long, so I'm afraid I did not get to know them well."

"Not the Andersons," Eve said. "The Stampers."

It could not be her imagination that the reverend paled and the twinkle in his eyes dimmed. "I imagine they died well before you were born."

"Yes, they did."

"I suppose you already know... what happened?"

Many people would be distressed to learn there had been a murder/suicide in their home, she imagined. "I do," she said plainly.

"I imagine that's upsetting news, for you," the reverend offered.

"Not at all. In fact, I've been quite intrigued by the story," Eve said. "When I heard that you knew Mrs. Stamper, I thought I might stop by and ask a few questions about her."

This time there was no mistake. The reverend definitely paled. "That was so long ago," he said in a lowered voice. "It serves no purpose to dredge up ancient history. Enjoy your new home, Miss Abernathy. Forget the unhappy past."

"Sometimes the past will not be forgotten," Lucien said darkly.

Eve would not be dismissed. "So, you did know Viola Stamper?" she continued.

"Yes," Reverend Younger admitted.

"Did you know her well?"

"Not particularly."

"What can you tell me about her?"

The preacher took a deep breath. "She was a kind woman. Had a smile for everyone and was very active in church activities. I was new here, then, but I don't believe she missed a single Sunday service."

"None of that is very personal," Eve noted. "What about the woman herself?"

"Miss Abernathy, I see no reason to dig up the past this way. Viola Stamper is dead. She's been dead a very long time. No good can come of your... your meddling."

"Meddling?" Eve asked. "I ask a few questions about the previous owners of my house, and you call it meddling?"

The reverend's thin fingers twitched. "I have nothing to tell you."

Eve smiled. Oh, this man knew something! "I'm sorry to have bothered you, then. I suppose I'll just have to resort to the second step of my plan."

His lips thinned. "Second step?"

Eve nodded. "An advertisement in the weekly paper. I thought I might offer a reward for anyone who's able to provide information on the Stampers."

The reverend looked defeated. So, whatever he knew, he wasn't the only one. This town has its secrets. Well-kept, deep secrets. But for a reward, what might she discover? Too bad she hadn't thought of that idea earlier, so an ad could be run before Halloween.

"If you will promise discretion," Reverend Younger said in a low voice, "perhaps I can share a tidbit or two."

"How very kind of you," Eve said sweetly. "Of course, we will be most discreet."

Reluctantly, the preacher continued. "Viola Stamper was truly a lovely, kind woman, and she was devoted to her husband, but..." he stopped.

"But what?" Lucien prodded.

Reverend Younger sighed. "I suppose it matters little, after all this time. Viola Stamper adored her husband, to all outward appearances she was a very happy woman. But she was desperate for a child, and the hunger ate at her every day."

"How do you know this?" Lucien asked calmly.

"She came to me for guidance."

"Did Alistair Stamper come with her for this counsel?" Eve asked.

"No," the preacher said succinctly. "Viola did not want her husband to know that she was unhappy because after three years of marriage she still had not conceived. She was afraid he would find such a revelation hurtful. Even now that they're gone, such talk would do no one any good. It might even stir up old, ugly rumors."

Rumors about Viola and the new, young preacher, Eve assumed. Rumors he did not want circulating again.

Eve could not help but note that the reverend always referred to Viola by name, and to Alistair as her husband. Did he not know Alistair well? Or did he find it difficult to say the name of Viola's husband aloud, even after all these years?

Good heavens, he really had been in love with her. She saw it in the pain in his eyes. She heard it when he said her name.

"The day they died..." she began.

"Oh, my!" Reverend Younger said, snapping his head around to glare, wide-eyed, at Lucien. "I know where I've heard your name before. You're that... that..."

"Scientist specializing in studies of the spiritual world," Eve supplied. She would not allow this man to call Lucien by any offensive name. Not today.

The Reverend Younger looked from Lucien to Eve and back again. He was not a stupid man. She was asking about a thirty-year-old murder, and her colleague was a man who admittedly spoke to the dead. "I think you should both leave. I have another appointment shortly, and I'm quite sure I can be of no further assistance."

"Thank you for speaking to us," Lucien said, standing and offering his hand over the desk. The preacher stared at his hand for a moment before reluctantly taking it. Lucien did not let go quickly, but pumped the reverend's hand enthusiastically. "It's been a pleasure."

Reverend Younger should have responded with a polite, "The pleasure was all mine," or "God bless you," or even a curt, "Likewise." Instead he said nothing, as he pulled his hand gratefully into his chest and cradled it as if he had been burned.

* * *

"That proves it," Eve said as they walked away from the church.

"Proves what?" Lucien asked, astounded that she had been able to gain anything from that quick and unsatisfactory encounter.

"Reverend Younger was obviously in love with Viola," Eve said sensibly. "She wanted a child, and perhaps..." She blushed. "Well, you can imagine."

Viola wanted a child, and she decided her husband would never be able to give her one. Had she gone to another man, or as Miss Gertrude had suggested, other men, in search of what she so desperately desired?

"Alistair discovered what was going on, tricked Viola into thinking he had forgiven her, and then he killed her."

She sounded so convinced. He was not. "Why?"

"Because of the other man," Eve whispered.

Lucien waved her answer off with a dismissive hand. "No. Why make her believe he forgave her? If he was enraged over her indiscretions, why not kill her in a rage? Why pretend to love and forgive her and then kill her and himself?"

"I don't know," Eve admitted.

Again on the streets of Plummerville, they walked and talked, their voices low, onlookers forgotten.

"Perhaps he did know about her fall from grace, as it were," Lucien began. "Being imperfect himself, Alistair truly might have forgiven Viola, but someone else... a rejected lover, a jealous wife, an indignant brother or father, killed them both."

"Not a jealous wife," Eve insisted.

"Why not?"

"We know the killer was a man."

Lucien shrugged. "We don't know that to be true, though I suppose we can assume it to be the case. Still a jealous woman might have hired or begged or blackmailed someone into doing the deed for her."

Evie sighed. "You make things so complicated! The simplest explanation is almost always the correct one."

"Almost always."

"Besides, if the murderer was someone unconnected to the Stampers, someone who just killed them for money and then left town, we will never know what really happened."

"No matter what happened that night, we might never know. It's been thirty years, Eve."

She stopped before the busy general store and looked up at him. "Not for Viola. For Viola, it's not thirty years ago, it's right now, and the murder happens every night. She dies violently every night."

He wanted, so much, to reach out and touch Evie's cheek. Instead he said, "While we're here, let's do a little shopping."

She turned away and headed into the general store. The skirt of her drab green dress swayed nicely, as he watched her walk away. His Eve was a temptation, a wonder, the only woman for him. Unfortunately she was also a gift he might never be able to reclaim.

Chapter 9

Eve tried to convince herself that people only stared at Lucien because he was so handsome... and because he was a stranger to most of the customers who browsed the shelves of the general store, she added mentally when it occurred to her that to dwell upon his more pleasing attributes was a waste of her time.

But it was more, and she knew it. Lucien was different. People always sensed that he was different, and were either perplexed, annoyed, or intrigued. Again she felt a deep rage on his behalf. Different was not wrong! She wanted to stroke his head and kiss his brow and call his mother much worse names than stupid, but she didn't dare. For one thing, she didn't want him to know she cared. For another, you just didn't criticize a man's mother too much, no matter what she'd done.

She placed sugar and tea in a small shopping basket, and Lucien browsed through the penny candy. No tobacco for him, thank goodness. She hated the stench of cigar smoke, and would not have it in her house, in any case. But Lucien had a sweet tooth. She decided to buy an extra pound of sugar.

"Eve!" a bright voice called.

Eve spun around to see her closest friend in Plummerville, Daisy Willard, closing in with a wide smile on her face. Daisy was everything Eve was not. She was a beautiful woman, with pale blond hair and eyes almost as blue as Lucien's. She dressed in colorful, frilly dresses and was given to wearing bows and satin ribbons. Perhaps she and Eve had become such good friends because they were the only unmarried women in Plummerville between the ages of twenty-five and thirty, except for that sour old widow Katherine Cassidy. Eve and Daisy didn't talk about babies and cake recipes, like the other women near their ages, they talked about the world, books, and their gardens. Daisy had a wonderful garden.

"I didn't expect to see you in town today," Daisy said brightly as she gave Eve a quick hug. She glanced into Eve's basket. "Why, look at all that sugar. Are you actually going to do some baking?" It was a small joke between them; neither of them could bake worth a fig. Still, when Lucien was around Eve wanted to try to learn.

"It was a spur-of-the moment trip," Eve said, hoping beyond hope that Lucien would continue to peruse the sweet offerings at the front of the store. She had not talked about her ghosts to anyone, not even to Daisy. She would have a terrible time explaining Lucien!

"Are you going to bake a cake for the Halloween fair?"

Eve shook her head. "No."

"But you will be there," Daisy said.

She had put off this discussion for two weeks, because she knew Daisy would argue. But now was as good a time as any. "I don't think so." Halloween was the thirtieth anniversary of Viola's death. She wouldn't feel right partying on the streets of Plummerville while Viola relived that night once more.

As expected, Daisy's eyes grew wide. "Why not? It's always fun. Much more fun than the Fourth of July celebration. The mayor doesn't speak at Halloween, thank goodness. Instead of ending the day with a boring speech, we all gather around the bonfire and tell ghost stories!"

Eve shuddered. Ghost stories could be entertaining, but since beginning her work with Lucien and his cronies, four years ago, she no longer garnered any pleasure from those scary tales. To believe in ghosts as a concept was one thing. To have them tap you on the shoulder and say hello was another entirely.

Daisy's eyes sparkled. A hint of a smile touched her perfectly shaped mouth. "You're scared," she said softly.

"I am not."

"You are." Daisy laid a hand on Eve's arm. "You're afraid of ghosts and goblins and witches..."

"I am not!"

Daisy's half smile faded. "Oh, I'm so sorry. I was having fun with you, and you really are frightened. Eve, it's just a child's holiday. A night for all of us to be children again." She nodded her head. "We'll go to the festival together, and if you like I'll hold your hand and chase away anyone who dares to scare you, and I will give you the talk my mother used to give me, when I was younger. There are no ghosts, no witches, no goblins."

The thought of Daisy Willard—five foot one and slightly built and dressed in sunny yellow—protecting anyone made Eve smile. And now was not the time to tell Daisy that while she wasn't sure about goblins, ghosts and witches were very real.

"That's very sweet, but I have other plans."

"Other plans?"

More explanations were apparently called for. Explanations she did not want to give. Eve's life in Plummerville was as regulated and boring as Daisy's. They never had other plans.

"Evie, do you like licorice?"

Eve closed her eyes at the sound of Lucien's voice and the steady clip of his step behind her.

"I can't remember," he mumbled. "I should remember. You like either licorice or... peppermint!" He sighed. "It's peppermint you like. You detest licorice." He turned before he reached her, heading back to the candy counter. "Sorry," he muttered as he walked away.

When he was gone, Daisy smiled and whispered, "Evie?"

"He's an old friend."

"He doesn't look very old," Daisy teased. "Oh, is he the reason you have other plans for Saturday? This is quite shocking."

"He's staying at Miss Gertrude's boarding house," Eve explained. "And he really is an old friend. Nothing more."

Daisy didn't argue, but she didn't believe the protest, either. Her face was so open and easy to read, and right now everything on that face sparkled. "Does your old friend have a name?"

"Lucien Thorpe." Eve held her breath as she waited for Daisy to recognize the name.

Apparently she didn't. "We must all have dinner at my house. Tomorrow night?"

"We really shouldn't..."

"You can't have other plans for tomorrow, too!"

What could she say without telling Daisy about Viola and Alistair and Lucien's attempts to send them on? If she wanted to tell anyone, it would be her friend. Daisy was a woman who could be trusted, of that Eve was certain. But when—no, if the time came, she didn't want to share the news in the general store.

"Tomorrow night would be lovely," Eve said.

Daisy clapped her hands and grinned widely. "Wonderful! I was so terribly bored, with nothing to look forward to until the Halloween festival on Saturday, and now I have a cozy dinner party to plan. A fall theme, I think," she said, tapping a slender finger on her chin. "Is your friend Mr. Thorpe a picky eater?"

"Not at all."

"All men like beef and potatoes," Daisy mused. "And I could try to make a pie. The last one was a disaster, but that doesn't mean I shouldn't try. Pumpkin," she said with a decisive nod of her head.

"I have to go," Eve said, trying to make her escape before Lucien returned. Daisy and Lucien would meet soon enough.

* * *

"Dinner?" Lucien wagged a rope-like piece of licorice at Eve as she put away the purchases he had carried for her. "Why?"

"Daisy is my best friend here in Plummerville, and she wants to cook a meal for us. That's all."

"We don't have time," he said, pulling out a chair from the small kitchen table and sitting. "Tomorrow night we'll need to be here, trying to connect with Viola and Alistair so I can send them on."

"We won't be out late. Daisy always eats early."

"Just explain to her what we're doing, and..."

"No!" Eve turned about sharply, and before his eyes bright pink spots formed on her lovely cheeks. "I don't think that... we really shouldn't..."

"I thought you said this woman was your best friend."

"She is."

"And yet she doesn't know that your house is haunted."

"No."

Eve's insistence that she wanted to be ordinary echoed in his mind. "She doesn't even know what you've done, does she? The articles, the book..."

"A book no one read," she muttered.

"I read it," he said. "It was quite brilliant."

She pursed her lips in disbelief, then reached for one of the peppermint sticks he had bought her and stuck it in her mouth.

The articles and single book had been written under the pseudonym E. J. Hart, and while the book had not been a commercial success, it had been brilliant. Perhaps because in reading it he saw so much of Eve. In the words, the observations, the flow of the sentences. He had read that book a dozen times or more, in the past two years.

"Does she even know you're a writer?"

"Yes." Eve lifted her chin and wagged her peppermint stick. "I have written several articles on gardening, since coming to Plummerville."

He couldn't stop himself; he burst out laughing. "Gardening?" He almost choked on a piece of licorice.

"Articles about gardening are very popular. I might even write a book on the subject, next year."

"Oh, Evie," he said, his laughter dying. "Weeds and bugs and dirt can't be as exciting as..."

"I don't need exciting," she interrupted. "I've had enough excitement to last me a lifetime!"

Evie tried to walk past him, on her way out of the kitchen with her head high, spine rigid, chin uplifted. She looked fearsome, as if the peppermint stick she wielded was a mighty sword. As she came near, Lucien reached out and snagged her wrist. With a gentle tug, he pulled her onto his knee. She tried to get up, but when he tugged her back down once more, she stayed.

"We'll have dinner with your friend, if you like," he said calmly. "And I will refrain from mentioning your ghosts or any others, if that will make you happy. But, Evie... it is a mistake to deny who you are. Trust me on this one, I know from experience."

"I can be whoever I want to be," she insisted, her gaze turned to the fascinating sight of the kitchen window, lace curtains, and gleaming panes of glass. She perched on his knee and sucked on the candy, almost absently.

"You're very lucky, then," he said softly. "I am who I am, and there's no changing that. I can never be a teacher, or a farmer, or a lawyer. I can never deny who I am." He didn't want to try, not ever again. "If you can forget what you've seen and what you know in order to be this blasted ordinary woman, then good for you. I for one will miss the Evie Abernathy who can go head to head with a ghost or two and a ragtag collection of admittedly odd spirit chasers and come out laughing."

She played with the peppermint stick, seemingly unaware that every move she made was maddeningly seductive. "There were fun times, I suppose."

"You suppose."

She looked at him dead in the eye, her lips wet and sticky, her mind somewhere else. Was she remembering all the good times they'd had before he'd ruined everything?

"I just fell into it, you know," she said, stopping to lick her lips. "My father met Hugh shortly before he died, and I was so lost... I had nowhere to go and Hugh quickly put me to work taking notes for him. It grew from there; it took over my life so gradually that before I knew it I was... one of you."

"Hugh has a penchant for finding and saving lost souls."

Eve nodded slightly, her head down. "He does that, doesn't he? We met Hugh too late for him to help my father, but he was a godsend for me." She lifted her head and looked at him. She was no longer lost in the past, but was very much right here.

"I wish my father had met you, before he died. He handed money over to every swindler along the East Coast, trying to get in touch with my mother. If only he had found you..."

"It wouldn't have mattered."

"You could have tried to call her for him. If he had known that she was at peace, that she was waiting for him, he could have..." Her face fell. "Maybe he could have found some peace himself, in this life."

Lucien shook his head. "Hugh told me, early on, that I had to shut out a lot of the noise in my head and choose how I would use my gift. I had to pick a path and stick to it, and I did. Your mother crossed over to the other side peacefully, as is right and proper. I find the spirits who did not make the trip successfully, and do my best to send them home. I would never, not for any price, yank a spirit back from where it belongs."

"So she's... all right?"

They had never talked about her mother, and she didn't mention her father much, either. Evie lived solidly in the present. She didn't dwell on past mistakes. Except his, apparently. But right now he could see the painful questions in her eyes, so close to his own.

"They're both fine." He gave her a smile and tucked a stray strand of honey colored hair behind her ear. "I see them around you, now and then."

She jumped and pulled slightly away from him. "You do? I thought you said..."

"They come on their own accord, as they please, when they please. I don't pull them here. They never stay very long. A few seconds, a minute or two. Just long enough to see that you're safe and happy."

"You never told me," she whispered accusingly.

"You never asked. How was I to know that you wanted to be aware of their presence?" He'd learned the hard way to keep his mouth shut, unless called to do a specific job. "Do you know what would happen to me if I went around telling everyone that the spirit of their mother or their recently deceased husband or their favorite aunt popped in now and then to check on them?" He felt Evie relax, there on his knee. "If someone asks me I tell them the truth, but I keep most of what I see to myself, these days."

"I'm not like everyone else," she protested softly. "You can tell me anything. Everything."

"Can I?"

She reached out and brushed back a strand of his hair. Her fingers were tender, soft as the brush of a feather. "You can."

"So you forgive me?" he asked hopefully.

"Of course not."

Since there was no heat in her words, he didn't take her too seriously. He cupped the back of her neck with his hand and pulled her toward him. "It's true," he whispered. "You're not like everyone else. There is no one in the world like you. I was such an idiot to... to... to let that day slip by."

"Yes," she said as her lips neared his. "You were."

He kissed her, and her mouth on his was so right, so sweet... he didn't want it to end. He held her there, with his hand at her neck, but she didn't try to pull away. She rested one hand on his shoulder, and after a moment her fingers began to rock, just as her lips did. A kiss like this, a kiss that pounded through his veins and his spirit, had to mean something. Forgiveness, perhaps? Love?

When she pulled her mouth from his he released her, his hand raking gently down her back.

Eve licked her lips as she pulled away from him. "You taste like licorice."

"Sorry," he said, not sounding at all apologetic.

"It's all right," she said. "Perhaps licorice isn't so bad, after all."

He smiled at her, giving her a completely wicked grin. "You taste like peppermint."

He liked this too much, having Evie on his lap while he sat in her kitchen as if he belonged here. It was... ordinary. It was so much of what she wanted from life. Well, what she said she wanted. Did she truly want to be like everyone else?

She broke the silence, and ruined the moment with a single sentence. "I think you should go, now."

"To the parlor?"

"Back to Miss Gertrude's," she said softly.

"Evie..."

"It doesn't look right for you to be here. We don't have a chaperone."

"We're both fully grown," he said indignantly. "We don't need a chaperone."

"I have a reputation to think of," she argued. Still, she sat on his knee. "The preacher knows you're here, Miss Gertrude, Daisy, and all those people in the general store. You can't just... move in."

"Why not?"

"It's not..."

"Proper," he finished for her.

She nodded. "You can come back tonight, when it's time for Alistair and Viola to appear."

"What am I supposed to do until then? I should be here, trying to rouse and speak to Alistair again, or working on the specter-o-meter, or..."

"Please," she said, and at that moment he knew her asking him to leave had nothing to do with her reputation or becoming ordinary or being proper. She was afraid. Not of ghosts, not of gossip, not even of him. She was afraid of that kiss.

He assisted Eve to her feet as he stood, bent down to give her a quicker, sweeter kiss, and then headed for the back door.

He heard her sigh of relief as the door closed behind him.

* * *

Lucien had been gone almost an hour when a knock sounded at her front door, making Eve's already uncertain heart leap. Surely he wasn't back already! She had just managed to get her heartbeat back to a normal rhythm, to dismiss the crazy notions that kiss had brought to life. She wasn't ready to face him again.

Of course, she didn't have to answer the door.

A quick peek out the parlor window, and Eve felt a rush of relief. It wasn't Lucien, after all. It was Daisy, carrying a plate covered in a linen towel.

Eve opened the door on her openly curious friend. "Is he here?" Daisy asked as she stepped into the foyer.

"Who?" Eve asked calmly.

"Lucien Thorpe!" Daisy handed over the plate. Eve lifted the towel to see a nicely arranged dozen or so cold, hard biscuits. "I thought he might like some biscuits."

"Mr. Thorpe isn't here, at the moment." Eve offered the plate back to her friend. "Would you like to try delivering these to Miss Gertrude's?"

Daisy made a decidedly unfeminine sputtering sound as she headed for the parlor and her favorite chair by the window. "No, of course not. They're not very good. At least I didn't burn them, this time!"

"So, those biscuits were just an excuse?"

"Of course." Daisy's eyes sparkled. "I simply had to come by. You missed all the excitement!" she said as she sat down, her yellow skirt settling nicely around her chair, the pale curls that framed her face bouncing softly.

Eve sighed as she placed the plate of biscuits on the table by the parlor door. "Did I?"

"Reverend Younger came into the general store after you and Mr. Thorpe left, and he was absolutely raving."

Eve sat on the couch, landing a bit harder than was graceful. Her own skirt never settled with ease around her legs, the way Daisy's always did. Her skirt bunched and wrinkled. At the moment, she barely noticed. She had more important concerns. Of course the preacher was raving. She should have known word would spread quickly.

"Is it true?" Daisy whispered.

"Is what true?" There was no telling what Reverend Younger might have said. Something to discredit them, she supposed, in case they persisted in asking questions about Viola Stamper.

"He said your Lucien Thorpe was some kind of swindler who tries to make people think he can communicate with the dead."

Eve closed her eyes. "Lucien is not a swindler."

"I didn't think so," Daisy said. "I know full well that you are not the kind of woman to be taken in by a swindler. You're much too sensible for that."

The rumors had begun. Rumors about Lucien, not haunted houses. Not ghosts. Why hadn't Justina Markham started talking about the spirits in this house? Why hadn't Douglas Hunt? Word spread quickly in a small town like Plummerville. If word about the ghosts had begun to spread, Daisy would have heard that by now, too.

She had hoped to keep this all quiet. Lucien. The ghosts. What a foolish idea. People would find out what was going on here, one way or another. They would find out who Lucien was, and they'd discover what her association with him had been. There would be no normal life for her, not here, not anywhere.

"Miss Gertrude stopped by, too," Daisy continued when Eve offered no explanation. "She said..." with a wave of her hand, Daisy dismissed Miss Gertrude. "Well, you can't believe half of what that woman says. She can twist a simple piece of gossip until it no longer bears any resemblance to the original rumor. Besides, I'd rather wait to hear this from the horse's mouth."

"Hear what?" Was Miss Gertrude spreading the word that Lucien intended to ask Eve to be his wife?

Daisy had a way of smiling that made her look half angelic, half demonic. That expression had sent many a man running, and had drawn many more straight to her. For some reason, she sent them all packing. She gave Eve that look now. "Poor Garrick," she said, completely dismissing Lucien's landlady. "He will be heartbroken when he hears that there's a man in town who calls you Evie and buys you peppermint."

Garrick, Douglas Hunt's youngest child and only son, had attempted to court Eve on occasion. She tried to be friendly without encouraging him, but he persisted. Fortunately for her, he spent a lot of time at the mill he ran with his father.

"I'm sure Garrick doesn't care that..."

"Eve!" Daisy interrupted. "He's the most eligible bachelor in town, and he has been mooning after you since you moved to Plummerville."

"Only because you turned him down flat last year. And the year before, or so I hear," Eve added.

Daisy waved a dismissive hand. "Garrick is lovely and wealthy and has impeccable manners when it suits him, but he's not my type."

"What is your type?"

"We're not talking about me," Daisy said with a light trill of laughter. "We're talking about you. Yes, Garrick will be heartbroken."

"I doubt that very much." Eve's heart thudded too hard, for a moment. She often tried to picture the ordinary life she wanted. The life she longed for. A man like Garrick would be necessary to that life. He was handsome; much more fair in coloring than Lucien and a bit shorter, but still quite nice-looking. He drank too much, on occasion, but he wasn't what one would call a drunk. Exactly. And Garrick was, as Daisy pointed out, wealthy and well-mannered.

But when Eve looked at him, spoke with him, thought of him, nothing inside her stirred. Nothing came to life.

She couldn't imagine living her life with Garrick Hunt an important part of it, and it had nothing to do with the fact that if she married Garrick, Douglas Hunt would be her father-in-law. That thought alone was enough to give her chills.

Lucien gave her chills all the time, but they were of a different sort. Perhaps ordinary women didn't feel the kind of agitation and excitement and passion she did when Lucien kissed her. Perhaps she wasn't supposed to.

"Well," Daisy prodded. "What is he doing here?"

"Lucien?"

"Yes, Lucien. Of course, Lucien." Daisy sighed with impatience. "Who else?"

If word was going to spread about town—and it appeared that the process had already begun—Eve didn't want Daisy to hear half-truths in whispered gossip. A friend deserved better.

"Would you like some tea?" Eve asked. "You and I, we need to have a nice, long chat. Tea is definitely called for."

Daisy's face lit up. "I would love some tea and a nice long chat. Does this chat have anything to do with your Mr. Thorpe?"

Eve stood, ready to escape to the kitchen to make tea and carefully plan her words. "It has everything to do with my Mr. Thorpe."

She wouldn't have the time to prepare her words, after all. Daisy briskly followed, declaring that this sounded like a kitchen conversation. She brought the plate of cold, hard biscuits with her.

In the end, an unprepared Eve simply told Daisy that she and Lucien had once been very close. She didn't even tell about the wedding that had never taken place. It was the coward's way out, to say so little when there was so much to be said.

A good friend, Daisy allowed Eve to be a coward, and they passed their time in the kitchen eating cold, hard biscuits and talking about flowers and recipes and where Garrick Hunt might turn his attentions next.

Chapter 10

Alistair was not a murderer; Lucien knew it without doubt. But he had no proof. He couldn't even convince Evie to consider the possibility.

Not for the first time, he wished he had more control over his abilities, that he could fine-tune his gift, when necessary. It would be nice if he could summon Alistair and Viola and insist that they take shape and form and then tell him everything that had happened that night. Unfortunately, he had no control over what, if anything, he learned from an earthbound spirit.

Refining his abilities was something he worked at constantly. He saw and heard extraordinary things, but he could do so much more if he gained better command of his talents. If only he could seek out and find evil at will. If he could look at a man's face and know if he was telling the truth or not, perhaps he could find the murderer. Now, that would be a useful gift.

Miss Gertrude stood in the front parlor of her boarding house, the large, square room that also served as her lobby. She had a broom in her hand, but was not sweeping at the moment. The broom almost seemed to be for show, much like the crisp, clean apron she wore.

From one angle, the desk and rack of room keys was visible. From another, the room Miss Gertrude pretended to sweep looked like any other fine parlor.

"Mr. Thorpe!" his landlady said enthusiastically, as if he were a long-lost relative come home at last. "You've missed lunch, but I have plenty of leftovers in the kitchen. I'd be glad to warm something up for you."

"No, thank you," he said. Goodness, he was still full from breakfast! No wonder Miss Gertrude was rather plump. She ate her own abundant and tasty cooking. "I was wondering if you could direct me to a stable where I might rent a horse."

"A horse?"

He was damned tired of making a number of treks between his boarding house in the business district of Plummerville to Eve's house each and every day. At this rate he'd need another pair of shoes before Alistair and Viola went on their way. "And a buggy, if that's possible." Next time he and Eve came into Plummerville together, it would not be on foot.

"Why would you want a buggy?"

The woman asked a lot of questions. Normally he would tell her it was none of her business, but as this was Eve's newly claimed home town he tried to rouse better manners. "I thought I might invite Miss Abernathy for an afternoon drive."

Miss Gertrude smiled coyly. "How romantic. Oh, I'm sure she'll be delighted. Let's see, the blacksmith, Billy Joe Layton, he keeps a few horses and I believe he also has a spare buggy or two for just this type of occasion. And since he has a nice-sized stable, you can leave the horse there when it's not in use."

"Splendid."

Pale eyes twinkled. "Have you asked Miss Abernathy to marry you?"

"Of course not." Lucien was surprised to realize that he sounded horrified at the prospect. "It's much too soon," he added in a lowered voice.

She wagged a finger in his direction. "One should not drag one's feet when it comes to matters of the heart, Mr. Thorpe."

He refrained from telling her that one should mind one's own business.

"Pot roast for supper," a satisfied Miss Gertrude said, changing the subject quickly. "You will be here?" There was more than a hint of reproach in that question that was not really a question at all.

"Of course."

"It certainly wouldn't be proper for you to spend the evening at Miss Abernathy's again."

"Of course not." Eve and her blasted reputation! "I'll ask Miss Abernathy out for an afternoon drive, have supper here, and then retire early."

"There's nothing like a good night's rest," the old lady said smugly.

He wouldn't know. "How true."

Miss Gertrude gave him directions to the blacksmith's, unnecessary directions since every business of importance was located on this main street.

Wonderful. He'd rather be staying in Eve's house day and night, keeping an eye on her, hoping for another encounter with Alistair. Hoping for another kiss. And here he was, practicing deceit in the name of Eve's blasted reputation. He positively hated deceit of any kind.

"Supper's at six!" Miss Gertrude called as he walked out the door, shaking his head in wonder at his own foolishness.

* * *

"That's it," Eve said, shading her eyes with a gloved hand and pointing at the mill ahead.

Lucien brought the buggy to a halt and squinted at the massive and busy enterprise before them. "I imagine it's changed and grown in thirty years," he mumbled.

"I imagine so."

"Were Alistair and Douglas Hunt partners for many years?"

"Seven." Eve looked not at the mill before them, but at Lucien, sitting so close beside her. "What do you expect to find here?"

"Nothing, really," Lucien admitted. "But you never know what you might discover, once you start snooping around."

He looked very nice, with the sun on his face and the gentle breeze whipping strands of dark hair across his cheek. Not that she would ever tell him, or anyone else, such a thing.

"I never expected you to show up at my door with a horse and buggy."

"Pretend I'm courting you," he said curtly.

She couldn't imagine Lucien courting a woman properly. In truth, he did nothing properly. Before, when he'd asked her to marry him, the proposal had been quite businesslike. They'd just finished a job, and she was off to her rented room to organize her notes for two articles she needed to write. He'd been headed to another haunting, one she had not been invited to participate in. His proposal, as they had been saying good-bye, had seemed almost an afterthought And she'd said yes so damned quickly!

Lucien set the horse and buggy in motion again, heading past the mill and only occasionally glancing in that direction. Eve drew her shawl, her protection against the chill, closer.

She had always been, would always be, an afterthought where Lucien was concerned.

They rode in silence, as the late afternoon air seemed to turn cooler. Lucien found a flat spot off the road to turn around and they headed back toward town. They both glanced at the mill as the buggy rattled past it, but neither of them said a word. What was there to be said?

This was a senseless excursion. There were no answers to be found at the mill where Alistair had once been a part owner. All the answers were waiting at her house, with Viola and Alistair.

The silence, as they plodded toward her house at the edge of Plummerville, grew awkward. Since Lucien had come back into her life, they'd argued, they'd reached a truce, they'd even kissed. But there was so much between them, unspoken but still very much there. Like a boil that had not yet been lanced, Eve thought.

The sound of a horse's clopping hoofbeats behind them was almost a relief.

"Miss Abernathy!" an obviously delighted voice called out as the horse and rider approached.

Eve turned her head as the horse drew up alongside the buggy. "Mr. Hunt," she said, slightly surprised to see Garrick leaving the mill so early.

Garrick did resemble his father, a little bit. He was a couple of inches shorter than Lucien, like Douglas Hunt, and they shared some of the same facial features. But where the father had once had very dark hair, as attested to by that which was not yet gray, Garrick's was a pale brown and curled at the nape of his neck in a boyish fashion, even though he was thirty-four years old, nearing thirty-five. Garrick smiled often, unlike his father, and judging by his smile he apparently held no grudge against anyone or anything. Perhaps Douglas hadn't told his son about the haunting and his insistence that Eve leave the house immediately.

"I thought I recognized you," he said with a friendly smile, "when I saw the buggy go past. I was staring out the window of my office, bored almost to tears, and there you were, like the answer to all my prayers." His eyes landed on Lucien and his smile faded. "And your friend is..."

"I'm not..." Lucien began in a low voice.

"Lucien Thorpe," Eve interrupted. "A visitor to Plummerville and a very old friend. Lucien, this is Douglas Hunt's eldest son, Garrick."

Lucien cut her a glance. "Old friend?"

She warned him with a glance of her own, but Lucien didn't recognize subtle. Ever.

"I'm courting Miss Abernathy, so move along if you don't mind."

"Lucien!" Eve glanced up at Garrick. "He's such a terrible tease."

"I am not," Lucien responded. "I never tease."

"Well, we're not courting."

"Yes, we are."

Eve sighed deeply. "Fine," she said. "We're courting. It's just that Lucien does such a poor job of it that I didn't realize what was happening until he informed me, just now."

Garrick, who seemed to be getting some kind of perverted pleasure out of this conversation, grinned and winked at her. "I'm glad to hear that you're ready to be courted, Eve. You'll be hearing from me, very soon." With that, he galloped ahead of them, never looking back. What sounded like a merry whistled tune caught the wind and reached her ears.

Great. Now she'd have to discourage a persistent Garrick all over again!

"Courting?" she asked sharply when no one else could possibly hear but Lucien.

"It seemed a better response than, 'We're investigating a thirty-year-old murder and your father is smack-dab in the middle of it.'" Lucien worked his shoulders as if he had a crick in his neck. "So, what did he mean by that observation that he's glad you're ready to be courted?"

"Garrick called on me a couple of times, after I moved to Plummerville. I told him I had no interest in being courted, that I was too busy getting settled in to think of a social life."

Lucien gave in to a small smile. "Good."

"Of course, now that he thinks I'm allowing you to pay suit, he'll be back."

"I'll get rid of him, if you like," Lucien offered. "The same way I got rid of his father."

"You will not!"

"Why?"

"Maybe I want him to pay suit!"

Lucien pulled on the reins and brought their conveyance to a halt so that he could turn to her and give her his full, astonished attention. "What?"

"I said," she whispered, "maybe I want Garrick to court me. Maybe I'm ready to start looking seriously for a husband."

"An ordinary man to go with your ordinary life."

"Yes."

"A man who scoffs at that which he cannot see, dismisses anything in this life that he cannot touch, thinks he can charm the world with a grin and a wink, and will make you miserable." With every word, Lucien's voice grew tighter, more obviously angry.

Eve lifted her chin, dismissing all her own reasons for sending Garrick packing in the first place. "He's handsome, wealthy, clever, and charming. And he likes me."

"I like you," Lucien countered.

"Not as much as you like..." Eve stopped, pursing her lips. This was an argument she didn't want to have. Not here, not anywhere. "Just take me home. We shouldn't be discussing anything but Alistair and Viola. All I want is for you to send them on and then get out of my life. For good, this time."

"So you can be courted by a boring, grinning twit who is so blasted ordinary he'll have you..."

"Lucien!"

"Fine," he said, setting the buggy in motion again. "Just do me a favor and don't allow him to call on you until I'm finished and out of town. I don't think I could stand to witness such a debacle."

"I suppose I can agree to that," Eve said softly.

All was quiet for a moment. The wind seemed to grow a little bit colder. Eve's nose grew cold. Her toes, too. She longed for a warm fire and the comfort of her own home.

After a few cool moments, Lucien snorted.

"What?" she snapped.

"He'll probably bring you flowers," Lucien said, sounding disgusted. "And chocolates. And you'll go to parties and play mindless parlor games and everyone will marvel over what a perfect couple you two are." He made a grunting sound from low in his throat. "And when he asks you to marry him, after a proper period of wooing, he'll probably get down on one knee and make an ass out of himself..."

"Lucien!" Eve felt her face turn warm. Goodness, she was certainly beet red. "That's enough. I think you're getting ahead of yourself."

"I'm just glad I won't be here to see it," he muttered. "It sounds positively revolting."

Lucien's sarcastically delivered scenario should sound wonderful; it was what every woman wants and dreams of. A wealthy suitor who calls bearing gifts. A romantic proposal of marriage. An adoring beau. But Eve silently agreed. Revolting.

* * *

It had never occurred to Lucien that he might have to fight another man for Eve. She was his in a way that went bone deep—how could she possibly allow another man to pursue her?

He knocked softly on the door, and almost immediately she threw it open. "They're already here," she whispered.

"It's not yet eight o'clock," he said as he stepped into the foyer.

"I know." She kept her voice low. "And they're so clear. Lucien, it's almost like they're real, living and breathing and... truly alive."

He glanced into the parlor and there Eve's lascivious ghosts were, clear, as she said they were. They stood by the window, Alistair's hand on Viola's shoulder, her eyes closed.

"Does he look like a man who will murder her, in just a few hours?" At that moment, Alistair lowered his head and gently kissed Viola's neck. She answered with a smile and a sigh.

"Does she look like a woman who has been unfaithful?" Eve countered.

Even though Reverend Younger had confirmed that particular rumor, Eve still wanted to deny it was possible. She had found a connection with the spirit of Viola Stamper, and like Justina Markham, felt obligated to defend her, he supposed.

They had so much gossip to deal with, so many unfounded details. Perhaps the rumors were crowding out the truth.

"I think we're going to have to concede that we have no idea what happened, not that night or during any of the days that came before. All we know is what we see."

"What's that?" Eve pointed at the bulky linen napkin in his hand.

"Oh." He offered his hand, palm and napkin, to her. "Chocolate cake. I thought you might like it. Miss Gertrude made a huge supper, and I couldn't possibly eat dessert, but I told her I might have it later." He knew his expression was not at all charming. Courting was not his strong suit. "Then I told her I was going to make this an early night, locked my door, and crawled out the window."

Eve grinned. "Why?"

"In order to protect your precious reputation! Why else would I be so foolish?" And he did feel foolish. Incredibly foolish. Rather like a moron. "I was also forced to walk, since collecting my rented horse and buggy would make too much noise and alert the blacksmith to the fact that I was out and about." He offered his hand more forcefully. "Take the damned cake."

She did, with a smile she tried to repress. "We can share it later, with some tea."

Lucien entered the parlor, in order to check on his specter-o-meter and the ectoplasm harvester. He tried not to look at the amorous ghosts who continued to stand at the window, who would soon move to the sofa. God, he hoped Eve didn't want to watch tonight. He couldn't bear it, if she did. He'd have to retire to the kitchen or the dining room or the garden on his own, and she would likely laugh and call him a coward.

He finished setting up his equipment just as Viola and Alistair moved to the sofa. Fortunately he didn't have to worry about Eve's curiosity tonight; she nodded her head toward the kitchen and he gratefully followed her.

"I'd like to try this cake now, if you don't mind. I've heard Miss Gertrude is the best cook in town."

"Good idea." He tried not to sound too relieved.

They entered the kitchen. Eve went directly to the stove to heat water for tea, and Lucien sat at the small kitchen table.

"Tell me," she said, her back to him and her eyes on the teapot, "why are you so attached to those machines of yours? What you're able to do without assistance is so much more... I don't know. Powerful, I guess. Wonderful and amazing and... miraculous. Why do you rely on those silly contraptions?"

"The specter-o-meter and the ectoplasm harvester are not silly."

"I didn't mean silly, exactly, just"—she turned to him—"unnecessary."

Lucien shook his head. "They are very necessary."

"Why?"

He wasn't accustomed to answering such personal questions. His relationships were exclusively related to his gift, his business. People didn't ask for too much information. They wanted him to solve their ghostly problems and move on. Eve was no different.

No, Eve was different. No matter what she said, she did care.

"Because if I can make them work properly, if I can collect enough scientific evidence of the afterlife and a spirit's ability to move among us, maybe, just maybe, I'll quit feeling like such a freak."

Her eyes softened. "You're not a freak."

"Spoken like someone who has never seen a once friendly face turn white with horror. Who has never had a door slammed in her face. Who has never been called a child of the devil, a swindler, a..."

"All right," she interrupted. "People can be so narrow-minded." She sounded angry, on his behalf.

"If I can prove to the world that what I see and hear is real, if I can convince people to believe me, then maybe I won't be constantly on the outside."

"I believe you."

"I know you do."

"And the others, Hugh and Lionel and O'Hara and all the people you've helped... they know what you see is real."

"But they're just a drop in the bucket, and they believe because they've either seen something they cannot explain in any other way, or they have the same visions and hear the same voices I do. To the masses, I am an abnormality. A weird man who should be avoided at all costs. Either that or a charlatan. I never can decide which is most insulting."

"My father ran into a good number of charlatans, in his quest. He handed over so much money to them, looking for someone like you. He wasted so many years."

"It wasn't right," Lucien said. "He shouldn't have dragged a child all over the country looking for answers to his questions about your mother. He exposed you to swindlers, some of whom were surely dangerous, and he dragged you from one city to the next when you should have been in school, sleeping in your own bed at night, making friends with other little pig-tailed girls." He shook his head. "He should have put your interests first. If I ever have a child, I'll... well, never mind."

Eve's expression remained soft. "I don't mind," she said softly. "In fact, I'm glad Father dragged me from place to place."

"Are you?"

"If he hadn't, I never would have met"—she stopped suddenly, stammered, and blushed—"Hugh and the others. You've all become such good friends."

Eve didn't lie well, but Lucien was polite and didn't point out that she had almost admitted she was glad she'd met him. In spite of everything, she was glad he was a part of her life.

Amorous sounds drifted all the way to the kitchen, as Viola moaned and then screamed. Heavens, she was a vocal woman! Ghost, he reminded himself. A vocal ghost.

He found himself wondering what color Eve's corset was today, beneath her drab green dress. Yellow again? Pink? Blue? Perhaps black or red, something daring and racy beneath the prim clothes and hair. How unexpected, that she would wear such feminine undergarments against her skin and then cover them with the dreariest clothing possible. Brown and dull green on the outside, yellow and other delicious colors on the inside. It was a mystery. The kind of mystery a man like him would never be able to solve. What was she hiding?

He knew one thing: Eve was not precisely who she appeared to be.

Lucien didn't want tea and cake. He wanted to peel that green dress off Eve and see what lay beneath. He wanted to take those tortoiseshell combs out of her hair and let the strands fall, soft and wavy.

Propriety be damned, he didn't want to court her, to bring her cake and candy and take her on inane afternoon buggy rides.

He wanted to make love to her until she could no longer deny that they belonged together.

Chapter 11

Eve stood in the parlor entryway and watched the scene unfold again, her heart in her throat, tears in her eyes. She had to watch, in case something new happened tonight that helped her understand, but it hurt. Viola died. Tonight she saw flesh, and blood, and real tears before Viola disappeared.

When had Lucien's arms snaked around her? She didn't know. Didn't care. She needed him to hold her, right now. The clock in her parlor struck midnight in low, musical tones, just as the body faded away. Midnight. The end of one day and the beginning of another.

"You have to help her," Eve whispered.

"I'm trying," he said, leaning over to place an unexpected kiss on the side of her neck. "I am trying, Evie."

She didn't admonish him for the kiss or the tender Evie. She couldn't. Not yet.

"Can you imagine what it must be like to die that way every night for thirty years? It's so cruel. So very, very wrong."

"I know."

Lucien turned her around so she faced him, and with a finger beneath her chin made her look him in the eye. "You get to bed. I need to examine the harvester and the meter and then I'll let myself out and climb back into my room so that come morning no one will know I was ever gone."

In spite of herself, she smiled. "I can't believe you actually climbed out the boarding house window."

"Neither can I." He turned her about briskly. "Now, off to bed with you."

Eve took two steps toward the stairway before stopping in her tracks. It was as if her feet were made of lead, like her heart. "I can't go to bed," she said softly. "I can't watch that murder and then go to sleep! It was so real, Lucien, so... so horribly difficult to watch. What kinds of dreams will I have tonight? Will I be able to sleep at all?"

Lucien very gently took her arm and led her into the parlor. He sat on the sofa and pulled her down beside him. "We'll sit here and talk for a few minutes. We'll talk about other things. Ordinary things. And then you can go to bed and dream sweet dreams."

She wished it could be that simple. Somehow, she didn't think a little diversionary conversation would make her forget what she saw night after night.

But she was willing to try. "It certainly is chilly, this time of year."

"Yes, it is," Lucien answered as if he had given the inane statement serious thought.

"But I hear it's lovely here, in the spring. When the weather's warm again, I want to plant a truly proper garden."

"Really?" he seemed surprised.

"Yes. Flowers and vegetables. And... and..." Her heart sank. "Oh, this is ridiculous, and it isn't helping at all!"

"It seemed a good idea," Lucien muttered.

"Maybe Mr. Hunt is right, and I should just leave. I should get out of the house, out of Plummerville. I can find another house... somewhere."

"I thought you loved this house."

"I do."

Lucien placed his arm around her and gathered her close, and she allowed it. Nothing else mattered, at the moment, except that he was here and she needed him. Dammit, she needed him.

"Then let's not give up just yet."

She rested her head on his shoulder and relaxed. Listening to the ticking of the clock, letting herself melt into Lucien just a little bit, her heart gradually returned to a normal rhythm. She closed her eyes and drank in this moment: the way Lucien held her, the warmth of his touch, the temptation of his scent so close.

She had missed him, much more than she was willing to admit. And during their engagement, they had never been so close! When they worked together there were always other people about, and Hugh had been terribly protective of her, even where Lucien was concerned. They had rarely found themselves alone for more than two minutes.

But he'd been there for her, in more ways than she'd imagined. A smile, a quick stolen kiss or two, a hand on hers, ever so briefly.

And now here he was, holding her close, shielding her from the night and the horrors of watching Viola die again and again.

"Thank you for coming here," she whispered. "For staying. I couldn't face this alone."

The next thing she knew he was kissing her, and his mouth on hers felt so right she didn't even think of protesting. She parted her lips and drank, breathed him in, sucked something primal into herself. And Lucien drank her in; she knew it. Felt it.

His mouth danced over hers, sucked and nibbled. Oh, he was such a wonderful kisser! She copied his moves, nibbled his lower lip and tasted him with the tip of her tongue, and she was rewarded with a moan low in his throat, one that matched her own.

This was so much better, so much more powerful than the stolen kisses she remembered. The quick pecks had been nice, and she'd cherished every one, but this... this was extraordinary. She felt as if she were flying. Flying so high she had to hold on to Lucien to remain steady.

His hands stroked her, touched boldly, and she didn't mind at all. In fact, she loved the sensation of Lucien's fingers brushing her throat and her chest. She loved the way those fingers trembled, with passion and nervousness. She loved the way the kiss didn't end, but continued to grow deeper and more satisfying.

Most of all, she loved Lucien.

It was so easy to forget everything else while he touched and kissed her. Just for the moment, she set aside the pain of the past, of the present, of the uncertain future. She put everything from her mind but this beautiful moment.

"Oh, God," he whispered huskily as he took his mouth from hers and kissed her throat. "Pink."

"What?" she asked dreamily, her head dropping back to bare her throat, her eyes closed.

"I had to know," Lucien said as his sweet mouth moved downward.

His lips left her throat to kiss her chest, and her eyes slowly opened. When had he unbuttoned her dress? She should care, she really should.

"Had to know what?" she whispered, her hand resting in his hair, her fingers getting lost in the long dark strands. She held on, gentle and sure.

"The color of your corset." His lips brushed against the swell of her breasts just above that corset.

"Strawberry."

"What?" His voice was husky, muffled.

"The catalog said it was strawberry."

His mouth moved lower. "It doesn't taste like strawberry," he muttered.

As if she'd been dashed by cold water, Eve suddenly came to her senses, remembering where she was. Who she was. Why they could not continue.

"Lucien," she said, trying for a sharp tone, "stop this."

He raised his head and kissed her. "Why?"

"Is Alistair here? Viola?" Oh, she'd almost completely lost control! That couldn't possibly be her. The only explanation was that the amorous ghosts were with them again.

"No. They're gone."

But she and Lucien were sitting on the sofa where Alistair and Viola cavorted every night, and what she was feeling—this tingle, this desire—could not possibly be real.

Heaven above, it certainly felt real.

"We should stop, now." Before things went any further. Before she forgot why she couldn't love and want Lucien Thorpe as much as she did at this moment.

"All right," Lucien said, sitting back and drawing her head to his shoulder. "We'll stop. You're right about that. I'm quite sure you're right." He didn't sound at all convinced. "Close your eyes and relax, and in a few minutes you can go up to bed and I'll check the equipment before I let myself out. I'm not ready to let you go. Not yet."

That was fine with her, because she wasn't ready for him to leave.

* * *

Lucien woke with a start, unsure of what had caused him to awaken so abruptly. He glanced at the clock on the mantel. Four-twenty.

He looked down at the woman who slept so peacefully in his arms. The fire had died down long ago, but the lamp at the end table burned softly, lighting Eve's serene face.

Strawberry, he thought as his gaze dropped. The staid and proper woman Eve pretended to be would never order a strawberry-colored corset from a mail-order catalog. Not red, darker than true pink, the strawberry corset against Eve's pale skin was so tempting his mouth watered.

For two years, he had regretted his damned forgetfulness. He had never regretted his mistake more than he did at this moment. Evie was his, she would always be his. They should be lying together at this moment, man and wife, joined forever.

"Strawberry," a broken and distant voice said.

Lucien's head popped up. Alistair stood by the fireplace, leaning against the mantel with a wicked smile on his face. Lucien's first thought was that he looked nothing like Alistair Stamper, no matter what Justina Markham and Viola said.

This was the first time Alistair had shown himself this way, the first time he had spoken like this. It was easier, in these early morning hours just before dawn, for the spirits to manifest, for them to show themselves and speak for themselves.

If Eve were to wake she'd see nothing. She'd hear nothing. This ghostly visit was for Lucien, and Lucien alone.

He grabbed the afghan from the end of the sofa and covered Eve with it. He didn't like the way Alistair looked at this partially unclothed woman who slept on in Lucien's arms. What dreadful timing.

"I'm here to help," Lucien said when Eve was properly covered.

"Viola always wore white, when she wore a corset," Alistair said, looking at Eve as if he could see through the afghan. "Sometimes there was lace, and perhaps a pale blue ribbon, but strawberry! My oh my. How wonderfully daring. How exciting."

"Why haven't you and Viola moved on?" Lucien asked, trying to turn the ghost's attentions from Eve's corset to the matter that had brought him to Plummerville.

Alistair sighed and turned his ghostly gaze to Lucien. "Have you ever tried to reason with a dead woman who won't even admit that she's dead?"

"Yes, I have."

"Viola won't listen. She blames me, still..."

"Did you kill her?" Lucien asked. He held his breath. If he'd offended Alistair with the question, the ghost might disappear and refuse to speak again.

"No," Alistair said without emotion. "Of course I didn't kill her. But will she listen to me? Will she listen to reason? Of course not. Women." His eyes fell to Eve again, and a half smile spread across his face.

"I do love women," he said wistfully. "I always have, since the day I turned fifteen and discovered that there was more to little girls than pigtails and giggles. Much, much more. Oh, they can be maddening, and it's impossible to know what a female is thinking at any time, I'm sure you know that. Still, with all their faults and foibles and maddening inconsistencies, I adore them."

Lucien swore to himself then and there that he would not leave Eve alone in this house with Alistair again. Reputation be damned.

"Women like Gertrude," Lucien prodded gently, wondering if any part of his landlady's story was true.

The ghostly smile faded. "Ah, Gertrude. Such a beautiful woman. Hair like spun gold and a body that makes my mouth water, even now."

Obviously Alistair hadn't seen Miss Gertrude in thirty years. "Did you love her?"

Alistair's eyebrows popped up. "Gertrude? Of course not. She was a bit of fun, that's all. Eager and passionate and... it really isn't my fault that she mistakenly thought an afternoon in her father's barn meant we were going to be married."

No, Alistair was not a nice man. "She thought you were going to marry her."

"And I might have, eventually, if I hadn't met Viola." The spirit's expression changed. "My life was perfect for a while, then everything went wrong. And now Viola won't even listen to me."

"Why not?"

"She's afraid," Alistair said in a broken and distant voice.

"Of what?"

"Of me," he whispered, the final word dying into almost nothing.

"Should she be?" Lucien asked.

Alistair smiled—not a happy grin, but a smile all the same—and then he faded away.

Lucien looked at the equipment he had placed near the opening between the parlor and the foyer. The harvester was overflowing. The needle on the meter was jiggling, still. He really should lay Eve down and check on the readings, but something kept him right where he was.

"What if I'm wrong?" he whispered as he drew Eve in close and wrapped both arms protectively around her. "What if Alistair is a killer, and I only sense his innocence because he feels no guilt?"

A small flame in the fireplace leapt to life. A sign from one of Eve's ghosts? Or a simple gust of wind through the chimney bringing the fire to life momentarily?

Viola didn't know she was dead. Alistair did. So why did he replay that lascivious and then horrific scene with her night after night after night? Lucien pondered the possibilities, as the clock on the mantel ticked. Alistair was present for most of the evening that was relived over and over again, but in truth they never saw him when Viola died. Where was he, while a knife was being thrust into his wife's back?

Everyone who knew the couple and the story of their deaths believed Alistair to be guilty. Maybe they were right, after all, and when Viola died each night Alistair was standing behind her with a knife in his hand.

No, he didn't dare leave Eve alone in this house, especially with Halloween approaching.

* * *

Eve felt herself coming awake, slowly and reluctantly. She hadn't slept this well since she'd discovered Alistair and Viola! On this night, there had been no active dreams that exhausted her, no tossing and turning in her bed... She opened one eye. Make that on her sofa. No, make that on Lucien!

With one arm still around her, and her head more on his chest than his shoulder, Lucien slept on, unaware that she was awake. A glance at the window proved to her that it was morning, early but not too early. Bright but not yet too bright.

Instead of immediately jumping up, as she should, Eve lowered her head to Lucien's chest, resting her cheek there for a moment longer. What on earth was she going to do? She loved him. If she thought for a single moment that he could love her back...

She finally sat up slowly, tugging at her wrinkled and disordered clothing, glad that she had not been wearing her corset too tightly. Mercy, all she wanted at the moment was to get out of the thing. It was amazing that she'd slept as well as she had.

She glanced at Lucien's peaceful face. Well, perhaps not so amazing, after all. Had she ever felt so protected? So undeniably safe? He sheltered her with his strong arms, with his very presence. Eve's fingers itched to reach out and touch him, to trace the lines of his handsome face, to touch the strands of dark hair that touched his collar. If only he loved her...

She hadn't made a noise, but perhaps Lucien sensed she had awakened. His eyes fluttered open. He smiled at her, still half lost in dreams. For a moment, Eve smiled back, then she came to her senses and turned her back on him to button her dress.

"You'd better hurry back to the boarding house, before Miss Gertrude realizes you were gone all night," she said quickly.

Behind her, Lucien yawned and stretched. "No," he said as he finished his yawn.

Properly buttoned up, Eve turned to face him. "No? I thought you were going to all this trouble to make sure my reputation wasn't harmed? Was that just a... a lie to impress me?"

"It wasn't a lie, but things have changed."

"Nothing has changed," she insisted as she stood. She must look a mess. Her dress was wrinkled and twisted, her hair fell in disarray around her face. And still, she maintained her dignity. At least, she tried. "How could things have changed while we slept?"

"I didn't exactly sleep the whole night," Lucien admitted as he raked his fingers through his hair.

Eve gasped. "How could you?"

His smile was brilliant, and whether he knew it or not, quite charming—darn his hide. "Never fear, darling, I didn't molest you in your sleep." That smile faded quickly. "I spoke to Alistair."

She knew that Alistair was much bolder than Lucien would ever be. Especially where women were concerned. "You channeled him while I slept?"

"No, I spoke to him." Lucien's eyes met hers. "Evie, I am not going to leave you alone in this house until he's gone."

"That's hardly your decision."

"I'm not quibbling with you about this."

"Good." She nodded, glad that he knew better than to argue with her. This was, after all, her house, and she'd had no trouble with Alistair thus far.

"I'm glad we're agreed," he said, closing his eyes and looking as if he intended to drift toward sleep again.

"So am I, but you'd better hurry." She tugged on his sleeve. "If you're too late coming downstairs, Miss Gertrude will probably insist on checking on you. If she finds you gone..."

"Evie," Lucien said tiredly, "I thought we agreed that I'd stay here."

"We did not!"

"Well, I'm not leaving."

He looked so blasted comfortable there, on her sofa. Warm and slightly tousled and very much at home. "Why do I have a feeling that it's not me you're afraid to leave behind, but your precious contraptions? Did Alistair threaten to touch them?"

Lucien's eyes, wide awake now, met hers. "No, but he did seem awfully interested in touching you."

She felt herself blush. "He did not."

"He was most intrigued by your strawberry corset. Seems Viola always wore white."

She pursed her lips. "You're making this up."

"I'm afraid not," Lucien said softly, and she saw the hurt in his eyes.

"I didn't mean..."

"Yes, you did," he interrupted. "After all, no one saw or heard him but me, and why on earth would you believe what I say?"

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. I'm used to it." He stood slowly, stretching again. Why was it that he looked adorable in the morning? It made Eve long for all the mornings she would never know. "Get yourself straightened up. Change if you must. If we hurry, I might be able to sneak into town by way of a back alley, climb through the boarding house window, make a production of leaving the rented room I did not need or want, make Miss Gertrude think I slept thirteen hours or so, and in doing so save your precious spotless reputation."

"I am sorry," Eve said softly.

"Don't be, just... hurry." He looked her up and down. "As delicious as you look all mussed and wrinkled and blushing, I hardly think you want to face the people of Plummerville this way. Such an appearance would play hell with your hard-won standing as a virtuous lady, Miss Abernathy."

He was angry, and rightly so. Hadn't she told him just last night that she believed in him? Hadn't she defended him and silently cursed all those who had made his life difficult? She had. Only to awaken and accuse him of lying to her about a conversation with her ghost.

A shiver danced down her spine. Did he really think Alistair was a threat to her? And if that were true, what could Lucien do to protect her?

Chapter 12

Last night's conversation with Alistair played through Lucien's mind as he and Eve walked toward the main street of Plummerville. The man—the spirit of the man Alistair had once been—was definitely much too interested in Evie. No, he couldn't leave her alone in that house.

Most spirits were helpless. Powerless, sad, unable to touch the world in which they were trapped. Able to do no more than converse with a few of the living who had Lucien's gifts, or perhaps to visit a dream or rouse a cold wind, they weren't powerful enough to do anyone harm.

Usually. There were exceptions, and he would not risk Evie's life by leaving her in that house, unguarded.

He had slowed his step to accommodate her, and still they moved along at a fast pace.

"Miss Gertrude wasn't lying," he said.

"What?"

"About her and Alistair. He admitted to a relationship, when he appeared to me last night. I don't think there was ever an actual betrothal, but he did compromise her and... perhaps he allowed her to think whatever she wanted to think, in order to..." He couldn't say it. "He was not a nice man."

"No one claims he was."

At least she no longer accused him of fabricating the early morning visit.

She sighed, as if she were disgusted. "If he treated Miss Gertrude that way, there were surely others. And if that's true, there might be any number of women in town who would want Alistair and Viola both dead, women we will never know about."

"I imagine that's true."

"So how will we ever know what happened?"

"We might not."

Eve took a deep breath of cool morning air. "I don't accept that."

"You may have no choice."

Not sending Alistair and Viola on would be a good excuse to pick Eve up and carry her out of that house. He could declare that she was not safe there, and never would be, and drag her with him to another house, another job. Sooner or later she'd realize that they belonged together and she'd stop fighting him.

The only problem with that was, he could not and would not purposely leave two spirits trapped, as Viola and Alistair were. He couldn't live with himself if he allowed them to continue in this nightmare. It didn't matter that they had both made horrible mistakes, that Alistair was not a nice person and Viola had broken her marriage vows. He couldn't turn his back on them.

Not even for Evie.

* * *

It would be difficult to explain away a third trip to the general store this week, so Eve gravitated toward the sole dress shop in town. She had admired the creations in the window, on occasion, but she hadn't made a purchase from Laverne's Dress Shop. She didn't need anything. She had more dresses than she needed, truth be told. The inheritance from her father, well invested, kept her from worrying about matters like where her next dress—or corset—was coming from.

Her fancy corsets were all ordered from a mail-order catalog. They were her only frivolous purchases, her only weakness. Other than that, she cared little about her clothes. Her dresses should be comfortable and sturdy. Eve Abernathy didn't want to call attention to herself by decking herself out in frills and laces.

But she did admire the brightly colored silks and the fancy hats that might suit a more frivolous woman. Daisy bought all her dresses here, and Daisy had a fabulous wardrobe of beautiful clothes she adored.

"Can I help you find anything?" Laverne Taggert asked as Eve ran her fingers along a display of particularly bright ribbons.

"No, I'm just browsing."

Laverne was a young widow, not yet forty and still handsome, in a plumpish kind of way. She was a quiet woman, downright shy, but Eve had seen her in church and heard Daisy sing her praises as a seamstress.

"If you need anything..." Mrs. Taggert looked over Eve's rust-colored day dress without comment, unless one counted the disapproving lift of an eyebrow. "Just let me know."

"Thank you." Eve looked over the ribbons, and then moved on to a mountain of fabrics, bolts stacked high. There wasn't a drab brown or green or rust in the bunch.

Eve's fingers barely touched the sides of the tightly wrapped bolts as she studied each one. Daisy would love some of these colors, so bright and beautiful. This one looked like spring, this one... summer. Her fingers stopped on a muted gold. If she did decide to have a new dress made for herself, perhaps...

"No!" Mrs. Taggert said, appearing at Eve's side with a concerned expression on her face.

Eve's hand snapped back away from the fabric, as if she'd been scolded. "I'm sorry. I didn't know I wasn't supposed to touch."

"You can touch all you want. It's just that the gold isn't a good color for you," the dressmaker added.

"Oh," Eve replied simply, suddenly feeling inadequate as a woman since she had no idea what she should wear. She always chose fabrics and colors that were tame. Unobtrusive. Invisible. Clothes that would help her to fade into the background.

"Maybe... if I were to have a new dress made..." She lifted her hand and her fingers trailed below the gold, to a nice emerald green. "Green to match my eyes?"

Eve glanced to the side to see Mrs. Taggert shake her head. "No." The widow barely touched an elegant blue silk. "Blue, so the green of your eyes stands out nicely. Perhaps this paler green linen, for spring. It will compliment your eyes without fighting with them. Oh, and this crushed strawberry silk..."

Eve almost jumped out of her skin. Her heart definitely skipped a beat. "Strawberry?"

"A new color that would be wonderful with your complexion."

Eve stiffened her spine. "They're all lovely fabrics, but I really have no need for anything so..." Frivolous. Extravagant. Unnecessary. "Beautiful," she finished with a sigh.

"Before we continue, you must call me Laverne," the seamstress said seriously. "We should be friends."

"Of course. And I'm Eve." Yet another friend in Plummerville. It really was becoming home.

"I started to introduce myself to you several times," the dressmaker said, "but something always interfered. My own bashfulness, on occasion," she confided. "I know a businesswoman should be more forceful when it comes to making the acquaintance of newcomers, but I'm just not very good at pushing myself at people."

Eve smiled. "Neither am I, to be honest. But it is so nice to get acquainted with you now. I should have dropped by your shop sooner, but I'm afraid I don't need new clothes. Everything I have is perfectly serviceable."

"Serviceable," Laverne said, a hint of despair in her voice.

"I've never been one to get carried away by frills and ruffles," Eve explained. Not on the outside, anyway. Anything overly fussy made her feel terribly self-conscious.

"No matter what styles you prefer to wear, we will still be friends."

"Of course."

"And as your friend," Laverne continued, "I must tell you, at least half of your dresses should be burned."

"Burned!" She felt herself blush, her face growing warm. "That seems rather... drastic."

Laverne waved a dismissive hand. "All right. Donated to the church so they can be distributed to the poor."

"Half?" Eve's voice was too low, too uncertain.

"For months I have watched you walk past my shop, and all I could do was shake my head and pray that one day you would come inside. All the brown must go," Laverne said, walking around Eve and looking her up and down critically. She cocked her head and fluttered her fingers. "And this rust!" she tsked. "Shameful, with your coloring."

"I can't replace my entire wardrobe!" Eve protested, wishing she'd wandered around the general store while Lucien climbed into his rented room, instead of coming into Laverne's Dress Shop. Peppermint. She should have bought more peppermint.

"Not all at once," Laverne replied. "You could use a couple of nice colorful calicos, to start."

"Colorful?" Eve whispered.

"And at least one elegant silk gown."

Eve sighed and eyed the blue. She really didn't have any use for a silk gown. There was no reason to dress herself in silk and satin. She was a wool and cotton person, and that was that. Such a purchase would be extravagant and senseless and... why on earth did she fight this so hard? They were talking about a dress or two. Nothing more.

"All right," she finally said. "If I must."

Laverne smiled. "You must. Oh, Eve, you will be magnificent when I'm finished with you."

And Lucien wouldn't be here to see the finished result, Eve thought as she headed for the door half an hour later, having been properly measured and draped with one material after another. By the time Laverne was finished with the dresses, by the time she was able to so much as get a decent start on the first one, Lucien, and her ghosts, would be gone.

* * *

Riding to Eve's house in a horse and buggy was preferable to walking. Again. She'd made a ridiculous production of running into him on the street. What a surprise! How sweet of you to offer me a ride! It had been all he could do not to snort in her face.

Miss Gertrude, properly fooled, watched from the front window of her boarding house. The gray-haired man who delivered for the general store had watched as well, wearing his own smile as Eve climbed into the buggy with Lucien's assistance.

Her early morning accusation still stung. She had no idea how much.

He'd expected better of her. He wanted more. Eve was the one person in the world he had expected would always believe him. The one person who would never accuse him of fabricating a ghost, a story, a piece of fiction to shock or disturb.

"I don't lie," he said as her little house came into view at the end of the road. There was a goodly distance between Eve's house and her nearest neighbor, and at times the cottage, sitting there all alone, looked enchanted. And it was, in more ways than one.

A distracted Eve looked his way. "What? Oh," she said when she realized what had prompted his statement. "I know. I'm sorry. I never should have..."

"You don't know," he interrupted. "You couldn't possibly know. I never lie, Evie. Miss Gertrude stopped me as I came down the stairs, after climbing in through the window I left open last night. She asked me how I slept, and I said fine. That was the truth. If she had asked me where I'd slept, or if I had sneaked out last night, I would have told her the truth. I even felt guilty about misleading her last night, when I supposedly retired for the evening." Particularly now, knowing how Alistair had treated her in the past. Nothing good ever came of deceit.

"She didn't ask, did she?" Eve asked, an uncertain ring in her voice.

"No."

Eve breathed a sigh of relief.

"But if she had I would have told her the truth."

"Oh," Eve said softly.

"You're the only woman in the world I would go this far for. Pretending to go to bed," he mumbled. "Crawling in and out of windows. It's undignified and deceitful and... wrong. It's just wrong."

"Everyone fibs now and then," she argued without heat. "A little."

"All my life," he said as he pulled up to her door, "I have been accused of lying. People didn't believe that I saw what I saw, that I heard what I heard. I have been beaten, burned, and shunned for lying, when all I had done was tell the truth."

Her eyes softened. She tilted her head to one side and her lips parted slightly. Dammit, he didn't want her to feel sorry for him. That wasn't the purpose of this conversation.

"So no matter what I tell you, no matter how ridiculous or unlikely my words might be... I will never lie to you."

Lucien set the brake, but when he made a move to leave the seat a tender hand on his arm stopped him. "So," Eve said softly, "I can ask you anything and be certain of receiving a truthful answer."

He faced her. "Always."

Eve took a deep breath and straightened her spine, as if she were preparing herself for a battle. "Do you find this dress attractive?"

He looked her up and down quickly, taking in the prim cut of the dress, the unflattering dark rust color. "No. It doesn't suit you at all."

"Why not?"

Lucien looked her in the eye. "You wear pretty colors and lace against your skin, and old maid garments for the world to see. You're hiding, Evie. Hiding the woman you want to be beneath the woman you think you should be."

"I only asked if you liked the dress," she protested.

"No," he said abruptly. "I do not."

Eve wrinkled her nose, not pleased with his answer. If she didn't want the truth, she should not have asked.

She wasn't finished. "When you got my telegram, did you know it was from me even though I didn't sign my proper name?"

"No. I told you that when I arrived."

"And if you had known it was me, would you have come anyway?" She looked him in the eye, as if she might gauge the answer more clearly that way.

"Yes." He allowed himself to smile, a little. "In fact, I might not have missed that first train, if I'd known you were waiting at the end of the journey."

She didn't smile in return. Instead she looked at him hard, steadfast, and serene. There was another question coming, but it wasn't one she could spit out without taking a moment to gather her courage.

"Have you ever been in love?" she finally asked. "Really, truly, deeply in love?"

"Yes."

Eve licked her lips. One shoulder moved, just slightly. "How many times?"

"Twice."

She wrinkled her nose, again. "Twice with the same woman?"

Lucien sighed. Why exactly had he put this conversation into motion? "No." He steeled himself for the questions that would come next. Questions that delved into his past, his heart, his very soul. No matter how much easier it would be to do so, he truly would not lie to her.

Was promising the truth to Eve like whacking a hornet's nest with a short stick?

"Well, you are honest, aren't you?" she said as she gathered her skirts and readied herself to exit the buggy. Lucien hopped down and hurried around the conveyance to assist her.

"What about you, Evie," he asked as he took her hand to steady her. "Can I ask you anything and be assured of the truth?"

She hesitated a moment, but finally answered, "I'm afraid not."

She didn't ask if she had been, and still was, one of those two women he'd loved. If she had, he would have said yes and awaited the consequences. He had no idea what those consequences might be.

* * *

Eve never took an afternoon nap; she considered them a waste of time. But two things sent her to her bedroom this Thursday afternoon. She and Lucien were having dinner at Daisy's tonight, and she didn't want to fall asleep halfway through the meal. She'd slept well last night, but not long, so a nap wouldn't hurt.

But the main reason she was hiding in her bedroom, stripped down to her chemise and lying on top of the covers, was that Lucien was downstairs, fiddling with his specter-o-meter and mumbling to himself.

Twice! He had been in love twice! Honesty was highly overrated. Who was this other woman? When had he had time to fall in love with someone besides her? Had that woman come in the past two years, or before she and Lucien had ever met? The questions she refused to ask drifted and danced through her brain.

She made herself close her eyes. A nap, that's what she needed. A nap that would take her mind off of ghosts, murder, and the man downstairs. Eventually she did drift in that direction. Her limbs relaxed, her breathing slowed. Yes, a nice relaxing nap, that's what she needed.

"Wake up," a soft voice whispered.

Eve's eyes opened slowly, to find Viola herself sitting on the side of the bed. She wasn't hazy today. In fact, she looked solid. Warm and real. Eve reached out a finger and touched Viola's hand. It was simply a woman's warm hand.

Viola Stamper was even more beautiful in person than as a ghost. Her hair was a marvelous golden shade, and her skin was flawless. Every feature on her face was perfectly formed, including those striking pale blue eyes. No wonder men fell in love with her!

She was wearing a wrapper, the same wrapper she crept down the stairs in each and every night, and apparently nothing else. Shocking, for an afternoon visit.

Eve sat up. She should be frightened, but she wasn't. She should call for Lucien, but she didn't want to. She wanted to talk to Viola.

"You're here," Eve said.

Viola smiled and nodded. "I came to warn you. You must leave this place."

Eve shook her head. "I can't. I love this house. It's mine." She'd never had a home before, not since her mother's death. That's when her father had started dragging her all over the country, from place to place. "It's mine," she said again.

"It's not safe."

"There are more important things in life than being safe," Eve whispered.

"That is true," the ghost who was not a ghost responded, her voice so low Eve could barely hear her.

Eve sat up on the bed, bringing her face closer to Viola's. Yes, she did look alarmingly real. "I want to help you. What happened that night?"

Viola's beautiful face changed. Her expression was no longer serene, but instead spoke of a deep sadness. "I wanted a child, so badly. Alistair's baby. A child to love and hold. My life was perfect, except for that one lack, and yet it seemed that child I did not have became everything. When Alistair was gone, the house was so empty. It echoed with emptiness. I knew that if I only had a child everything would be better."

"You were lonely."

"Yes. And I knew that if I had a baby in my arms my life would be perfect. I would no longer be lonely."

This was her opportunity to find out the truth about what had happened. No more relying on gossip and poor memories. "What happened?"

Viola looked at Eve with cold, blue eyes. "Alistair was gone. Business in Savannah. He'd said he'd be back the next morning, so I only had this one chance... this one chance." She looked away from Eve. "I thought I could close my eyes and pretend it was Alistair inside me, but it didn't work that way," she whispered. "I had never realized how much I loved my husband, until I lay there with another man..." She couldn't say any more. "Not even a child to bear and birth and care for was worth that sacrifice. It wasn't simply a biological function, as I had convinced myself. It was the ultimate act of betrayal. From that night on, I dedicated myself to being the best wife Alistair could possibly have. To loving him completely. For a while, I thought everything would be fine, even if I never had Alistair's baby."

"The other man," Eve asked. "Who was he?"

"He came back. He kept coming back. He wanted to know if there was a child, and when I said no he said we should try again. And again. And again, until I was carrying the baby I wanted so desperately." Ghosts weren't supposed to cry, but a few tears ran down Viola's cheeks. "But I knew by then that I didn't want a baby in my arms, unless it was Alistair's. Why wouldn't he just go away and let me forget that night?"

She turned her head, looked down and away, and then she once again looked at Eve with brilliant blue, tear-filled eyes. "Should a woman pay forever for one mistake?"

"No."

"I'm paying, aren't I?"

"Yes."

"Have I been dead a long time?"

The question broke Eve's heart. "Yes, I'm afraid so."

Viola looked down at her own hand. The fingers were long and slender, and she watched the simple play of her hand in the air between them. "I didn't believe Alistair, when he said we were dead. I thought he was just... torturing me, making me pay for my mistake. But your friend, the one downstairs, he's very different."

"Yes, he is."

"So I guess I really am dead."

Eve nodded. "Viola, the other man..."

"He told," Viola said sharply, her hand drifting down. "He said he would, when I tried to send him away that last time, but I didn't believe him. I was wrong. He must've told Alistair, that's why he's so angry, and since then... I have paid for my mistake."

Eve took Viola's hand. "Tell me who this other man was. Maybe I can help you. Maybe I can help to end this."

"I can't tell. I'm too ashamed."

"Don't be. Let me help you. Let me be your friend."

Viola looked as if she were considering the possibility, and then she snapped her head toward the door. "Get out of the house," she whispered hoarsely. "Run." She turned her head slowly and laid her panicked eyes on Eve. "He's here."

Chapter 13

Intent as he was on his work, sitting cross-legged there on Eve's parlor floor, Lucien was still startled when soft footsteps sounded on the stairs. He could actually hear Eve breathing too hard, gasping as she ran down the stairway. By the time he stood she was rushing into the parlor, her hair mussed, her wrapper held close to her body.

"He's here," she whispered hoarsely.

"Who's..."

"Him!"

He was with Eve in two long strides, and lay his hands on her shoulders to calm her. She trembled deep. Hard. "Who is he?"

"Viola's lover. And if you're right about Viola and Alistair both being murdered, the killer. He's here," she said breathlessly. She shook all over.

"No one is here but me," he said calmly, looking directly into her eyes and doing his best to calm her. "You no doubt had a dream..."

"Of course it was a dream," she snapped. "But it was also real. Ghosts do visit people in their dreams, you know."

"Yes, of course I know."

"And Viola visited me." The trembling subsided, a little. "She said I should leave this place, that I was in danger."

"From Alistair."

She wrinkled her nose. "I'm not sure. I don't think so, though." Her eyes grew bright. "Just before she left, she said that he was here."

"Evie, no one is here, I assure you."

"She sounded so certain."

"Time and place for Viola is not the same as time and place for us. The man she speaks of might have been in the house at any time in the past thirty years, and to her it seems as if that time is now. That he is here now, when in fact it's been thirty years. Remember, Viola doesn't know she's dead. She might have been reliving that final night or any other day of her..."

"Oh, she does know she's dead!" Eve said. "Thanks to you. I'm not sure how, but... you did convince her."

"That's a step in the right direction," Lucien said, relieved that his time here had not been completely wasted.

Gradually, Eve relaxed. Her breathing became more normal, her pale face regained some color. Finally, she closed her eyes. "She was so real," Eve whispered. "I touched her."

"I want to know everything she said," Lucien insisted. "Every word you can remember. Tell me now, before the dream begins to fade."

She tilted her head back and looked him in the eye. With her hair going this way and that, and her ugly wrapper parted to reveal her throat, she was more tempting than she realized. "Viola wanted a child, and that desire drove her to... to make a mistake with another man, just as the Reverend Younger said. It was only one night, a night she immediately regretted, but this man kept coming back and he even threatened to tell Alistair what had happened. Viola thinks he did tell Alistair, and that's why he killed her."

"Who is this man?"

"She wouldn't tell me. She said she was ashamed of what had happened, and then before I could make her change her mind she said he's here and disappeared."

"Perhaps she was just changing the subject so she could leave without telling you his name."

"I don't think so. She was truly frightened."

"Well, no one is here but"—a rap on the front door silenced him, and made Eve almost jump out of her skin—"me," he finished.

"I can't answer the door like this!" Eve whispered.

"I can't answer the door at all. I'm not supposed to be here, remember?"

"Your horse and buggy are out front," she hissed.

"Oh, yes."

"Hello," a muffled male voice called out as another knock came. "Anyone home?"

"Garrick Hunt," Eve whispered. "What's he doing here?"

"What, indeed?" The idea of that idiotic pretty boy courting Eve after he'd gone rankled more than Lucien was ready to admit. Even to himself.

"Miss Abernathy. Mr. Thorpe," Garrick called too gaily. "If you don't answer the door I must assume you are in dire straits and in need of my daring rescue. I'm coming in to play the hero. One, two..."

Lucien moved Eve aside and rushed to the front door, just as Garrick Hunt said, "Three."

The idiot grinned as he looked up at Lucien. "Good afternoon," he said pleasantly.

"What do you want?" Lucien asked, his own manner less pleasant.

"I'm to deliver a message to Eve from Daisy. Your small supper has turned into a dinner party. Fancy dress. Parlor games. We must all be on our best behavior."

Behind him, Lucien heard Eve groan, low and distinct. Apparently Hunt heard as well. His grin widened. "You will deliver the message to Miss Abernathy for me, won't you?"

"Of course."

The annoying man did not move on. "I suppose she's indisposed at the moment."

Lucien didn't bother to answer.

Hunt leaned in close, and when he did Lucien smelled the whiskey on his breath. "A word of advice. My mother always told me not to be too persistent, where women are concerned. If they think you are besotted, they'll drag you around by your... well, whatever it is they can lay their hands on."

"Really?" Lucien asked dryly.

"People in town are already talking about you two," Hunt revealed in a whisper. "You've been spending entirely too much time in this house, and without a proper chaperone, at that. Another day or two and this talk might turn into a full-blown scandal."

And Eve's reputation would be ruined. At the moment, Lucien didn't much care.

"Thank you for your concern," Lucien said, slowly closing the door.

Hunt did not take the hint. "See you this evening, then," he said with that damnable smile of his.

"I suppose," Lucien said as the door continued to swing.

"I can hardly wait," Hunt said, raising his voice slightly. "See you tonight, Miss Abernathy, wherever you are."

Lucien grunted as the door slammed shut on Garrick Hunt.

"I believe he was drunk," he said as he turned to face Eve, who stepped out of the parlor looking as disgusted as he felt.

"Quite possible. I have seen him drink more than he should, on occasion." She pursed her lips. "A dinner party! Fancy dress! What was Daisy thinking?"

"Ghastly," Lucien muttered.

"Torture." Eve sighed.

They returned to the parlor, where Lucien placed a comforting arm around Evie. "Perhaps we should decline."

"We can't! Daisy is my best friend. I can't possibly cancel at the last moment, not when she's gone to so much trouble."

Lucien placed his hands on her shoulders again and made her face him squarely. "There was a time when I thought I was your best friend."

"I thought that, too," she said softly.

He lowered his lips toward hers, craving another kiss so badly he could taste it. His mouth was almost on hers when movement at the window made them both snap their heads in that direction.

"It was a man," Eve whispered.

"Stay here," he ordered, running for the front door.

The man who had startled them was surely that damn Garrick Hunt, snooping and no doubt giggling like a little girl. Well, enough was enough.

From the front porch, Lucien saw nothing unusual. His horse snorted. A cold breeze kicked up. Then, out of the corner of his eye, Lucien saw movement to his right. He took off running. Damned Hunt! At the corner of the house he turned, but again he saw nothing. There weren't many places for Hunt to hide... but where was the man's horse? It had been directly out front, before. When he'd burst out of the house in search of the peeper, the horse had been gone.

Afraid the movement he'd seen had been a figment of his own imagination, or else one of the many squirrels who inhabited the area in abundance, Lucien turned the corner that took him to the back of Eve's little cottage. Her gardens were here. One for flowers, another for vegetables. She'd been too late moving in to do much with the two small plots this year, but as she'd said, she had great plans for next year.

Had either of them ever been in one place long enough to even think of what next year would bring?

The door to her kitchen, which opened to the gardens on one side and a well to the other, was closer than the front door, and that was where he headed.

A package wrapped in brown paper was propped against that kitchen door.

Lucien grabbed the package as he opened the door. "Evie," he called, alerting her to the fact that he was the one coming in through the back door. "I didn't see anyone. Sorry. It was probably that damned Hunt."

She met him in the dining room. "Probably." She sighed. "So much for my reputation."

"Hang your reputation," Lucien said sourly.

"That's fine for you to say. When you're gone, I'm the one who has to live with it." She took the package he offered. "Not that it matters," she said, sounding dejected. "Sometimes I want, so much, to be proper and dignified and normal, but in truth I can't see myself married to Garrick or anyone else, settled down only to have babies and join ladies' clubs and throw boring parties." She looked down at the package. "I'm twenty-seven years old, and I don't know what I want. That's... horrid."

"Not so horrid. I'm thirty, and I don't know what I want. Well," he added in an attempt at total honesty, "I want you, but other than that..."

"Don't tease me."

"I never tease." He motioned to the package in her hand, anxious to change the subject. "Were you expecting a delivery?"

She shook the soft, brown-paper-wrapped package. "No. It's probably something Daisy sent over, or some samples from the dressmaker. I did a little shopping there this morning." For some reason, she pursed her lips.

Eve grabbed a pair of scissors from the buffet, laid the package on the dining room table, and cut the string. Brown paper fell back and away to reveal a scrap of white paper and a fold of red silk. Eve stared at the contents for a moment, and then she blushed prettily.

"Just an unexpected delivery from my dressmaker," she said, trying to fold the paper over the red silk.

Lucien reached past her and snapped up the note. The paper unfolded and he read, "Just a little something to get you started. This was finished, and just needed a tuck here and there. Consider it a gift from a new friend. Laverne." He dropped the note. "Started on what?"

"Nothing really." Her blush deepened. She peeled back a small piece of paper and lifted a corner of silk. "It's not at all important. It's... silly, actually. Very, very silly."

"You're never silly."

She sighed. "Perhaps I need to be, now and then."

"Aren't you going to at least let me see?"

She lifted the package and clutched it to her chest. "I don't think so."

* * *

Eve followed a chattering pink-silk clad Daisy into the kitchen. "I asked Garrick to join us, because three for dinner seemed like an odd number. But then I started to worry that he'd think we were a couple, so I invited Buster, because he was standing right there in the general store, buying tobacco, and it seemed like a good solution. And then I turned around and there was Katherine Cassidy, and I knew she had overheard so I felt obligated to invite her, knowing she would decline. You can imagine my surprise when she accepted the invitation. Still, six is a nice number."

"Daisy," Eve said, "take a breath."

Daisy did just that, as she turned to smile at Eve. "And look at you! I adore that dress."

Eve glanced down at the simple silver-gray satin gown she wore. It was elegant, she supposed, and flattering to her figure. She had only worn it once before, on the day that should have been her wedding day. Tonight there was something new, though. A red silk petticoat, hidden under the silver-gray skirt.

"It's not nearly as fancy as yours, of course," Eve said. "Why, Buster and Garrick will be fawning over you all evening."

Daisy waggled her eyebrows. "And what about your Mr. Thorpe? Won't he be impressed?"

She was tired of pretending. Tired of playing foolish games. "Just keep your designs off my Mr. Thorpe," Eve said gently. Even if she were worried about Lucien's eye straying, she had to admit—she had never worried about him being unfaithful. He just wasn't that kind of man. And as for Daisy, she'd had her pick of every man in the county since she'd been seventeen, and she'd turned them all down, for reasons Eve didn't understand.

"Look at these," Daisy said proudly, gesturing grandly toward the counter. "Pumpkin pies."

"You made them yourself? How do they taste?"

"I don't know yet. We'll all be surprised when it's time for dessert." She pointed one finger up, and Eve glanced in that direction.

"Daisy, do you have pumpkin on your ceiling?"

"I do. I really have no idea how it got there. Or in my hair, or all over my clothes. Cooking properly is messy business, Eve."

"So I hear."

"It took me all afternoon just to get clean!"

They returned to the party guests, who had gathered in Daisy's parlor. Buster Towry worked a small farm just outside Plummerville. Twenty-five years old and relatively handsome—if one overlooked the slight cant to his nose and the fact that he could gain twenty-five pounds and still be thin—he was forever talking about finding himself a wife. He never did anything about it, though. He had a tendency to blush terribly when in the company of a single woman. He was beet red tonight.

Katherine Cassidy was dressed in black as always. Her dark hair was gathered into a severe bun, her face was too pale. She stood in one corner and watched the proceedings with a strange glint of amusement in her dark eyes. The widow was usually a sour, antisocial woman who kept to herself. Like Daisy, Eve was surprised that she had accepted the invitation.

Garrick was drinking again. He held a small glass of whiskey, half empty, in one hand. He, too, looked amused. Eve waited for him to say something embarrassing about his visit that afternoon. He said nothing, simply lifted his glass in a silent salute to her and then finished it off in one gulp.

Perhaps her reputation wasn't ruined after all. Yet.

Daisy ushered them all into the dining room, where the table had been decorated with a large arrangement of golden fall flowers she'd grown in her own garden.

Dinner was a large roast with potatoes and carrots, side dishes of green beans and corn, and biscuits with sweet butter. The party was silent as they passed around the platters and bowls. The men piled their plates high. The women took small portions. Damned corset, Eve thought as she passed the corn after taking a tiny spoonful.

There were awkward mutterings of compliments, and in fact everything was quite good, even if the biscuits were a bit hard. Daisy had outdone herself.

It was Katherine Cassidy who broke the awkward silence, setting her fork aside and looking at Lucien. "The talk about town is that you're a medium, or something like that. Is it true?"

Lucien almost groaned as he set his own fork aside. "While I don't care for that particular term, I suppose the answer is yes."

"You can communicate with the dead," she said, as if to clarify.

"Yes."

Buster went ashen, Garrick grinned, and Katherine nodded her head in satisfaction.

"Good," the widow continued. "I'd like to hire you."

"Well, I'm not sure..."

"It's my husband. I know he comes back. Not every day, mind you, but some nights I just know he's there. I can feel him." She paled a little, and since she was already very fair the change was startling. Her face was almost white. "There's a gust of wind through the house or a board creaks, and deep in my heart I know it's him."

Eve felt some sympathy for the woman, who still mourned so for a husband gone more than three years. Apparently so did Lucien.

"Do you want to know if he has a message for you? Is there something you want me to tell him?"

"Yes," Katherine said sharply. "I want you to tell him to get the hell out of my house and stay out. Son of a bitch," she muttered. "I should have known he'd give me grief, even from the grave."

So much for sympathy.

Her response took Lucien off guard. "Ummmm, when I have a moment I'll see what I can do."

"So," Garrick said, "I heard you were a fortuneteller or some such nonsense, but I had no idea you actually roused dead people to hold conversations with them."

"I do not rouse dead people," Lucien said tightly. "I... I..."

"He sends them home," Eve said, jumping in to defend him. "Lucien finds lost souls who haunt this earth and he ends their suffering by helping them find their way to their proper place."

"Haints," a still-pale Buster said lowly. "You're talking about haints." A little color came back to his cheeks, and a shy smile drifted in. "Why, y'all are jest pulling my leg. T'aint no such thing."

Lucien opened his mouth to respond, but Eve beat him to it.

"Ghosts are very real." No more pretending, no more hiding the truth from people she considered her friends. "I've seen them. I've touched them. They remain here on earth because they died suddenly and don't realize they're dead, or because they carry some burden they can't let go of."

Buster was suitably pale again.

"Before I came to Plummerville, I wrote several articles about authenticated hauntings."

"And a damn fine book," Lucien added.

"I thought you only wrote about gardening," Daisy said.

"That's actually a rather new subject for me." She waited for the other people at the table to laugh, or become scared and throw her and Lucien out. It didn't matter, not really. She wanted to be as honest as Lucien was... at least part of the time.

"Well, well," Garrick said. Of course, he would be the first to condemn them. He was like his father, she supposed, narrow-minded and quick to judge. "A book! Eve, I'm impressed."

"You are?"

"Writing a letter gives me a headache." Garrick winked at her, and no one thought anything of it. When he'd been drinking, he was an outrageous flirt. He drank too much, too often.

"Me, too," Buster said. "So, you really and truly seen these ghosts with your own eyes?"

"Yes, I have."

All eyes turned to Lucien. It was Daisy who asked, "And you can actually speak to them?"

"Yes," Lucien admitted.

"Do they talk back?" Buster whispered.

"On occasion."

"It really is fascinating," Katherine Cassidy said.

"It is?" Lucien was obviously surprised by the reactions of those at the table.

The widow turned to the man seated next to her. "Mr. Hunt, why don't you fetch that bottle you brought with you and pass it around."

"You want me to share my best whiskey?"

"Yes," she said, flicking her fingers at him. "Shoo."

He did as she commanded.

"I have pie," Daisy said. "Pumpkin."

"Pumpkin pie and whiskey," Buster said, his easy grin returning. "Now, this is a party."

Lucien was taken aback. He had probably expected, like Eve, that they'd be laughed out of the house or run out. But the questions that were tossed his way over whiskey and pie were intelligent. The people at the table were interested but not afraid or disbelieving. Eventually, after a glass of whiskey or two, one by one they admitted that they had always believed in ghosts.

A wall of propriety came tumbling down. Soon it wasn't Miss Abernathy and Mrs. Cassidy, but Eve and Katherine. No one called Garrick Mr. Hunt, which he teasingly said suited him just fine, since he kept looking over his shoulder for his father. A rousing conversation and a little whiskey, and they were all on a first-name basis.

It was amazing to be surrounded by such warm camaraderie. She had missed her occasional evenings and conversations with Hugh and Lionel and O'Hara. And Lucien.

"I have my own..." she began, the effects of a half glass of whiskey making her head swim.

Lucien interrupted her. "It's wonderful to find you all so inquisitive. There was a particularly interesting haunted house in Baltimore..."

"Lucien," Eve whispered, "I was going to tell them about..."

"Evie missed that one," he continued. He turned to look down at her, and there was a clear warning in his eyes. "She was angry with me at the time, and no one could blame her."

She got the message loud and clear. He didn't want anyone, not even the people at this table, to know about Alistair and Viola. Not yet.

"Evie was angry with you?" Garrick said with a grin. "That sounds like a much more interesting story than any haunted house."

"It is," Lucien said, his voice low.

"I for one would prefer to hear more about the ghosts, at the moment," Daisy said brightly. "I think they're fascinating." A half glass of whiskey had affected her as much as it had Eve. "Absolutely fascinating. Oh, I have a marvelous idea!" she said, clapping her hands together. "The six of us at this table, we can form our own secret society. The Plummerville Ghost Society."

"What would we do?" Katherine asked sourly.

"Tell ghost stories," Buster suggested.

"Hold meetings over pie and whiskey," Garrick said.

"No," Daisy said with a wave of her hand. "We can help Lucien!"

"Help?" Lucien repeated uncertainly.

"You know, we can go to haunted houses with you. We can help you investigate and... and... well, you'd have to tell us what to do, but surely we could do something productive."

"I'm a fair shot with a rifle," Buster said proudly.

"I'm a much better cook than Daisy," Katherine said.

"And I," Garrick began, lifting his glass high, "I can't really do much of anything, but chasing ghosts sounds like much more fun than running the mill with my father."

"There's really nothing any of you..." Lucien began in a slow, certain voice.

"We need a toast," Garrick said, jumping to his feet. He rounded the table, refilling everyone's whiskey glasses. "A drink to seal the bargain."

"There is no bargain," Lucien said. They all ignored him.

Everyone at the table lifted their glasses high. Laughing, Eve did the same. Finally, after accusing glances from the three women at the table, and a not very subtle clearing of his throat from Garrick, Lucien lifted his glass as well.

"To the Plummerville Ghost Society," Garrick said proudly. "Long may we reign."

He drained his glass. Everyone else took a sip.

Daisy looked longingly at Lucien. "You must be president."

"Absolutely not," he said indignantly.

"Lucien can't be president," Katherine said with a telling lift of her eyebrows. "He's a Yankee!"

"Fine, I'll be president," Garrick said magnanimously.

While everyone toasted their new society, Lucien turned to Eve and whispered, "I knew coming here tonight was a mistake."

"It will be fun." She smiled and leaned in close. "Look at them, Lucien," she whispered. "They adore you. I... adore you." She caught her breath. She had almost admitted that she loved him!

"Do you really?"

"Just a little."

Lucien looked at each and every one of his grinning cohorts. "If we must have a society..."

"We must," Daisy said brightly.

Lucien warned his hostess with a glare, and she pursed her lips prettily. "We must have a proper name. Plummervile Ghost Society makes it sound as if we are ghosts. Perhaps the Plummerville Society for the Investigation and Documentation of Psychical Activities."

Everyone stared at him, speechless. Finally Daisy asked, "How would I fit the initials for the Plummerville Society for... for... whatever that was you said, on our handkerchiefs?"

Lucien started at her. "Handkerchiefs?"

Daisy smiled. "We must all have matching hankies with the initials of our society. PGS." Her smile dimmed. "Or PSFT... I already forgot, but that would be very unwieldy."

Lucien looked down at Eve. "Matching hankies?" he whispered.

Garrick banged his whiskey glass on the table. "Order," he said, trying to sound dignified. "Time for our first vote. All in favor of calling ourselves the Plummerville Ghost Society, raise your hands."

Five hands, including Eve's, shot up.

"All in favor of... whatever ridiculous name it is that Lucien wants to call us, raise your hand." Garrick grinned at Lucien, who raised his hand even though he was clearly outnumbered.

"Almost unanimous," Garrick said. "As president, I hereby declare us the Plummerville Ghost Society."

Lucien shook his head, but he did smile, a little. And then he looked at his watch and his smile died. "Eve, it's after ten o'clock. We have to go."

Chapter 14

"I can't watch Viola die again," Eve insisted as Lucien pulled the horse and buggy to her door. "I can't."

Lucien turned to look at the woman seated beside him. He could see her well, by the light of a bright moon. He saw her well enough to know that she was truly frightened by what lay ahead.

"Would you like me to take you back to Daisy's house? I'm sure she'd be happy to have you stay there until this is finished."

Eve actually considered the idea, for a moment. She drew her shawl closer, and stared toward a parlor window and the lace curtain there. The cool autumn breeze washed over her face and made the curls around her face dance, as she silently pondered the suggestion.

"No," she finally whispered. "I can't run away. I don't want to see Viola die again," she insisted. "It's going to hurt, it's going to make me feel so helpless and angry. But at the same time, I can't let her go through that alone."

"She doesn't know you're there," Lucien assured her.

"How can you be sure?"

He leapt from the buggy and hurried around to Eve's side. The air was brisk tonight. Maybe he could get Eve to go to bed before the murder took place again. It was too cold for her to wait out here, especially in that slip of a gown and thin shawl. What had she been thinking as she'd gotten ready for Daisy's impromptu party? Evie was beautiful tonight, yes, but her attire was most impractical.

"Come on," he said, offering her his hand and assisting her from her seat on the buggy. "You need to get inside where it's warm. I'll start a fire, and then..."

"Don't go," she whispered as she stepped down and landed before him.

His heart jumped.

"Not until they're gone for the night. If I have to be here for Viola I will, but I don't want to be alone."

Lucien took her arm and led her toward the red door. "I'm not going anywhere," he said, awaiting an argument and ready to stand his ground. "I'm staying right here all night."

"You can't," Eve argued weakly.

"There's a murderer on the loose," he said, his voice much sterner than Eve's. "He might be flesh and blood, he might be dead thirty years. No matter what the case, I absolutely will not leave you here alone."

"The horse and buggy..."

"Buster is going to come by and fetch them, after he sees Katherine home. Since you don't have any way to care for the horse, and I refuse to leave you alone, it seemed a good solution."

"My reputation..." Eve began as Lucien opened the door.

"Will be just fine," Lucien finished for her. "Buster was sworn to secrecy. This ghost society nonsense might not be such a bad idea after all."

With the door closed behind them and their conversation done, they heard the ghostly lovers above stairs. Was it possible that Alistair and Viola were even louder tonight than they had been the night before?

Eve shrugged off her shawl and walked into the parlor, dragging it behind her. If she heard the noises from above—and surely she did—she ignored them. "It was a lovely evening, and much more interesting than I had expected it to be."

She lowered herself to the sofa and closed her eyes, sitting there in the dark as Lucien struck a match and lit a lamp. "It was so exciting, my head is swimming."

"You haven't drunk whiskey before tonight, have you?"

"No. But I have had wine," she said. "A few times."

"Whiskey is different."

"I understand that now."

After he got the fire going he sat, not on the sofa beside Eve but in the chair by the window. A safe distance was called for tonight.

Eve's eyes opened slowly, and she looked directly at him, bold and stirring. "Do you like my dress?"

"It's lovely. You should have worn something warmer, though, it's chilly out."

She smiled. "It's supposed to be beautiful, not practical. Enticing, not warm." Her smile faded. "This is my wedding dress, Lucien. I wore it that day, all day. All day and all night. I haven't put it on in two years."

Lucien felt the blood drain from his face. He didn't want to talk about the mistake that had cost him Eve. Not now. Not tonight.

"I thought wedding gowns were supposed to be white," he said.

"Sometimes they are, but I decided to be a little bit practical and choose something I could wear again. Gray instead of white, less flounces and frills than my aunt recommended for the occasion. I didn't know that the gown would hang in my wardrobe for two years because every time I took it out I thought of you."

"I'm..."

"Don't tell me you're sorry again. It really doesn't help at all." Strangely enough, she smiled again. "I rather like Garrick's whiskey. It makes me feel warm and tingly and as if I can say and do anything I want."

"You barely drank a full glass," Lucien said.

"I know!"

"I have a feeling you should stick with that occasional glass of wine and leave the whiskey to your friend Garrick." Garrick, who would call on her when he was gone. If he ever left. Right now, he wasn't so sure.

"He's your friend now, too," she said. "And a fellow member of the Plummerville Ghost Society. President!" she added with an unlikely giggle.

"Garrick Hunt will never be my friend, not as long as he continues to look at you like... like..."

"Like you're looking at me now?" Eve said softly.

"Exactly."

Above, the headboard banged against the wall, Viola moaned, louder and more real tonight than ever before. A chill danced down Lucien's spine.

"You haven't even kissed me tonight," Eve said as she relaxed on the couch.

"No, I have not," he whispered.

"Here I am, sitting before you in my wedding dress, fuzzy-headed and exceedingly vulnerable, and you haven't even tried to kiss me." She sighed. "Did I do something wrong?"

"No."

"Then why..."

Frustrated, he interrupted. "In order to get Buster to help with the horse and buggy, I had to promise him that my intentions were honorable and that I would not take advantage of a woman who had obviously had too much to drink."

"A kiss or two would not exactly be taking advantage of me."

"Tonight I couldn't stop with a kiss or two," Lucien said honestly.

"Oh." Eve closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the sofa. "I had no idea Buster was such a gentleman." Did she really sound disappointed?

"Neither did I," Lucien muttered.

One slippered foot danced, a little, and the hem of Eve's silver-gray dress flipped up. When it did, Lucien caught a glimpse—just a glimpse—of something red. A red petticoat beneath her wedding dress? That petticoat was likely what had been wrapped in brown paper and left on her back doorstep, the gift from the dressmaker that had made Eve blush, that afternoon.

Eve either slept or pretended to sleep, there on the couch with her head back and her body relaxed. Lucien fought the urge to move, to sit beside her and wrap an arm around her shoulders and give her a more comfortable place to lay her head. He stayed in his chair and watched her. If he got too close, if he held her tonight, he would likely break his promise to Buster.

Sitting in the chair didn't last long. Lucien felt as if his skin were on fire, as if everything inside him were jumping and dancing. Unable to sit still, he stood and began to pace before the fireplace.

While he stalked back and forth in the parlor, which suddenly seemed unbearably small, Alistair and Viola continued on, as usual. Were they truly louder tonight than they had been before? Or did it just seem so because the house itself was so damned quiet? There was no conversation to cover the ghostly noises tonight.

It wasn't long before Lucien heard Buster collect the horse and buggy from out front and take them away. That chore was done. Eve's reputation wouldn't be damaged because his rented conveyance sat outside her cottage all night. And still, he paced.

This had been an amazing day, in so many ways. He didn't know what astounded him most: Eve herself, with her red petticoat and her strawberry corset and her passionate kisses, or the odd collection of dinner guests who had, in their own way, rallied around him and formed their silly society.

They had been surprised, at first, when he'd admitted to his abilities, but they hadn't been afraid. Not one of them had stalked away in disgust, or mentioned the devil, or stared at him in that way people had... like he had two heads or had sprouted a tail.

He'd learned to expect the worst, when people discovered what he could do, and in most cases he got exactly what he expected. Accusations. Fear. Disbelief. But not tonight. No, not tonight.

Lucien doubted that the Plummerville Ghost Society would be of any assistance where Alistair and Viola were concerned, but it had certainly been an evening to remember.

* * *

Eve buried her head against Lucien's shoulder and cried softly. The scene she witnessed night after night never got any easier to watch. Since Lucien's arrival, she'd come to know Viola so well, through the short burst of channeling and the dream visit. It was Lucien's mere presence that made Viola strong enough to attempt such activities, as much as the approaching anniversary, Eve suspected.

Whatever the reason for the deeper kinship, watching Viola die was like viewing the death of a dear friend. And as always, there was nothing she could do.

"There, there," Lucien said, one hand on her back, the other in her hair. The fingers in her hair stroked gently, while his arms surrounded and sheltered her. "Don't cry. I hate it when you cry." He shook his head, and in doing so cradled her even more closely, his head resting against hers. "You never cry."

"I do," she said, sniffling, burrowing her head against his shoulder. "I just try not to make a blubbering fool out of myself in front of other people."

"You're not making a fool of yourself," he assured her.

She would be satisfied to simply stand here, Lucien's arms around her, her face hidden against his shoulder, for the entire night. Her father had never been one to offer physical comfort. Words of encouragement, yes. Words of affection, often. But Bernard Abernathy had been good with words, not physical affection. This embrace, it took away some of her pain. Having Lucien so close, it made her feel better, warmer, in spite of everything that had happened here.

Viola and Alistair were gone for the night, and she and Lucien were alone. He intended to spend the night; in the parlor, he said. She really should argue with him. She should make him return to his rented room even if he had to walk to town again. It wasn't right for him to stay here. It wasn't proper at all.

But she didn't want him to leave. Not now, not ever.

The effects of the whiskey had left her, for the most part. There was still a slight bit of fuzziness to her head and her thinking, but she didn't feel woozy or inclined to say everything that crossed her mind.

Not everything.

"Lucien?" The way she said his name made him grow tense.

"Yes?"

"When I asked you how many times you'd been in love, and you said twice... can I assume that one of those times you were in love with me?"

"Yes," he said, almost grudgingly.

"And the other?"

He sighed. "I don't think this is the correct time and place for that conversation. Do you?"

"What is the correct time and place for such a conversation?"

Lucien considered that question, for a moment. "Do you really want to know?"

She hid against his shoulder. Did she? "Yes, I do. Was it... recently?" Had he forgotten her so quickly and fallen in love all over again while she'd cursed and grieved and missed him?

"No."

She breathed a small sigh of relief. He hadn't forgotten about her, in the past two years. Maybe he had missed her, too.

"Do you love her still?"

"Of course not," he said gruffly. "Now, that's enough about that. What about you?" he asked quickly, trying to change the direction of their conversation. "Have you fallen in love many times?"

"I could answer that question," she said, "but since I'm not the one who pledged eternal honesty you'd have no way of knowing if I'm telling the truth or spinning a pretty lie."

"True enough," he conceded.

Eve lifted her head and looked up so she could see Lucien's face. As she had suspected, he was blushing terribly. "But you... you have sworn to tell only the truth."

He didn't release his hold on her, which was good. She liked it here, no matter what direction the conversation had taken.

"When does a man who travels constantly and gets lost in his work to the exclusion of all else find the time to fall in love?"

"I was seventeen!" he answered, sounding embarrassed and truly disgusted with this line of questioning.

"A childhood romance," she whispered. "Was she a beautiful girl enraptured by the powers of the young Lucien Thorpe? Or a beautiful young lady you admired from afar, afraid to approach lest she..."

"Stop it," he ordered in a low voice. "I might have promised you the truth, but I now reserve the right to refuse to answer any of your questions. You are relentless, Evie."

She wished he would kiss her even though he had said he would not. He was so close, and she wanted that kiss so much. A bolder woman might lift herself up on her toes and kiss those lips without invitation, but in truth, Eve Abernathy had never been bold.

"Most men would lie without a second thought, you know. They would say, I have never loved anyone but you. Women don't really believe such fiction, but it's nice to hear, in any case."

Eve glanced at the spot where Viola had died. "I wonder if Viola and Alistair had been in love before they met one another? They seem... they had their problems, but she loved him so deeply she's able to love him still, even though she knows he killed her—or thinks he killed her," she added, before Lucien could jump in with his argument that Alistair was not guilty of the crime. "And what of him? Alistair definitely seems like a ladies' man, but had he ever actually been in love before he met Viola?"

"We can't know that, not unless they tell us."

"And they won't." She tried to melt back into place, resting her head against Lucien's shoulder, but he stepped back and set her away from him.

"You need to get to bed. Tomorrow will be another long day," he said crisply.

"That's true." And yet, she did not want to leave. "Maybe I should stay up for a while longer. I'm not really tired. We can work on the case, try to figure out who Viola's lover was."

"No." The refusal was unequivocal.

"Why not?" She placed her hands on her hips. This was, after all, her house. Lucien could not order her to bed as if she were a child up past her bedtime.

"It's late," he said sensibly. "You've had too much to drink. There's nothing we can do tonight but make suppositions about what happened thirty years ago."

"But..."

"And if you stand here any longer, looking like this and talking about love, I will kiss you. And if I kiss you now, stopping will be a problem."

"Oh." That didn't sound like such a bad idea. It was certainly no reason to run and hide.

"And if I kiss you, and I keep kissing you, I will very likely end up breaking my first vow to a fellow member of the Plummerville Ghost Society." He smiled sheepishly at his own joke. "So get to bed."

Eve turned and climbed the stairs, a smile on her face, a certain thud to her heart. If she thought Lucien would stay, if she thought this flirtation of his meant anything to him, she'd stand her ground and make him kiss her. She'd be bold. She wouldn't let him go until morning.

When she reached the top of the stairs she turned and said good night. When her back was to Lucien once again, she whispered, "I have never loved anyone but you."

* * *

At least this time she knew, from the moment Viola appeared, that this was a dream. In her unstained and unwrinkled wrapper, Viola gave Eve her recipe for apple butter.

They even made a batch, standing over the stove in their wrappers and talking about ordinary things. The weather. The garden. Peach preserves and apple butter and strawberry jam.

Finally Viola smiled and said, "That man... He loves you, you know."

"Lucien?"

"Of course, Lucien!" Viola laughed. It was nice to hear that sound, so real and warm. The spirit's smile faded, but did not die. "I like him. His presence makes us stronger. We are drawn to him, and he gives us... energy. Vitality. He is a powerful man."

"A powerful man who loves his work more than he loves me."

"No," Viola argued. "He is consumed by his work, at times, but he is more consumed by you. Deep down, in the heart, in the soul, you are what he craves most."

Eve snorted as she stirred the mixture in her pot. She couldn't ever remember smelling something so delicious in a dream! "Apparently I'm not the only woman he's been consumed by. He's fallen in love before, and he'll fall in love again."

Viola waved a dismissive hand. "She was nothing. An infatuation, not a true love."

Eve dropped her spoon. "You know who she is?"

Viola smiled. "She is not important."

Eve tried to make herself remember that while this was a dream, Viola was very real. She needed to quit worrying about Lucien, and concentrate on the mystery at hand. "Were you ever in love, before you met Alistair?"

The ghost's smile faded. "Why do you ask such a question?"

Eve shrugged and retrieved her spoon. "Lucien and I were talking earlier, about how it's possible for a person to love more than once. Maybe."

"There are many kinds of love," Viola said softly.

"Of course, but I'm talking about the love between a man and a woman. Romantic love."

Viola didn't answer.

"I've never loved anyone but Lucien, but it seems that maybe..." Eve turned around, only to see that Viola was gone.

And then Alistair tapped her on the shoulder.

"What color corset are you wearing today, darlin'?" he asked, his drawl deeply southern. "Yellow is very nice, but I do love strawberries."

Eve screamed... and shot upright in bed, coming awake instantly.

The door flew open and she almost screamed again, but it was a tousled and wrinkled Lucien who stood there, his jacket discarded, his shirt halfway unbuttoned. "What's wrong?"

"Just a dream," Eve said breathlessly as she tried to make her heart rate slow down.

"Viola?"

She nodded, then shot from the bed. Without taking time to grab her wrapper, she went to her dresser and grabbed paper and pen from the top drawer. Then she lit a lamp and began to scribble.

"What are you doing?" Lucien didn't leave the doorway.

"Writing this down before I forget."

He took a single step into the room. "Did Viola tell you anything of importance?"

"Yes," Eve said as she continued to write. "She gave me her recipe for apple butter."

"Apple butter." Lucien snorted in disgust and left, closing the door behind him. Eve continued to write everything she remembered, finally setting the complete recipe aside.

Her heart was pounding too hard for her to go directly back to bed, so she paced for a while and recalled the dream. She hadn't learned anything of value, except the recipe and the fact that Alistair was a thoughtless cad! What a shameless tease he was. What a scoundrel! How could Viola love him so much? It didn't make sense.

A new thought stopped her in her tracks. How had Lucien gotten to her room so quickly? She hadn't heard him on the stairs, and it seemed that he'd arrived on the tail end of her short scream.

Moving quietly she crossed the room, laid her hand on the doorknob, and opened the door a crack.

Lucien slept on the floor outside her door, no pillow beneath his head, the too-short afghan from the parlor thrown over his long body. How could she ever be angry with him again? He guarded her, as best he could, placing himself between her and anyone who might come up the stairs. Anyone living, at least.

She took the extra blanket from the end of her bed, and grabbed one of her pillows. Kneeling beside him, she slipped the pillow beneath his head. He stirred a little but didn't wake. When he'd settled down completely once again, she covered him properly with the blanket.

Lucien was determined to protect her, to keep his word to Buster, and to send Viola and Alistair on. Noble pursuits, each and every one.

On her knees beside him, she straightened the blanket over his shoulder and leaned down to kiss his cheek. He stirred just a little, wrinkling his nose.

Did he really love her as much as Viola said, maybe even as much as she loved him? Deep, she'd said. In the heart and soul. Or was that part of the dream her own wishful imagination kicking in? Was that assurance of love only what she wanted to hear?

In an instant Eve came to the conclusion that it didn't really matter. She loved Lucien so much that if he let her, she'd follow him to the ends of the earth. It was humiliating, to feel that way about a man who would forget his own wedding day, but there it was. She loved him. She didn't want to live the rest of her life without him. Her pride wouldn't keep her warm, it wouldn't protect her against the night.

It made perfect sense, in the predawn hours. Would she feel the same way by the bright light of day?

Chapter 15

Eve was surprised by the early morning knock on the front door, and she hurried to answer. She hadn't gotten much sleep last night, and Lucien had probably gotten even less.

She had expected to have to step over him as she left her room just past dawn, but he hadn't been there. She'd found him in the parlor, asleep in the chair with a partially assembled specter-o-meter at his feet. He'd left his post early, perhaps hoping not to be caught being gallant. No matter what time he'd moved to the parlor, his night had not been a restful one and he didn't need some unexpected visitor disturbing what little bit of sleep he could find.

Last night when Viola had died, Lucien had held her in his strong, tender arms, and then a short time later he'd placed himself by her door to guard her. He had protected her in every way. He had been there for her, in a way she had never expected when she'd sent for him.

As she'd tossed and turned, after finding Lucien on the floor in the hallway, she'd been forced to ask herself: if Viola could forgive the man she loved for murdering her, should she forgive Lucien for being so damned forgetful? There would never be another man for her, she knew it. No matter how diligently she wished for a normal man and an ordinary life... deep inside she knew no one but Lucien would do.

Eve was surprised to find Gerald on her doorstep. She wasn't expecting a delivery from the general store or any other Plummerville business, and while the man offered his varied services to all the homeowners in town, she'd had no need of his handyman skills and had told him so, in the nicest way, of course. She preferred doing whatever she could on her own—those household chores, headaches large and small, made the house more wholly her home.

"Miss Abernathy," Gerald said, removing his hat and clasping it before him with both hands. "I hope it's not too early to stop by."

"Not at all," she said, her voice low so as not to disturb Lucien.

He looked her up and down, bushy eyebrows rising, pale blue eyes positively twinkling. "My, don't you look pretty today."

She might have been offended that he sounded so surprised, but she decided to let that pass. This morning she had chosen her clothing with Lucien in mind. Her white blouse was finely made and touched with lace, and the full skirt was a lovely shade of green that complimented her coloring. The skirt was simply cut, but it wasn't drab in color, and the blouse fit nicely and had that bit of fine lace. Perhaps it wasn't as daring as what she usually wore against her skin, but it wasn't plain, either. She'd taken special care with her hair, twisting it into a softer style than usual. A few curls brushed against her cheeks.

Yes, she had actually tried to make herself attractive for Lucien, so she responded with a demure thank-you and ignored Gerald's unflattering surprise at finding her pretty.

"I was passing by on my way back to town," he said, finally getting to the reason for his visit, "after making a delivery out to the Potters', and it occurred to me that since you're new in town you might not be aware of tomorrow's activities."

"Activities?"

"Tomorrow's Halloween, you know," he said with a quick grin.

"Yes, I know." Halloween, and the anniversary of Viola's death. The date had not slipped her mind, but the Plummerville festivities had.

"Since the holiday falls on a Saturday this year," Gerald continued, "the ladies and the merchants in town have planned all sorts of celebrations. There'll be food and games, and come nightfall folks will take turns telling ghost stories." He leaned in just slightly. "The preacher don't much like the ghost story part, but last year Mrs. Younger told him if he didn't like it he could just go on to bed early and miss all the fun." He cut his eyes this way and that. "That's his mother Mrs. Younger, not his wife Mrs. Younger."

"I see." She smiled. He seemed so delighted by the plans. "Actually, my friend Daisy informed me weeks ago of your annual celebration and the fact that this year would be especially grand. It was very sweet of you to stop by with this reminder, though. Very thoughtful."

"So, you'll be there?" he pressed.

"Probably not," Eve admitted. "I must admit, Halloween is not my favorite of holidays."

That explanation should be enough, but Gerald did not move on. Good manners dictated that she invite him in, but since they'd have to walk right past the parlor, where Lucien slept, she didn't think that was a good idea.

Gerald stood on the front porch and shuffled his feet, which made Eve wonder if he didn't have another purpose for his visit. "I understand you have a couple of ghosts of your own," he said, glancing past her shoulder as if he might see something interesting in the foyer behind her. Not at this time of day... "I thought you said you hadn't seen any shades, but I heard talk in town suggesting otherwise."

Word was out, thanks to Mrs. Markham and Douglas Hunt. And Lucien. And perhaps Reverend Younger.

"There have been a few ghostly knockings, I must admit."

He gave her an obvious mock expression of terror, and she laughed lightly.

"I coulda sworn you told me you hadn't seen no ghosts."

"I just didn't want to stir up a lot of talk over something so... trivial," she explained, glad that honest Lucien wasn't here to contradict her.

"Trivial?"

"A few unexplained rattlings," Eve said with a wave of her hand. "Perhaps a distant moan in the early morning hours. Not much to tell, to be honest."

"Maybe you'll have your own ghost story to tell tomorrow night," Gerald teased.

"I doubt it." No matter how pleasant the Halloween festivities might be, Eve knew she'd be right here trying to find a way to save Viola. She didn't care as much about the house she had come to love, anymore, or the town, or the neighbors, or what anyone thought of her. She cared, most of all, about Viola. Another year could not pass before Viola was led to the other side.

Behind her, a rough voice murmured, "Morning."

Eve turned to see Lucien stumble through the foyer, his feet bare, his hair mussed, his shirt and trousers wrinkled. He was obviously just awakened and making his way to the kitchen. While Gerald watched. Well, so much for her reputation and her chance for a normal man and a ordinary life here in Plummerville. Funny, but she wasn't at all disappointed.

Gerald didn't look shocked or dismayed to discover a man in her home. "Is that your fortuneteller?" he asked, his voice lowered in case Lucien should be listening from the kitchen, she supposed.

"Yes," she said with a smile. "Yes, it is."

* * *

If Eve was correct and after tomorrow the ghosts of Alistair and Viola became harder to see and hear, then today and tomorrow—which would be the thirtieth anniversary of their deaths—was the time to solve this mystery and send them on.

Lucien tinkered with his newly repaired specter-o-meter for a while, there on the parlor floor. He'd been at it all morning, with little success. He needed new parts, and in his rush to pack he had... forgotten to pack spare parts. He finally gave up and pushed the device aside, standing and stretching his limbs—limbs that had not yet forgiven him for sleeping on the floor once again, and then finishing the evening in a chair.

His mind going this way and that, he sat on the sofa where the ghostly lovers apparently began their amorous evening. He had no qualms about sitting here, knowing what had gone on. After just a few days with Alistair and his wife, Lucien felt certain there was not a piece of furniture in the house that could be considered safe.

Besides, he had kissed Evie here, he had touched her, and that memory was more tangible, more important, than the past history of this house and the people who had once lived in it. She was real and alive, and he wanted the chance for the two of them to make their own memories.

He had to talk to Alistair again, without Eve's interference this time. When she walked into a room both of them—Alistair and Lucien himself—were distracted by her presence. It was more than the worry that Alistair was much too intrigued by Evie that made Lucien determined to get her out of the room. If he were to talk to the spirit man to man, so to speak, she could not be present. It had to be just the two of them.

Lucien glanced to the desk where Eve sat, furiously scribbling notes that would one day appear in a book or a newspaper article. She had no uncommon gifts or skills in communicating with the dead, but she believed in what she could see and what she could not see, and she had a clear, unbiased eye and a way with words that made the telling of her tales fascinating. Writing about gardens would be a waste of her talent. Thank goodness she had realized that, and was now compiling notes for an article, and perhaps a chapter of a new book, on Alistair and Viola.

She'd begun documenting what she saw early in her life, as her father dragged her from one medium to another, from one mystic to another, from one haunted house to the next, always looking for answers. Even after her father's death she'd maintained her interest in the paranormal. Eve did not search for answers, as her father had, but shared what she saw in a sparkling and yet down-to-earth way. That was her gift.

Viola had entered Eve, for a short period of time, and had twice visited her dreams. Had being around him and the others for all those years, seeing more of the psychical world than most would ever see, opened a portal that allowed Viola to speak to Eve freely? Or was it Eve's growing love and concern for the murdered woman that made her vulnerable? That connection might be the key to solving this mystery. In the end it could be Eve, as much as him, to send the spirits on.

Eve had worn green today to vex him, he was almost certain. She surely knew that the color brought out the green in her eyes, just as she surely knew he was fascinated with her eyes. Instead of a dress that was ugly and dull and cumbersome, she'd chosen something bright and lacy, a blouse and skirt that showed off her figure to its best advantage.

Was it a coincidence that at a time when he needed least to be distracted, she had dressed in something frillier than usual, something much more feminine and alluring than her usual daytime attire? No, she was purposely trying to agitate him.

She had been vexing in the brown monstrosity. More than vexing in her wedding dress and red petticoat. Right now, he did not need to be vexed.

"Evie," he said softly.

"Yes." Her voice was welcoming, friendly, but she did not lift her head from her work.

"I'm starving."

She lifted her head; her eyes went wide. "You are?"

"Famished. Those biscuits you made for breakfast were wonderful. Could you make more for lunch?"

She smiled. "Of course. It will take a while," she said, setting her pen aside.

Lucien didn't know why Eve loved to feed him, but she did. He hated to use that peculiar weakness against her, but he knew she would never allow him to channel Alistair alone, and he also knew he could not discover what had happened that night thirty years ago if Eve was present and he and Alistair both wanted to savor her wonderful warmth.

"If you don't mind," he said, giving her a warm smile. "They really were remarkable biscuits."

"I'd be happy to make more." She moved her papers aside and stood, and the expression on her face was... what was that? Pleased. Expectant, perhaps.

He listened to the fading sound of Eve's retreating footsteps as she made her way to the kitchen at the back of the house. When he heard her moving things about, he laid his eyes on the spirits who lurked, almost invisible, in the corner.

"Alistair," he said. "We aren't finished."

Alistair needed no further invitation. He did not take form and shape today. Instead the light danced this way, flitted around for a moment, and then shot directly at Lucien. Lucien held his breath at the initial jab, but as always the pain faded quickly.

He took a deep breath. The weakness was no longer a surprise, and it wasn't nearly as debilitating as it had once been. He'd learned to maintain better control as the years had passed.

Tell me what happened.

"Where's the woman?" Lucien's eyes, guided by Alistair, searched the room.

Forget about the woman.

"The ladies are my weakness. Every man has a weakness, you know. I don't drink overly much, and I never gamble. Well, almost never. But a beautiful woman... they're so soft. So warm. And that one, she's..."

Tell me about the night you died, Lucien interrupted, pushing past the spirit's obsession.

Alistair said nothing, but Lucien felt his sudden fear, his sheer panic.

Tell me.

"I'm sorry."

Why? Lucien's hands clenched his knees, his eyes went to the foyer beyond the parlor door. I know you didn't kill her.

"No, I didn't."

Lucien was not surprised. Then who did?

"It was dark. I couldn't see."

Why are you sorry?

Tears that were not Lucien's dripped down his cheeks. A lifetime of regrets and memories washed through Lucien as if they were his own. Alistair Stamper's life, the good and the bad, rushed through him so fast and furious that it took his breath away. Emotions—fear and love and regret—grew inside him. Images, memories, flickered in Lucien's mind.

"I saw him kill her." Alistair's voice, through Lucien, was soft and uncertain. "I tried to get to her to stop him, but I was too slow. I could barely move. I... saw him kill her, and I couldn't make him stop."

Alistair's pain went deep; Lucien felt it. "She won't listen to me," he said softly. "I've tried to tell Viola, again and again, that I would never hurt her, that I didn't kill her, but she won't listen. She'll relive the days we spent before that night, she'll lie with me in that cold bed... but she won't move on. She won't go past that last night."

Why don't you move on?

"I won't go without her."

Of course. He should have thought of it before. Why does Viola think you killed her?

"The man with the knife stabbed her in the back, and when he did he... whispered something in her ear. I don't know what he said, but after he spoke Viola cried out my name. She wasn't calling for help, she was pleading with me to stop, and I couldn't manage to make so much as a sound to assure her that it wasn't me standing behind her."

Once Viola knew her husband had not been the man to stab her in the back, perhaps she'd be able to move on. Alistair, I have an idea.

* * *

Flour dusted the front of Eve's apron, her hands, even her cheek, but she didn't mind. Lucien liked her biscuits. She hadn't had much of an opportunity to cook for anyone, so she was thrilled to know that a man who occasionally forgot to eat found her biscuits memorable.

She heard him coming up behind her, his step slow and steady.

"Patience, Lucien," she said with a smile. "I haven't even cut the biscuits out. It'll be a little while, yet."

He didn't leave but instead moved close, breathed against her neck, and almost lazily wrapped his arms around her. She knew she should scold him, tell him to back away, but she liked the closeness. It was so right. So unexpectedly nice.

Lucien wasn't satisfied to simply wrap his arms around her and stand there. He laid the flat of his hands against her flour-dusted apron. With a subtle shift, he pressed his body against hers, his chest against her back, his legs brushing against hers. She glanced down at the arms that encircled her. His sleeves were rolled up, revealing his forearms. He had such fine, strong forearms. She longed to touch them, to run her fingers from wrist to elbow again and again and again.

"Lucien!" she scolded without heat as his hands began to rock back and forth. Inside, her blood thrummed and her stomach danced. He had fine, strong hands, too. "I'll never finish these biscuits this way."

"Who cares about biscuits?" he asked in a deep Georgia drawl.

Eve spun around, still caught in his arms. "Alistair!"

"One and the same," he said with a wicked grin.

"Where's Lucien?" she asked primly. "I want you to go away so I can speak to Lucien."

His hands crawled up her back, touching all the way, tickling and arousing. Lucien's hands, guided by Alistair. "This Lucien likes you," Alistair said. "He likes you very much."

Eve pursed her lips as Alistair moved Lucien's mouth to her neck and laid it there. Soft. Warm. The tip of his tongue flickered out to tease and tickle. She really should push him away. His embrace was not so tight that she was trapped here.

And yet... she didn't lift her hands and give a gentle shove that would send Lucien... Alistair... the two of them back.

"I like him, too," Eve said, her voice just a little shaky as that mouth at her neck continued to caress. "But that doesn't concern you. Now... go away."

Firm hands raked down her back, the lazy move as arousing as the upward motion had been. Those hands stopped and cupped her bottom. Pulled her closer. Thumbs rocked. She felt that touch everywhere, in a tingle that traveled through her veins, in a gentle throb that worked its way through her body. His touch was so warm, so sure.

"He wants you," a wicked voice whispered against her neck. "He wants you so much. More than that, he truly..."

Alistair's voice stopped, Lucien's lips stilled, and his hands dropped from her backside. Eventually.

Lucien lifted his head from her neck. "Sorry. He got away from me."

He truly what? Damnation. "You sent me in here to make biscuits so you could channel Alistair without having someone there to watch over you. I thought you were going to be unerringly honest."

"Well, your biscuits are wonderful and I am hungry, so I did not tell a lie."

"Perhaps not, but really, Lucien. It's so dangerous to open yourself up that way without having someone nearby to help if it becomes necessary."

"You distract us," he explained in a low voice.

"Well, that's no reason..." She placed her hands against his chest, puzzled. "When Viola was with me, for no more than a minute, she completely drained me of energy." She knew Lucien was stronger than she; he'd even said that over time he had acquired new skills. But still... "I could barely move. How did you manage to walk all the way in here and... and... that wasn't Alistair at all, was it? Lucien!" She couldn't help but smile. "It isn't nice to tease."

"Of course it is."

She hadn't even known he could tease, that way. It was awfully close to lying, by her way of thinking. No, like it or not, he had retained a piece of Alistair, for a while after the spirit had left him.

Her grin faded. "But you did channel Alistair again, and you did it alone." That was how he'd gotten that southern accent down so perfectly. For a little while it had been a part of him; Alistair had been inside his head as well as coming out of his mouth.

Lucien nodded and laid his hands on her shoulders. "I was right all along. He didn't kill her."

"You might be right, but..."

"And we know how to prove it."

Lucien kissed her, too quickly, and departed. Alone with her unfinished biscuits. Eve wondered, if Alistair's visit left behind a hint of his accent, the flavor of a rogue, what else might he leave inside Lucien? If Alistair was truly innocent, they had nothing to worry about. But if he was indeed a man who would stab the woman he loved in the back...

An unpleasant chill danced down Eve's spine.

* * *

"I never had a more successful dinner party!" Daisy said with a grin.

She had stopped by the house to give Eve and Lucien their embroidered handkerchiefs. Crisp linen squares were emblazoned with the elaborately fashioned red initials, PGS.

Lucien sighed, openly dismayed as he took his handkerchief. "Secret society hankies," he muttered. "Lovely."

Daisy, missing his sarcasm, smiled and responded with a bright, "Thank you."

"Did you get the pumpkin off the ceiling?" Eve asked as she studied her own handkerchief.

"Most of it," Daisy replied, seemingly unconcerned.

Lucien stuffed his hanky into his pocket, shaking his head slightly.

"Last night was fun," Eve said. She leaned in close to her friend. "But I do have a bit of a headache this morning. I think we should leave the whiskey to Garrick, from now on."

"I agree. We don't want to be inebriated when we take on a ghost or two. Why, I imagine I'll be frightened enough without being dizzy, too!" Daisy turned her attentions to Lucien. "So, what should my first duty as a member of the Plummerville Ghost Society be? Besides embroidering the hankies," she added quickly. "Because that's already done."

Eve cast a questioning glance to Lucien. Things were quickly coming to a head here, and after weeks of delaying the inevitable she was finally ready to tell her friend about the ghosts. She might not ever be ready to tell everyone, but Lucien's annoying honesty was beginning to rub off on her. Not telling Daisy was beginning to feel like lying.

Lucien hadn't wanted her to tell all last night, when everyone at Daisy's table had been in high spirits and she'd been woozy, and he'd been right to caution her. This wasn't an entertaining story to be shared over dessert. But would he object if she wanted to tell Daisy, now? He shrugged and then nodded his head. With his approval, Eve led Daisy to the sofa.

"I have ghosts," she said simply.

"The Stampers?" Daisy didn't seem too terribly surprised.

Eve nodded. "I guess you've heard the stories."

"Yes, I just didn't believe they were true," Daisy whispered.

"They're true, I'm afraid. I asked Lucien to come to Plummerville to help me rid my house of ghosts, but another problem has arisen."

"What kind of problem?"

"Lucien thinks they were both murdered, that it wasn't Alistair who killed Viola and then himself, as people believe."

"Oh, who did it?"

"That's what we're trying to find out."

Daisy clasped her hands together. "You're trying to solve a crime! How exciting. What can we do to help? Oh, I know! A reenactment. Someone can play Viola, and someone can play Alistair. I think Katherine should play Viola. I would be quite terrified to pretend to be murdered, but it seems nothing terrifies Katherine! Garrick can..."

"No," Lucien interrupted. He loomed over them.

"It's not a bad idea," Eve said.

"It's a terrible idea!" he shouted.

"Tomorrow night is the thirtieth anniversary of the murder or murders," Eve argued sensibly. "If we can't solve this mystery on our own... Viola will be stuck here for at least another year."

"You don't know that," Lucien said, his voice lower and kinder.

"I do," she whispered.

"Tomorrow's Halloween," Daisy said sheepishly. "Won't it be a little scary to reenact the murder on Halloween?"

"No," Lucien said firmly. "It would be very scary, should we do anything so foolish."

"We'll call an emergency meeting..." Daisy began.

"No meeting." Lucien offered his hand to Daisy, and she took it. "No reenactment," he said as he pulled her to her feet. "I thank you for the hankie. Now, go home and finish cleaning the pumpkin off your ceiling."

"All right," Daisy said, chagrined. "But I still think it might be a good idea..."

Lucien, shaking his head, silenced her. Daisy answered with a wrinkling of her pert nose.

"And remember," Lucien said as he walked Daisy to the door, "any society business must stay between us. Evie doesn't want half the town banging on her door wanting a glimpse of the ghosts."

"Of course," Daisy said. "If you don't need help with the Stampers, then maybe we can all help you get rid of Katherine's husband. After you solve the mystery here, of course. At least he wasn't murdered. His horse threw him, right in the middle of the street. I heard he was a mean man, but of course I never believed it because he always looked so normal when I saw him in town."

"We will make Katherine's husband our first official society business," Lucien said, his patience obviously wearing thin.

Eve smiled as she watched the two people she loved most walk to the door, Lucien guiding Daisy along, Daisy halting here and there with another idea, a new plan for the society. Clandestine meetings, an official seal, a secret handshake. At each suggestion, Lucien nodded and then started Daisy moving forward again with a gentle nudge.

When Daisy was gone and Lucien stood with his back to the door, eyes closed as he breathed deep, Eve smiled. Her house was haunted, her best friend was decidedly ditzy, and the man she loved was far from perfect.

But imperfect as they were, they were all hers. And she would do whatever she had to in order to keep them.

Chapter 16

Lucien stared in amazement. They looked almost tangible, as if he could reach out and touch them both. Viola's gown was blue, and so were her eyes. There was a golden hue to her fair hair, and the strands around her face were oddly paler than the rest. Almost white. Alistair, dressed in a dark gray suit, wore a diamond stickpin and his shoes needed polishing. He had laugh lines around his eyes. Viola stood by the window and waited, while Alistair walked toward her.

Lucien looked down at Eve, who was every bit as amazed as he was. "I'm telling you, I don't look anything like that," he said, still somewhat annoyed that both Mrs. Markham and Eve had said there was a resemblance, and that Viola had momentarily mistaken him for her husband. Alistair was several years older than he, was an inch or two shorter, and had a mouth on the thin side.

"Just a little," Eve whispered.

Viola turned her back on her husband, and Alistair wrapped his arms around her and kissed her neck. They stood that way for a few minutes, silent, comfortable with one another, and then Alistair led his smiling wife to the sofa.

Lucien took Eve's arm and led her from the room. There was no reason for them to watch the ghostly lovers again tonight... but he couldn't wait to see what the ectoplasm harvester—which tonight had been placed directly beneath the sofa—would collect.

He led Eve to the dining room, pulled out a chair for her, and when she was seated Lucien took the chair beside her. He couldn't do a thing about the lustful noises that emanated from the parlor. At least the murmurs and moans from that room were low, at the moment.

Eve laid her hands on the table. "Are you going to tell me about this plan you and Alistair cooked up?"

"Not yet. I'm not even sure it will work."

She looked concerned.

"It's nothing dangerous," he assured her.

"Lucien," she said in a voice that warned him there was a lecture coming, "are you certain you can trust Alistair?"

"Of course. I've had him with me twice, now."

"Yes, but... what if he fooled you and Viola. What if he's leading you both astray?"

Lucien shook his head. "No, that's not possible."

"Just because it hasn't yet happened, that doesn't mean it's not possible."

He couldn't argue with that one.

"Be careful," she whispered, as if Alistair might be listening. Judging by the passionate female moans coming from the parlor, moans that grew louder and more earnest with each passing moment, Lucien suspected that Alistair was well occupied.

"I always am."

Eve shook her head softly. "No, you're not. You're never careful." She sounded as if his lack of concern for his own well-being made her sad and angry. "I have seen you take incredible risks in the past four years, and this... this secret plan of yours... just thinking about it makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. Something's not right here. Maybe we should put the plan on hold."

In his heart, Lucien believed that Eve still loved him. If all went well, the ghosts would move on to the other side tonight. Come tomorrow, was he supposed to head for home and leave Eve here? How could he do that?

"What do you suggest? That we call in the Plummerville Ghost Society for assistance?"

That got a smile out of Eve, as he had suspected it would.

"Might not be a bad idea," he said in a lowered voice. "I have a feeling those four could very easily scare just about any ghost into seeking the safety of the other side."

"We six," Eve said softly.

Lucien lifted his eyebrows in question.

"Well, we are a part of the society, after all," she argued. "They will need us, Lucien. Can you imagine Garrick leading the way as the four of them do battle with a reluctant ghost or two?"

"Poor ghosts," he teased.

"Exactly. I imagine they could send just about any trapped spirit fleeing this earthly plane." Her expression changed subtly, her lips relaxed. "Seriously, Lucien, we can't possibly allow them to do anything on their own. They don't know the rules. They have no idea what they're up against. Someone could get hurt."

"It wasn't my idea to get them involved. I didn't ask for help, and I certainly did not suggest that we band together and form a ghost league." The last thing he wanted was to be responsible for four amateurs jumping into the arena.

"I know, but did you see their faces last night? They were truly fascinated by what you can do, but they weren't afraid. They want to help."

"By reenacting murders and embroidering hankies," Lucien mumbled.

"Be nice," she insisted. "They're my friends. They could be yours, too."

From the parlor, a satisfied Viola cried out loud.

"Once the ghosts are gone," Lucien said on the fading echoes of Viola's cry, "you'll... stay here? In Plummerville and in this house?"

"That is my plan," Eve said softly.

"A normal life," he said. "With normal friends and a normal man to court you."

She smiled gently. "I think I can forget about that normal man. Everyone in town surely knows that I'm living in sin with a fortune-teller."

Lucien arched his eyebrows. "It's bad enough to be accused of a crime one has committed, but to be labeled as a sinner when there has been no sin seems a real indignity."

"There's been a little sin," Eve whispered.

Of course there had been. He could still taste the sin on his lips, and it only made him want more.

"Can I speak my mind with you?"

"Of course."

Lucien swallowed hard. Eve had been right about one thing: he was more comfortable communicating with the dead than with the living. "A woman like you will be wasted here, in this sad little town."

"Plummerville isn't a sad little town," she said defensively. "It can be a lovely place, and some of the people here are friendly and warm and welcoming. I've always wanted my own home, a place where I know my neighbors and they know me and one year rolls into the next with a comforting symmetry."

He didn't understand that desire, not completely.

"I've wandered all my life, first with my father, then with my writing. Something's missing," she said, her voice lowered.

Him! Why couldn't he just say it? He was what was missing from her life. And she was most definitely what was missing from his.

The words he wanted to say to Eve stuck in his throat, and he wished for a touch of Lionel's glibness, a moment where he was as carefree and easygoing as O'Hara.

O'Hara. Lucien was not finished with that scoundrel. He'd had the nerve to put his hand under Evie's dress! The man should be shot. Well, pummeled might do, when he saw the man again.

There were a few uncomfortable minutes of silence while Lucien searched his mind for the right words, while Eve waited silently and seemingly serene. In the background they heard the ghostly lovers on the sofa. The rustle of clothing, the soft moans.

From the parlor Alistair groaned loudly, and then all was silent. Did he hear a soft, muffled giggle? An answering laugh, just as low and pale?

Lucien waited a few moments, and then he stood and offered his hand to Eve. She took his hand and he assisted her to her feet. Together they walked to the foyer, arriving just in time to see a laughing Viola and Alistair exit the parlor and take the stairs. Their clothes were askew, they both had mussed hair and swollen lips and brilliant smiles on their faces. Halfway up the stairs, Alistair swept Viola into his arms.

"I love you," he said, the words clear and true. Not at all muffled by the passage of space and time.

Viola laid her hand on his face. "And I love you." They disappeared down the hallway, and the door to their bedroom was kicked shut.

Lucien laid his eyes on Eve, who continued to watch the stairs. "He didn't kill her," he whispered.

"I hope you're right."

* * *

Enduring the sounds from upstairs had been more difficult tonight than ever before. They seemed so real, so close. And she knew what was coming.

Lucien didn't seem to hear the moans, the cries, the creak of the busy bed, or be disturbed by them. He'd spent the evening analyzing the gunk his ectoplasm harvester had collected, occasionally muttering a low fascinating or a surprised exclamation.

Eve frowned. She wasn't even as fascinating as goo.

As the time for the oft-relived murder approached, Lucien put his experiment aside and started collecting lamps from around the room. He placed them all near the parlor entrance, so that they shot their light into the parlor and onto the foyer floor.

Eve shuddered. She hated the sight of Viola's death. Why did it need to be more well lit for their perusal, especially tonight when Viola looked and sounded so real?

There was a new element to tonight's scene; Alistair came down first. He was usually absent during this time, but as they watched he walked down the stairs in his dressing gown. Eve held her breath. He looked so solid. Alistair carried a single candle in his hand, and squinted as if his eyes were fighting the dark.

"Hello?" Alistair whispered. He came to the end of the stairway, glanced around, and then looked down. "What the hell is this?"

"It's working," Lucien muttered.

Alistair's head snapped up and he looked into the parlor. "Hello?" he called again. "Who's there?" He took a step toward the parlor, stepped right through Eve and Lucien, and kept on walking. And then he disappeared.

"Damn," Lucien muttered. "Where did he go?"

Viola came running down the stairs. "Alistair!" she cried. "What was that noise?" She stopped at the foot of the stairs, peered into the parlor, and then turned away to look toward the dining room.

That's when she was grabbed from behind.

"No," Eve said softly. Everything was too real. The fear on Viola's face, as she was held by the intruder, was all too clear. Eve wanted to reach out and stop what was happening, even though she knew she could not. Her fingers itched, her hands worked into tight fists. Viola jerked as the blue wrapper she wore was split by an invisible knife, as her blood, red and quick, ran down her back and stained the wrapper. She swayed for a moment, then fell to the floor with a thud.

"Yes," Lucien said. "It's working."

Alistair had appeared once more, lying on the parlor floor.

"Viola!" Lucien shouted. "Look this way!"

She seemed not to hear.

"She won't listen to me," Lucien said. "She can't hear me. Call to her, Eve. You two have connected. Call her. Make her look this way so she'll know the man who stabbed her is not Alistair."

Alistair lay there near Eve's feet, his arm outstretched, his blood staining the floor. His mouth moved, but no sound was made. She read his lips as he tried to cry out. Viola.

Eve stepped into the entryway as the wrapper was pulled down and off Viola's body by the intruder no one could see.

"Look at Alistair, Viola," Eve called. "He's not behind you. He's trying to reach you."

Viola did not respond. She was too much in her own time, too lost in her own pain. She wouldn't turn her head to look, to see that it was not the man she loved who killed her, and again she would die with that betrayal in her heart. A betrayal that would keep her from finding peace. A betrayal that cut so deep she could not bear it for another night.

There was only one way to do this. Eve dropped to her knees beside Viola's image. The wound in the ghost's back looked painful, and so real. Blood flowed. Eve reached out a trembling hand.

"No!" Lucien cried. "Eve Abernathy, I know what you're thinking. Don't you dare!"

She ignored him and lowered herself into the image that was Viola. As real as she appeared to be, there was no substance to the dying woman, so Eve found herself lying on the floor, her cheek pressed to the wood, Viola all around. "Come with me, Viola," she whispered. "You don't have to do this alone."

A sharp pain burst through Eve's chest, as Viola's spirit joined with hers. She tried to tell Viola what had happened in the past, what was happening now. Time shifted and danced, reality was fleeting. It was now, but it was also then. Eve felt Viola's fear and confusion. More than that, she drank in everything that was Viola, for a moment. Secrets, pain, regret, they were all a part of the woman on the floor, the woman who died every night.

It took a great effort, but Eve turned her head—Viola's head—so she could peer into the parlor. Lucien, standing there so close, didn't seem at all distinct. His legs were fuzzy, his voice... far away. He wasn't real; he wasn't here. Alistair was very much here. Solid and pale. A streak of blood marred his cheek.

Alistair crawled an inch at a time, each of those inches an effort, trying to reach his wife, trying to call out a warning. Blood covered the floor as he struggled to get to Viola; bloodstained fingers reached desperately for his wife. Every move causing her pain, Viola shifted her arm and reached for him, as well. Their fingers were inches from meeting.

Eve felt the cold air against her bare back, and a low voice whispered in her ear, "I love you, my little Violet."

"Alistair," she whispered, and then the most terrible pain she had ever known shot through her. Sharp and deep, it eclipsed all else. Blood flowed down her back and her sides, and she felt the life draining from her body as if it had taken form and drifted away.

But the pain, horrible as it was, was so much less tonight than it had been in the past. It wasn't the man Viola loved who'd stabbed her; it wasn't Alistair who'd taken her life.

Eve tried to escape, to stand up and leave Viola and this pain behind. She had done what needed to be done; she'd forced Viola to look at her husband, to know that he hadn't killed her. That was done.

But she couldn't move, she could not separate herself from Viola. They were one being, two souls so entwined they could not be separated. Eve's heart thudded too hard, her breath wouldn't come. She was dying, just as Viola had died every night for thirty years. She could actually feel her life slipping away.

And she was going to die without telling Lucien that she loved him, that she forgave him, that she could forgive him anything. Well, almost anything. Who would feed him when she was gone? The man simply could not take proper care of himself. Not without her.

"Evie!" She heard the voice, as if it reached over a long distance. A strong hand grabbed her wrist and dragged her across the floor. Something... someone tried to hold her back, but the hand on her wrist was stronger than the force that attempted to hold her down.

"Lucien," she whispered as he pulled her into his lap and against his chest.

He sat on the floor by the door, cradling her in his arms, rocking back and forth and cursing beneath his breath. Eve turned her head to watch the last of the nightmarish scene before them, as a dying Alistair reached his wife, as he placed his body over hers as if he could shield her, even though she was already gone. And then Alistair was gone, too.

The light from all those lamps Lucien had lit earlier filled the entryway, harsh and unforgiving. Shadows, sharp and deep, filled the corners. And Lucien held her so close, so tight, she could barely breathe. That was all right, Eve decided as she melted into his embrace.

The ghosts were gone. For good? Perhaps. The house was quiet. There was just the hammering of her heart and Lucien's uneven breathing to fill the silence.

"Why in God's name did you do that?" Lucien rasped.

"Viola wouldn't listen to either of us," Eve said, her voice weaker than she'd intended it to be. "I had to make her understand before it was too late."

"You could have died."

"I didn't know that," she whispered.

"I thought you were... gone."

Eve lifted her head and looked up into Lucien's terrified eyes.

The pain in her back was gone. Viola was gone. Eve was firmly in the present, and she didn't want to waste a single moment. She lifted her hand and caressed Lucien's cheek. "I love you."

"I love you, too." Lucien continued to sway, ever so gently, rocking and comforting her there on the floor.

"I don't want a normal man," she said, her fingers tracing his jaw, studying the stubble there with her fingertips. "I want you."

"Good, because I'm not going to let any normal man have you." His heart beat hard; she felt it pounding against her. They'd faced a lot of scary things, in the past, and she'd never seen Lucien lose his composure this way. She'd never seen him so completely lose control. She'd never felt him shake.

"I don't know why we can't have everything we want," he said, his hands trailing through her hair. "We can have a house somewhere. This one, if it's what you want. Neighbors, societies, proper reputations... whatever you want. And we can travel, too. We can travel to the places I need to go. You can... document what happens and assist me on occasion. If it's not too dangerous," he added.

"That sounds nice," she said softly.

Lucien's strength was coming back, she felt that strength, in his arms and in the way his body lay against hers. "But I swear to God that if you ever pull a stunt like the one you pulled tonight I'll... I'll..."

"You'll what?" she prodded.

"I'll die." He pulled her head against his shoulder. "I couldn't bear it."

It was a good place to be, snuggled against Lucien's chest, listening to his heart pound while he stroked her hair.

"We can have babies, too," he whispered, "if that's what you want. You did say you wanted babies."

"Yes."

"And if you make apple butter I'll eat it, every drop, even if it's the most awful apple butter any woman has ever concocted."

Eve draped her arms around Lucien's neck. "What more could a woman ask of a man?"

"Marry me."

"Will you show up this time?"

"Nothing could keep me away." He kissed her, sweet and then not sweet, desperately hungry and then demanding.

"Yes," she said when Lucien took his mouth from hers. "I will most definitely marry you."

Lucien stood, and when Eve tried to do the same he swept her up. "Your legs will likely still be weak," he explained as she settled into his arms.

Eve didn't argue, but draped her arms around his neck and held on tight. "Perhaps you should carry me. I don't yet feel quite sturdy."

"You might not feel sturdy for a while," he said. "Have I told you how foolish it was to... to..."

"Yes," she said. "You did."

Viola and Alistair were gone. Nothing of the ghostly lovers lingered in the air, not a spark of light, not a shimmer in a dark corner, not a sigh or a distant trill of laughter. Maybe what had happened tonight would be enough to send them on. They wouldn't know for sure until tomorrow night. Halloween.

"You were right," she said as Lucien carried her up the stairs. "Alistair didn't kill Viola. She knows that now, thanks to you."

"I don't want to talk about them. Not now. Not yet." He carried her into her room and laid her gently on the bed. He didn't walk away, but sat on the side of the bed and hovered above her. "I've never been so scared," he admitted softly, his hand caressing her cheek. "Evie, I've made a lot of mistakes, in my life. I imagine I'll make more mistakes. But I don't want to imagine what my life would be like without you in it."

She knew now what her life was like without Lucien in it. Serene. Ordinary.

Loveless.

When he started to rise, Eve reached up and fisted her hand on his shirt. She grasped tightly, not ready to be alone. Would she ever be ready to be alone?

"Don't leave me," she whispered, very gently drawing him back down.

He came without resistance, whispering, "Never."

Chapter 17

Her door stood open, and the lamps they'd left burning in the foyer below filled the room with a distant, pale light, as if a few of the beams that filled the rooms below with bright light traveled up the stairs, down the hall, and into her room. It was enough for her to see his face. She needed to see Lucien's face, now.

Eve reached up and brushed a dark strand of hair away from Lucien's cheek. He still looked so worried.

"Did you really ask me to marry you?" she whispered.

"Yes. Did you really agree?"

She nodded silently.

He touched her face, gently, as if she might be suddenly fragile.

"I thought maybe I was hallucinating," she said. "Tonight has certainly been... different."

"Regretting your decision already?"

She didn't hesitate in answering, "No. Never."

He kissed her. The caress was soft, at first, tender. She tasted his fear, still. Fear for her, for what they'd almost lost. She had never seen Lucien desperate, but she tasted desperation now.

The kiss changed gradually, from desperate to passionate, from fearful to stimulating. Had she once pretended that his kiss didn't affect her? How foolish. How unnecessary. His kiss did stir her, more powerfully than before. How many kisses had she missed in the past two years?

Gradually, as they kissed, Lucien moved so that he lay beside her. It was nice. Close and comforting, warm and tender. Her arms went around his waist, and his arms snaked around hers. They shifted, their legs entwined, and with a half roll his firm, warm body was over hers.

The way Lucien lay atop her—so close, their bodies so tight—she couldn't help but feel his response to the kiss that went on and on. She felt it not only in the length that pressed against her, but in the kiss itself. He did want her. Did his body thrum, as hers did? Did he ache?

His mouth left hers, slowly and reluctantly. "When you asked me to stay here with you..." He stopped speaking and shook his head slowly. "You were still scared. You didn't know what you were asking. I can sleep on the sofa in the parlor." He almost choked on the words.

She didn't have a single doubt. "When I asked you to stay I meant stay here," she said. "Right where you are, in my bed with me. You belong here. This night has been too long in coming, Lucien."

"It has," he agreed.

"I don't want to lose one precious moment, worrying about what I should do and what's proper and... and whether or not you love me enough."

"I do love you," he said, reaching out to pluck a tortoiseshell comb from her hair. "I never stopped." One by one he removed the combs that held her hair in place. When it was loose he ran his fingers through the thick, waving strands. He still touched her as if he were afraid she might break.

"I've dreamed about this," she whispered as he began to unbutton her blouse.

"So have I."

"So far, having you here is much better than any dream."

He agreed with a hum as he lowered his head to kiss her exposed throat. His lips were gentle, arousing, and they were never still. A kiss, a gentle sucking, as if he were drawing a bit of her into his mouth, the teasing flick of a tongue... and he didn't stop at her throat but trailed his wicked mouth downward.

When he reached the lacy edge of her corset, he lifted his head. "What color is the corset today, Evie?"

"White," she said. "Just plain white." White. The color of the bridal gown she didn't buy two years ago, considering such a purchase too impractical. A bright pearly shade that symbolized purity and goodness and light. "But there is lace," she said, in case he was disappointed. "And a pink ribbon."

As he began to unfasten the confining corset, his fingers nimbly working the hooks and eyes that ran down the front of the lacy undergarment, he brushed his fingers against the skin he bared. And every stroke, no matter how delicate, set her skin on fire. It was as if she were being touched for the first time. As if she had lived her entire life without human contact.

"I have never wanted or needed anything in my life the way I want you now," he whispered.

When he lowered his head to kiss her throat again, his fingers never slowing in their work, she closed her eyes and savored the knowledge that he was telling her the truth.

* * *

Lucien drifted down, covering Eve's body with his. Her honeyed strands were spread across the pillow, thick and silky, waving this way and that. His clothes were strewn across the floor and so were hers, so when he laid his body over hers they were flesh to flesh, heart to heart and thigh to thigh.

A few minutes ago his heart had been pounding with fear. The fear of losing the woman he loved, the fear of facing a life without Eve in it. Now his heart hammered against his chest for another reason altogether.

Her hands skimmed down his back, and she closed her eyes as she experienced the feel of his bare flesh, the length of his body along hers. Her lips parted, a soft sigh escaped. Her hands finally settled on his hips, where her fingers fluttered. She was shy and bold, perhaps wary of the joining that awaited her, but eager, all the same.

He kissed her mouth. She had such a fine mouth, so soft and sweet and responsive. A man could get lost in a woman who kissed like Eve did, with her heart and soul, with sweetness and passion. With innocence and sensuality, rolled together for one perfect kiss.

Her throat shuddered beneath his kiss. She was so sensitive. So ardent. And she loved him.

Love frightened him more than ghosts, murderers, preachers, and secret societies, all rolled into one. Not because he doubted his love or hers, but because he was afraid he would fail.

He wanted to give Evie everything. This night and every night to come, he wanted to make her happy. No, more than happy. He wanted her to be completely satisfied with her life, to never regret loving him, to close her eyes each and every night content.

While he flicked his tongue across the hollow at the base of her throat, Eve's legs fell a little farther apart. He felt her movement beneath him, felt the brush of her bare legs against his.

Rising up, he watched the play of his fingers against Eve's pale, rounded breasts. The coral nipples hardened as he watched; her perfectly curved breasts heaved as she breathed deep. There was not a more beautiful sight in the world, he was certain of it.

He licked one nipple first, tasted it, flicked his tongue over the tip before taking it deep into his mouth. Eve arched beneath him, pressed her body more closely to his as he suckled her, one breast and then the other. She moaned, lost in sensation. Feeling and knowing and wanting nothing but this... the way they touched.

He took her mouth once again, and she touched him, those soft fingers circling around his arousal, curious fingers testing him, learning his shape and size and heat.

"Now?" she whispered against his lips.

He was tempted, he was ready... he wanted her so badly, but... "No."

It wasn't enough that he was ready and that Eve wanted him. This was her first time, their first time, and he didn't simply want her to enjoy what was to come, he wanted her to scream, to shout, to find a pleasure more intense than any she had ever imagined.

Such pleasure didn't come quickly.

* * *

Everything throbbed in time with her heart; she was hot all over, and unexpected tingles worked their way through her body, one after the other. Her toes curled, her breath caught in her chest, and still Lucien kissed her. Everywhere.

He held her wrists and pinned her gently to the bed while he kissed his way down her body. He started with her fingers, kissed his way over her wrists and down her arm until he reached her inner elbow, where he lingered over the sensitive skin. Oh, more of those unexpected tingles danced through her veins.

She would never have guessed that someone who could forget to eat or catch a train or pack a nightshirt would be so incredibly detail-oriented when it came to making love.

Lucien kissed his way over one breast and then the other, and released his grip on her wrists so he could move lower, to once again trail his wicked mouth over her torso, flicking that tongue around her belly button. This time he did not stop there, but continued downward. He kissed her inner thighs, parted her legs wider, and then laid his mouth on her in a way that made her arch up and into him.

She couldn't stop the cry that left her lips, the hungry moan that begged for more. He gave her more. His tongue worked magic, his fingers joined in. Sensations she had never known existed began to surge through her body.

Ribbons of pleasure whipped through her, unexpected and so powerful she could think of nothing else. Her hips rocked, she quivered against Lucien's mouth. His caress grew harder, faster, more ardent, until her climax hit her and she cried out, her hips coming off the bed as Lucien grasped her in his hands and tasted her response.

She sank to the bed, shaking, exhausted, unable to breathe. No single part of her body was unaffected by the experience; she would never be the same.

Lucien climbed up over her body like a cat, a satisfied smile on his face.

"You're completely and totally wicked," she said breathlessly.

"Thank you."

She rolled up, gave Lucien a smile of her own, and gently pushed him onto his back. "I want to be completely and totally wicked," she said, reaching out to take hold of his erection. She didn't know if she could ever be so bold, if she could ever be completely without restraint, as Lucien was.

"In time," he whispered.

If she had learned nothing else, she had learned that to waste a moment of this life was foolish, the most foolish mistake of all. Her fingers tested and teased, learned the shape and size of Lucien with fingers much bolder than she had thought she could possess. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and she watched his face as she caressed his length.

Heaven above, he was beautiful. Every desire, every emotion he felt, was on his face for her, and the world, to see. No wonder he didn't like to lie. A simple falsehood would probably show on his face so clearly he couldn't fool a child.

He was honest and real, unlike anyone she had ever known. She saw so much, even now. She aroused him physically, with her fingers, with her kiss, but what they had was more than that. Deeper than flesh.

Lucien reached down and manacled her wrist, pulled her hand away from him. "Enough." He whirled her over and onto her back, and she laughed as they spun together and the bed bounced.

"Enough?"

Once again Lucien hovered above her. His face was close, his body aligned to hers. "Tonight, I want to give you everything I have. I want to be inside you when I come. I want to feel you all around me, Evie, hot and wet and mine. All mine. I want to see your face, when that moment comes; I want to feel your legs around me and I want to hear you scream."

He guided himself to her, touched her, prodded at her wet entrance.

Eve's smile faded. She closed her eyes and savored the sensation of Lucien entering her body, slowly, gently. Her body was untried, untested, and no matter that she wanted him more than she'd ever wanted anything... it took time for her body to adjust to his. She stretched, opened, dampened for him.

When Lucien broke through the barrier inside her, making her his in the oldest possible way, she cried out. Not in pain, but in awe at the tenderness and pleasure and intensity of joining with the man she loved.

There was more to this than a physical experience, more than pleasure. There was love, so deep and true that the room shimmered with it.

She wrapped her legs around him, and he very tenderly rocked in and out of her, stroking, filling, testing the boundaries of their united bodies. She didn't think it was possible to want more, not so soon, but as Lucien loved her she did want more. Her hips rocked up and met his thrust, her body and his swayed... joined and mated and screamed for more.

She shattered again, with Lucien buried inside her this time. She screamed, clutched his body to hers, and felt her inner muscles clenching and unclenching around him. He drove deep one more time, harder than before, and moaned as he did, finally, give her everything.

Depleted, completely exhausted, Eve melted into the mattress. With her legs wrapped around Lucien's and her arms around his neck, she brought him with her.

"Love is an amazing thing," she said breathlessly.

"Yes, it is." Lucien's breath was warm against her neck.

"I will always love you," she whispered, her eyes on the ceiling, her breath and heartbeat gradually returning to normal.

"I'll remind you of this moment and that promise when I forget an important anniversary or neglect to pack my socks or spend all night hunched over my equipment."

"As long as you never forget to come home," she teased, threading her fingers though his longish hair.

Lucien rose up and looked down at her, and the expression on his face was completely serious. "I will never forget to come home to you, or that you love me, or that I love you more than life."

Using great care, as if he thought she might break, Lucien rolled Eve onto her side and raked his loving hand down her spine. He laid his lips there, and she closed her eyes. He had the most wonderful mouth.

"Are you starting all over again?" she whispered. "So soon?"

"Not just yet," he said, his hand working up and down her back. "Later."

In the dark, Eve smiled. Later and always.

Lucien's hand continued to caress her back. His fingers traced her spine, he feathered kisses on her skin. "When you were lying there," he said, his breath warm against her flesh, "lying on the floor with Viola, I didn't see her. I only saw you. You were lying there on the floor, and I watched while the knife went into your back. You screamed. You bled. And no matter how I tried, I couldn't reach you." His breath hitched. "I tried, I tried with everything I had, and I couldn't get to you. It was without doubt the most horrible moment of my life." He laid his lips on her shoulder. "You must promise not to take foolish chances with the life of the woman I love, with the life of the woman who will be mother to my children."

Eve sighed, smiled, and rocked her hips back so she rested against Lucien. "I didn't intend to do anything dangerous. I was only trying to help Viola."

Lucien wrapped his arms around her and pulled her even closer, until they were again like one, curled and cuddled together. "Promise me, Evie," he demanded.

"I promise," she whispered, and then she drifted into sleep with Lucien, the man she loved, her definitely not-ordinary man, holding her close.

* * *

Lucien opened his eyes to find Eve sitting on the edge of the bed, a tray in her hands and a wide smile on her face. She wore her wrapper and nothing else, and her hair was loose and falling over one shoulder. The very sight of her took his breath away.

The light that illuminated her face so softly was morning sun breaking through the curtains; he'd doused the lamps downstairs hours ago, leaving a sleeping Eve just long enough to extinguish the lights, then hurrying back up the stairs to lie with her again.

"I made you breakfast," she said, setting the tray on the mattress beside him. "Biscuits, eggs, grits and coffee."

"And tea for you," he said as he rolled up on one elbow.

"Yes."

He wasn't hungry, but he sat up and ate some of what Eve had prepared while she sat beside him, drank tea, and fidgeted.

"All right," he said, placing the breakfast tray on the floor by the bed and turning his attention to Eve—who continued to squirm. "What's wrong? Are you hurt?" He placed a finger on her face and made her look at him. "Are you sorry about last night?"

Her eyes widened. "Oh, no! It's not that." She smiled. "Never that."

"Then what is it?"

She placed her teacup on the bedside table. "Are Alistair and Viola... gone?"

He shook his head. "No, I don't think so."

"You're not sure?"

"Things are not as they were. Viola knows Alistair didn't kill her, but everything is not settled."

"The murderer is still out there, somewhere."

Lucien nodded.

"Do we have to find out who the murderer is for them to move on?"

"I'm not sure." He wished he knew. "I don't think they'll relive the murder again. In fact, I'm almost certain they won't. There's no reason for it."

Eve leaned against the headboard, and the wrapper parted to reveal one leg. She seemed not to notice. "Viola didn't visit my dreams last night." She sounded disappointed.

"It was a busy night for Viola." Lucien laid his hand on Eve's knee. "And for you. I'm sure that one day, before they move on, she will visit to thank you."

Eve's head snapped around. "I don't want her to thank me. That's not important. I want to talk to her, that's all. There are so many unanswered questions." She reached out and caressed his cheek. "After last night, I know her so well. There are so many thoughts floating just out of reach, answers that are in my head, so close and yet..." She sighed. "Not close enough."

"I know what you mean. You have a little piece of Viola inside you now. Memories not your own might tease you, for a while. A few days, perhaps."

"And then they'll be gone forever?"

He nodded.

"Oh, but I want to know!"

"What do you want to know, love?"

Eve laid those curious green eyes on his face. "How could she let another man touch her that way, when she loved Alistair? How could she think it wouldn't matter?"

"We'll probably never know," he said. "We're not meant to have every answer, Evie, only the ones we need."

"But..." She shook her head slowly. "Last night was so wonderful, so incredibly beautiful, but only because it was you here with me. How could Viola allow another man to touch her on the chance that she might find herself with child? For all she knew, she was the one who could not conceive. It just doesn't make any sense."

"She was lonely. She made a mistake. Honey, I know you found a connection with Viola, and it's because of that connection that we were able to reach her last night. You feel close to her, because you two formed a strong bond. You like her. That doesn't mean she was perfect, that she only made good decisions in her life." He leaned over and kissed Evie quickly. "She was a human before she was a ghost, and trust me... both almost always come imperfect."

"But..."

He untied her wrapper, slipped his hand inside to cup one bare breast. "I don't want to talk about your ghosts right now."

"But I can't just..."

He flicked one thumb over a nipple that instantly hardened, and Eve muttered a surprised and soft, "Oh."

Lucien peeled the wrapper off of Eve's luscious body. "I want to make love to you again, and then we'll sleep a little more, and then we'll go to town and celebrate Halloween with the rest of the Plummerville Ghost Society."

He pulled Eve down to lie beside him, and already her eyes were dreamy, her face slightly flushed, her lips parted.

"Tonight will be for Alistair and Viola, if they need us. Today is for you and me. No one else."

She draped her arms around his neck and muttered a very uncharacteristically agreeable, "Yes, dear."

Chapter 18

It was a lovely afternoon, the gentle breeze cool but not so cold that Lucien regretted leaving his overcoat behind in Wilmington. The sun shone, on occasion, but every now and then clouds blocked the sunshine and the air grew cooler.

Eve was more beautiful than usual today. She wore a calico dress that was a lovely shade of blue, not too dark, not too pale. She'd rummaged in her wardrobe for much too long, sifting through dark and drab dresses to find this one. He had felt a touch of impatience, then, but she was definitely worth the wait.

That chore done, she'd then spent longer than usual fiddling with her hair, which was pinned atop her head as usual but sported a number of soft curls around her face. Some of those curls had been there when they'd left the house, others had been added by the occasional gust of wind. He preferred to see those honey strands loose and spread across a pillow, but still... the hint of wildness was charming.

Her shawl was cream-colored and fine, probably not warm enough for the day but lovely, and it did offer some protection from the cold.

He and Eve walked, arm in arm, up and down the main street of Plummerville. They strolled around the square, stopped now and then to sit on the benches there, and ate ungodly amounts of pumpkin pie and apple cake. Children played games—organized and of their own making—while their parents and grandparents visited with their neighbors.

Those Plummerville residents stared when he and Eve walked past. Lucien was not dismayed or overly concerned by the bold glares. When people found out what he did, they always stared. The curious onlookers didn't bother him, not today, and Eve seemed not to notice.

Eve. He didn't know whether he was more amazed by what had happened last night... and this morning... or by the simple fact that she did, indeed, love him. Madly. Completely. Perhaps even as much as he loved her. It was like an unexpected gift, such pure love. He had never expected to receive such a gift.

She wanted this. A home. Neighbors. Some normalcy. Lucien wondered if he would recognize home when it found him. He'd traveled all his life, much as Eve had. More than once he and his mother had fled one small town or another when a young Lucien had let his gift be known and their neighbors had reacted as expected. With fear, and then fear turned to hatred. As he'd grown older he'd learned to hide his gift. And then, years later, he'd learned to use it. He was thirty years old, and he had never longed for anything so simple as home.

Home was here, he supposed, or anywhere else Eve decided to put down roots.

"Mr. Thorpe!"

Lucien closed his eyes and took a deep breath, as he and Eve came to a halt on the street. He recognized that voice, too well.

Like it or not, he still retained too much of Alistair, deep inside. He remembered things, he almost remembered others... and as he turned to face the woman who called his name he felt a little guilt, for what Alistair had done.

"Miss Gertrude," he said. "A pleasure to see you this afternoon."

She smiled, but that smile was not genuine. "I've been concerned about you, Mr. Thorpe. You haven't been coming in for meals." Her eyes flickered to Eve. "Why, I haven't seen you come in at all, as of late. I had begun to think you might have met with some mischief."

"I'm quite fine, thank you," Lucien assured her.

"I can see that."

The elderly woman raised her chin as she looked up at Eve. Eve was not a tall woman, but Miss Gertrude was a couple of inches shorter, still. "You should be careful, Miss Abernathy," Miss Gertrude said in a lowered voice. "The sad truth is, men cannot be trusted. I fear this one has you completely fooled."

Eve, knowing what she did of Gertrude's past with Alistair, remained calm. "Some men can be trusted, Miss Gertrude."

"I have never met one," the older woman whispered. "And look at you two! Disgraceful, the way you touch and smile and give each other the moony eyes. Why, everyone in town can see what y'all are up to!"

Eve blushed, but just a little. "I appreciate your concern, Miss Gertrude, but I'm fine. Truly."

"If you won't listen to me, if you won't heed my warnings, you deserve whatever heartache this rounder gives you!"

"Miss Gertrude, I can certainly understand your worry on Miss Abernathy's behalf," Lucien began, deciding that perhaps he should go ahead and tell the woman that he and Eve were getting married. Perhaps that would make a difference. Perhaps not.

She tsked and pursed her lips.

"Eve and I..."

Miss Gertrude snapped her head around when a friend, yet another plump, white-haired woman, called her name. Immediately, her face changed. She smiled brightly. Her eyes sparkled. This was the cheerful woman Lucien had come to know.

"Harriet!" she said, a song in her voice. "How good to see you." She waved, her fingers fluttering. "Wait there, I'll be right over."

When she looked at Lucien again, her eyes hardened. "Mr. Thorpe, please remove your things from my boarding house as soon as possible. I don't want or need the business of scoundrels."

"Miss Gertrude..." Eve began.

Lucien interrupted her. "I'll fetch my bag this afternoon."

His landlady nodded her head and turned away, those fingers fluttering to her friend once again.

"Lucien," Eve said softly, "we should have tried to explain."

"Why? She is unreasonable where the subject is concerned, and I suppose with good reason. Alistair might not be a murderer, but that doesn't mean he was a good man. He did mistreat Gertrude, when she was younger than you are today. He destroyed her faith in men and love, and probably ruined her life."

"She could have moved on," Eve argued. "She could have forgotten Alistair and found herself another man. She could've married and had children."

"She could have, but she didn't."

Eve wrapped her arm through his, and they began to stroll again. The air seemed a bit cooler, the day not so bright. "Perhaps I should collect my things from the boarding house now," Lucien said. "We can return to your house, and I'll see if Alistair and Viola are still about."

"I don't remember inviting you to move in," she said, a lilt in her voice.

"It will be a scandal, I imagine."

"Quite."

"Perhaps Buster has a room he'd rent to me."

Eve sighed. "No. My reputation is already ruined. We might as well make the best of it."

He wanted to kiss her, here in the middle of the Plummerville square, but he didn't. Later, when he could kiss her properly...

A child, towheaded and unkempt, ran up behind them, almost knocking Lucien down as he contemplated later. The boy narrowly averted disaster and pulled up short directly in front of Lucien and Eve. The kid grinned widely. He was missing more than one tooth. "Are you that fortune-teller fella?"

Lucien sighed. This child was the third person today who had referred to him as a fortune-teller. "I most certainly am not," he said in his most distinguished voice as he gave the boy a look that surely said Go away. First Miss Gertrude and now this!

"Seth Nelson and Chester Taylor, they both said you were a fortune-teller."

"Well then," Lucien said dryly, "it must be true."

"Can you tell my fortune?" The kid asked brightly. "What will I be when I grow up? Will I have lots of money? Will I ever learn to read good? Am I ever going to break my arm again?" He looked sideways at Eve. "Ma'am, that broke arm hurt mightily," he confided.

"I'm sure it did," Eve said kindly, a smile on her beautiful face.

Lucien leaned forward to bring his face closer to the kid's. The boy's eyes were wide, curious and full of wonder... and a touch of fear. A particularly horrid prediction might send the child running.

"Lucien," Eve said softly, "be nice."

He glanced up at his woman... his home. One look at her and his frustration faded. Unable to help himself, he smiled. "You are determined to spoil all my fun, aren't you?"

"Not all," she whispered.

Lucien returned his attention to the boy. "What's your name?"

"Ezekiel John Herman, sir, but all my friends call me Zeke. Only my mama calls me Ezekiel, and then only when she's really mad. You can call me Zeke."

"Well, Zeke," Lucien said, "I will try to answer all your questions. Let's see... When you grow up you will be whatever you wish to be, if you work hard enough at it. If you do well at your chosen profession, you will have all the money you need. No more, no less. If you dedicate yourself properly to your studies, you will of course learn to read well. Not good. And if you are cautious and make wise decisions, you will not break your arm again."

Zeke's smile was brilliant. "Thanks!" He ran off, waving as he went.

He and Eve resumed their stroll. "You actually want a couple of those?"

"No," she said, snuggling just a little bit closer than was proper. "I want four or five, I think."

"Four or five?" he said, horrified. He leaned in close and whispered in her ear, "Five?" He tried to picture life with Evie... and four or five children. Good heavens. Chaos.

"Or six or seven," she teased.

"Why not go for an even dozen?" he asked dryly.

"Why not?" she answered, joy in her voice.

In spite of the picture of chaos in his mind, Lucien couldn't help but smile. And he couldn't talk about having babies without thinking about making them. Not today. If they didn't change the subject, he was going to take Eve between the next two buildings and toss up her skirts and... yes, he definitely needed to change the subject.

"Halloween is an interesting holiday," he said, looking around at the varied activities—the costumes, the food, the construction of the bonfire pyre at the end of the road. Come dark, those who were brave enough would light that pyre and gather round to tell ghost stories by the fire.

"I suppose."

"My ancestors are Celtic, you know," he said.

"No, I didn't."

"So of course, I was raised on stories of the night when the boundaries between the worlds of the living and the dead blur. Of soul cakes and of ghosts come back from the dead to terrorize and masks to wear so the naughty ghosts won't recognize you." He gave Eve a wicked grin and waggled his eyebrows.

Her smile faded. "For you, the boundaries between those worlds are always blurred."

"I suppose that's true."

A gentle wind ruffled the full skirt of Eve's blue dress. "If I ever have to be there to pull you back into this world, I will."

"Thank you." He brought her hand to his mouth and kissed her knuckles. "That's an offer no one's ever made before."

"Well, someone needs to take care of you," she said. "To make sure you know in which world you belong. To love you and comfort you and feed you..."

"Aha," he said.

"Aha?"

"I always wondered why you are so determined to feed me."

"Because sometimes you forget."

No one, no one, had ever wanted to take care of him before. Not like Eve did. His mother had been terrified of a child who saw things others did not. She had once loved him, he supposed, in her own way, but not like this. "You are the most remarkable..."

His declaration was interrupted by a tugging at his pants leg. Stony expression on his face, he glanced down.

A lovely little girl with dark curls and a captivating smile reached up and took his hand, holding it gently with her little delicate fingers. "Are you that fortune-teller?" she asked.

Why fight it? "Yes, I suppose I am."

* * *

The other members of the Plummerville Ghost Society walked toward Eve and Lucien, the four of them side by side and striding forward with great purpose. Katherine and Daisy were in the middle, bracketed by the men—Garrick in a fine suit and fancy vest, Buster in denims and a plain cotton shirt. Katherine wore her usual black, and Daisy was a stark contrast in a pale yellow dress that sported embroidered flowers and a number of large bows. The four of them made a very strange picture, so different and yet so obviously together. Every now and then Daisy had to take a little bit of a run to catch up with the others. Katherine's legs were almost as long as those of the two men, so she apparently had no trouble.

Lucien sighed. Eve smiled.

"Now, now," she said softly, before the others were close enough to hear. "Behave yourself."

"I can only imagine what the four of them consider to be a suitable Halloween activity," he muttered beneath his breath. "I'm glad they accept my abilities without censure, I truly am, but they could be a little less eager."

It was Katherine who spoke first. "I have been hearing the most outrageous rumors about you two," she said without a smile... or any facial expression at all, for that matter.

"Miss Gertrude says Lucien hasn't been in his room for days," Daisy added in a lowered voice. "She's telling everyone who will listen that he's a rogue."

Garrick jumped in. "The blacksmith says the horse and buggy Lucien rented were quietly returned on Thursday evening, and that he didn't see hide nor hair of the man yesterday."

Buster just looked guilty, and as an accomplice in returning the horse and buggy Eve supposed he was. A little.

Her name and Lucien's were being whispered behind their backs, the gossip was running rampant—and all that talk had nothing to do with ghosts!

"Eve and I are getting married," Lucien said, without preamble or a hint of a smile.

Daisy squealed, while Katherine shook her head in wonder. "When?" Daisy asked. "Oh, a wedding. I love a summer wedding. The roses are just perfect, then, as long as you don't wait too late in the..."

"I'm not waiting until summer!" Lucien interrupted, then he glanced at Eve. "Am I?"

Eve smiled. They hadn't discussed a date. "No. But we do need to wait long enough for me to have a proper gown made. Something... special." White and lacy and extravagant. She would not be sensible this time. She was very tired of being sensible.

"How long does it take to make a very special gown?" Lucien asked.

"A couple of months, I imagine," Eve said.

"A couple of months?"

"A little overly eager, are we, Lucien?" Garrick asked with a wink.

"Married," Katherine said with disgust. "Eve, you must talk to me before you do anything rash."

"I think it's right nice," Buster said with a nod of his head, as he scraped the toe of his well-worn boot through the dirt on the road. "Congratulations."

"Thank you, Buster," Eve said sweetly.

Garrick sighed. "I suppose this means I can't come calling when the miscreant leaves."

Lucien leaned in close. "The miscreant doesn't plan to leave, and if he does he's taking the lady with him."

Undaunted, Garrick turned to Daisy. "That leaves you, dear heart. All the other eligible ladies are either too old, too young, or else they're simply farm lasses who would bore me to tears within a week. If I don't find a woman soon, my sisters will drag me away from Plummerville and shackle me with a sad, marriageable acquaintance from Atlanta or Savannah."

Daisy wrinkled her nose. "How rude! What about Katherine?"

Garrick shot a glance at the widow and lowered his voice, but not so much that they couldn't all hear. "She scares me. I think I'd rather allow one of my sisters' husbands to haul me out of town."

"Garrick!" Daisy chastised. "You'll hurt Katherine's feelings," she said in a voice that was low—but not low enough.

Katherine snorted. "He's not hurting my feelings. The last thing I need is another husband, especially a drunken ladies' man."

"I'm not drunk," Garrick said defensively.

"Not today," Katherine countered.

"Only because I thought Lucien might decide to run off your dead husband tonight, this being Halloween and all, and I wanted to be clearheaded for the occasion."

"Why?" Katherine asked bluntly.

Garrick lifted his chin. "In case I needed to fight him off, or something."

"You don't actually fight ghosts," Lucien said.

"Oh. I didn't know."

"And we won't be handling Katherine's husband tonight." Lucien cast a quick glance at the widow. "Unless the situation is urgent."

She shook her head. "No."

They had gradually formed a circle, the six of them there on the main street. Daisy leaned in a bit, as if that circle of friends offered some privacy. "Lucien and Eve have their own ghosts to worry about."

"Daisy!" Eve said. "That's a secret."

"I know that," Daisy said. "But after all, this is the Plummerville Ghost Society." She waved her hand dismissively. "It's our secret."

"The Stampers," Garrick said, nodding his head. "I've heard all about them. My mother knew Viola before she moved to Plummerville, though to hear her speak I assume they were not the best of friends."

"I've never met your mother," Eve said thoughtfully, wondering what kind of woman was married to the short-tempered Douglas Hunt.

"She keeps to the house," Garrick said. "Mother hasn't been well since I was born, so she stays in bed most of the time. I don't think she's left her room at all in more than ten years. She likes things to be orderly and quiet." He glanced up and down the street. "A gathering like this one would certainly send her into some kind of fit."

"But you say she knew Viola?"

"That's what I understand." His brow wrinkled. "I remember her and my father talking about Viola Stamper, years ago. When I asked who she was, they said she was an old friend of the family."

"Your mama might know something about Eve's ghosts, don't you think?" Buster said in a low voice.

"What could she possibly know?" Garrick asked.

Eve took a deep breath and lifted a silencing hand. "It is unlikely," she said. "But I think we need to spend this afternoon considering every possibility."

"Eve," Lucien warned softly.

"Well, since the secret is out, we might as well band together and get this done."

"Evie!" Lucien snapped.

She took his hand and gently squeezed it. "It's okay. This might be just the break we need." She looked at each one of the eager people before her in turn. "Something is missing."

"What?" Daisy whispered.

"I'm not sure. I don't know everything about Viola and Alistair's life together, I know nothing about Viola's life before she came to Plummerville, and we certainly don't know who killed them."

"I thought he stabbed her," Katherine said, "and then he killed himself. That's what I always heard."

"That's wrong," Eve insisted. "So put it out of your mind. That false belief has kept anyone from even looking for the killer for thirty years." She thought quickly as she gave each of the society members their instructions. Would it work? Maybe. Maybe not. But four eager sleuths took off to interview someone who had known the Stampers.

When they were gone, Lucien took her hand again. Judging by the expression on his face, he did not approve of her new plan. "What makes you think they can uncover information you could not?"

"They're natives of Plummerville, each and every one of them. It might make a difference, when they start asking questions." She patted his arm.

"I just don't think it wise to send those amateurs out to question a possible murderer."

She had never considered that what she'd asked of her friends might be dangerous. "Oh, dear. Should I try to round them up and call it all off? I don't want anyone to get hurt."

"It's too late, I imagine," Lucien said. "Even if you did try to call them off, I doubt they would comply. The Plummerville Ghost Society is made up of a group of very stubborn folks."

"I wasn't thinking that they might get in trouble," Eve said, her eyes searching over his shoulder for a sign of her friends. Apparently she saw nothing. She bit her lower lip. "I just thought that maybe... maybe..."

"They should be fine," Lucien assured her. "We have so little information to go on, where the murder is concerned, there's not much chance that their questioning might stir up the murderer. If he's even still alive and in Plummerville."

Eve nodded. "I know. I wish they could uncover something, though. Something... helpful but not too dangerous."

"Does it really matter as much as we believe it does?" Lucien asked kindly. "Our purpose all along has been not to uncover a murderer, but to send your ghosts on. Alistair and Viola are free, now. She knows he didn't kill her, and that's what held them here."

"You think," Eve said stubbornly. "We won't know for sure until tonight. Will we?"

"I suppose not." Lucien nodded, and even sighed in resignation. "I noticed you didn't ask any of your friends to speak to Reverend Younger."

Eve lifted her chin. "No. I plan to speak to him myself."

Lucien would never admit that he hated the idea, but she felt a tremble pass through his hand.

* * *

Like most preachers, the Reverend Younger didn't care for Halloween. But his mother, who had moved to Plummerville ten years ago after the death of her husband, and his wife, who had once been the most sought-after girl in town, were having a wonderful time.

Lucien didn't like Reverend Younger, but then he admitted to his own prejudice. He'd had too many run-ins with fire-and-brimstone preachers to have much use for this one.

Eve could be relentless, and when it came to Viola she was like a soldier, determined and unyielding. The Reverend Younger didn't have a chance.

"You know more than you're telling me," Eve said, leaning in close to the reverend.

Standing outside the general store, while his wife visited with neighbors and munched on pumpkin bread, the preacher went pale. "Let the past go, Miss Abernathy," he said. "Viola is gone and has been for many years." He glanced sharply at Lucien. Did he wonder if all he'd heard was true? Did he wonder if Lucien could truly talk to the dead? "Let her rest in peace."

Eve pursed her lips. She knew too well that Viola had not been resting in peace. "You said Viola wanted a child, and I know she went to desperate measures in order to have a baby."

Reverend Younger went so pale, Lucien wondered if he should move so he'd be in a position to catch the man, if he fainted.

"How do you know such a thing?" he whispered.

Eve glanced at Lucien, and he saw the surrender in her eyes. She'd given up on her desire for a normal life, thank goodness, but was she ready to tell all her friends and neighbors that her home was haunted? He nodded once, in encouragement. She knew how he felt about telling the truth, no matter what.

Eve turned her curious eyes to the reverend once again. "She told me."

The preacher blinked several times. "She... told you?"

"She came to me in a dream," Eve said softly.

All at once, a hint of color crept into the reverend's face. He breathed what could only be a sigh of relief. "A dream."

"Ghosts do visit the living in their dreams," Eve explained sensibly.

"I'm sure they do." The reverend regained his smug facade. "Miss Abernathy, anything Viola Stamper told me, no matter how long ago, no matter how important or insignificant, was confidential and will remain so. I suggest you turn your back on the notion that ghosts visit the living in their dreams." He gave Lucien a cutting glance. "Or in any other manner."

Eve was not discouraged. "I understand you and your wife married just months after the Stampers' deaths. Did she know Viola?" Eve glanced at the plump Alice Younger. "I've spoken to many people who knew Viola, but I never did speak to your wife. Perhaps today..."

"Leave my wife out of this," the reverend warned. "She doesn't know anything. She barely knew Viola Stamper."

Eve smiled, sensing that she had won a small victory. "I imagine you can tell me anything she would."

The reverend's lips thinned. "I imagine I could, but not here, Miss Abernathy. There are too many people about." He glanced at his wife and sighed. "My office in the church, at dusk." He shook his head. "Please think about what I said. I do hope that before that time arrives you will come to your senses and decide to leave the past in the past, where it belongs."

The reverend collected his wife and guided her well away from Eve and Lucien, pointing with enthusiasm at an elderly couple down the street.

Lucien took Eve's arm. "Well, I'd say he's anxious to get away from you, my dear."

"He knows something," she whispered. "Do you think he's the man Viola committed adultery with, hoping to have a child?"

"Perhaps."

Eve leaned in close and lowered her voice. "He definitely didn't want me speaking to his wife."

Lucien watched the children running on the street, children who played with a carefree abandon he had never known. "If the Reverend Younger did indeed lie with and then murder Viola Stamper, meeting with him at dusk is risky. Maybe you should leave that meeting to me."

She shook her head. "No. I'm going to question him, one more time. I don't want to go alone, though, so I'm hoping you'll be with me. And I imagine we should have Buster and Garrick posted close by, just in case."

"My life in the hands of a hick farmer and a grinning fool of a drunk."

"Garrick isn't drunk," Eve said softly. "Not today."

Lucien pulled Eve closer than was proper, since they were in public. He didn't care. Miss Gertrude had already branded him a scoundrel. The preacher was spreading word that he was a swindler. So what? He'd been called much worse.

"You are the most magnificent woman," he said.

Eve smiled up at him. Had she always been this beautiful? "And you..." she said softly, "you are definitely not ordinary."

"Disappointed? "

"Never."

"Then perhaps you'll allow me to question the reverend on my own."

She shook her head slowly. "Absolutely not." All around them, life went on. Children ran and laughed, women gossiped, men talked farming and business and horses. The day was bright and beautiful... and he saw only Evie.

"Once we're married, will you continue to be so relentless?"

Her grin was brilliant as she answered. "Yes."

Chapter 19

"Nothing," Katherine said in disgust. "Just when I thought Mrs. Melton might tell me something interesting about the Stampers, Gerald Porter came along and interrupted to ask us if we needed any yard work done." She sneered. "After that, the old woman clammed up. She was talking a mile a minute until Gerald stopped her and gave her time to think."

Five members of the Plummerville Ghost Society, everyone but their president, gathered in a quiet spot at the end of the street. Games continued all around them, but it was getting late in the afternoon and the air was cooler than it had been before. Almost time to meet with the Reverend Younger.

"Old Mr. Snyder, he claimed to remember the Stampers, but then he started acting very strange, like he didn't remember them at all." Daisy screwed up her nose. "My first assignment, and I failed miserably."

Lucien glanced at Buster, who just shrugged his shoulders to convey that he, too, had learned nothing.

Lucien was not disappointed, not really. He hadn't expected the amateurs to find anything. He suspected Eve was not overly disappointed. She'd been trying to keep her friends busy. Either that, or sending them out searching for information she'd missed had been a last desperate attempt to solve the mystery before the anniversary of the murders, tonight.

So far, the secret society was finding their work dull, not nearly as exciting as they'd expected. Soon after sharing their lack of information, they wandered off in three different directions. Perhaps they could enjoy what remained of the Halloween activities.

Lucien and Eve started walking toward the church, which awaited them at the opposite end of the street.

"Sorry," he said gently. Solving this particular haunting was important to Eve. More important than it should be. But Lucien knew, better than anyone, that when you got yourself involved with a restless spirit it was tough to let go until you'd done all you could to repair the damage life had done to them.

"I suppose I should be satisfied that Viola now knows Alistair didn't kill her, but... it's not enough. The person who killed them should be made to pay!"

"It's been thirty years. The killer might be dead. He might have moved on years ago."

"But he might be right here in Plummerville."

Their conversation ended when Garrick Hunt sidled up alongside Eve. His usual smile was missing. He didn't even try to make Lucien jealous by placing his arm around Eve or telling her she was especially beautiful today.

"I spoke to my mother," he said bluntly.

"Did she remember anything odd about that time?"

For a moment he was silent. "I imagine she did, but she refused to tell me about it." He reached into his inside jacket pocket for a flask and uncapped it, but he did not drink. After a moment, he capped the flask and returned it to its place, without ever tasting a drop. "She's been bedridden for as long as I can remember," he said. "When I was younger she did have good days when she came downstairs and perhaps even walked in the garden, but... it's been years."

"What's wrong with her?" Eve asked gently.

"Everything, apparently," Garrick answered darkly. "She's delicate. Always has been. My birth almost killed her, or so she has always told me. You cannot imagine how guilty I used to feel..." He stopped speaking suddenly, shook his head as if to throw off the burden. "She told me, when I asked, that Viola Stamper was a lovely woman and her death was a terrible tragedy." Garrick looked directly at Lucien. "Is there another kind of tragedy? A wonderful tragedy, perhaps, or a funny tragedy?" He waved a hand, dismissing the aside. "She talked about how awful it was, how tragic." His eyes narrowed, his nose wrinkled. "And damned if I didn't know the whole time that she was lying through her teeth." Garrick stopped walking, and so did Eve and Lucien.

"For some reason, my mother dearly hated Viola Stamper. She didn't say so, but I could see it in her eyes. I swear, I could almost smell the hate. Why would my mother hate a woman who's been dead thirty years?"

* * *

He had intended to ask Buster and Garrick to stand guard at the church doors while he and Evie questioned the reverend, but on second thought the precaution seemed silly and unnecessary. They walked toward the church without anyone to watch over them.

After all, Reverend Younger was an older, frail-looking man. Evie could probably best him in a fair fight.

"Maybe Douglas Hunt was the man who slept with Viola and kept pressuring her for more," Eve said as they approached the church. "I sensed all along that he loved her."

"You sensed all along that every man she met loved her. Alistair, Douglas Hunt, the good reverend..."

"She was very beautiful..." Eve said defensively.

"Men might lust after beauty, but only a fool falls in love with a woman because she has a pretty face."

"Men are fools, sometimes," Eve countered.

Beyond the church doors, all was dimly lit. The last light of day filtered through the stained-glass window and the two clear windows to the north. A touch of light broke through from the back of the room, where the entrance to Reverend Younger's office was located.

"Hello?" Eve called in a tentative voice as together she and Lucien walked down the aisle. "Reverend Younger?"

When they received no response, a warning prickle danced up Lucien's spine. The reverend knew something. Perhaps he was involved in the thirty-year-old murders and perhaps he was not, but he certainly knew more than he was telling. If the real murderer was still in Plummerville and had seen them talking to the reverend, was Younger's life in danger?

"Hello?" Eve called again as they approached the office door. Just beyond the opened door they saw the desk, piled high with papers. Another step, and they caught sight of the reverend sitting in his chair with his head resting on the desk.

"Wait here," Lucien ordered, stepping in front of Eve. He would not allow her to discover a dead body! Not even that of a sour preacher who was, at this moment, her prime suspect in the murders of Alistair and Viola Stamper.

Very slowly, the reverend's head lifted. "No. I imagine you should both come in," he said.

Lucien breathed a sigh of relief. He didn't care for preachers, for the most part, and he definitely didn't like Younger. But they didn't need a dead preacher on their hands for Halloween.

They sat where they had on their first visit, in the two chairs facing the desk and Reverend Younger.

"Viola came to me in confidence," he said, not wasting anyone's time with more protests. "It pains me to break that confidence, even now, but if that's what it takes to make you cease this tireless investigation before things go any more wrong than they already have..."

"I want what's best for Viola," Eve interrupted.

"So do I," the reverend said softly. He took a deep breath. "She wasn't from Plummerville, you know."

"I had heard that. Alistair met Viola in Savannah, married her, and brought her home."

"Yes. Word was that she came from a family who was in shipping, but her parents had both passed on, and she had no siblings."

"I did hear that, also," Eve said.

The reverend gave Eve his full attention. "Lies. Every word. Oh, Alistair Stamper did meet Viola in Savannah, and as far as I know he died believing the stories about her family. But... it wasn't true."

Lucien saw the heartbreak on Eve's face, even though she said nothing. She had come to like Viola, and only wanted to believe the best. "Why would she lie?"

"Did you ever wonder, Miss Abernathy, why Viola would risk taking another man into her bed on the mere possibility that she might find herself with child? I suggested that perhaps she was the one who had not been blessed with the ability to have a child. That perhaps it was not meant to be. On that afternoon she told me that she had a child. A boy, the son of a man who had kept her as his mistress for two years. She did live in Savannah, that part of the story was not a lie, but a harsh life and dire circumstances forced her to..." His face hardened. "It was not a life she would have chosen for herself. She was desperate."

"What happened to that baby?" Eve asked softly. "Did he... die?"

"No," the reverend said sharply. "The father took the baby into his home and passed him off as his wife's own child. Viola knew it was best for the boy, but it broke her heart to see this child she could never claim as her own."

"See him?" Lucien asked sharply. "Are you telling us that the child was raised here in Plummerville?"

"Yes."

"Who?" Eve asked. "Who was it?"

The preacher's eyes narrowed; his chin quivered. "I can't tell you that. Think of what you're doing! If you continue to stir up this old story, eventually that secret will come out! People in this town know bits and pieces of the truth. If they ever put all those pieces together..."

"Does your wife know?" Eve asked. It seemed she held her breath. "Is that why you didn't want me to question her?"

Suddenly the preacher looked tired. Older. "Alice suspected that there was more between Viola and me than was made public. I was young. Rash. I grieved too much and too openly, I suppose, after she was murdered." He shook his head. "No, she doesn't know Viola had a child. Her suspicions were always more common than that."

"She thought you loved Viola."

"Maybe I did," he said beneath his breath. "A little." His eyes grew stronger. "I did care for her enough to keep some of her secrets, even now. It would do no one any good to reveal who her son is, after all this time. What's done is done."

Eve looked like she wanted to press the issue, but recognized the futility of such an effort.

An effort which was unnecessary. "We know who Viola's son is," Lucien interrupted.

"We do?" Eve turned her attention to him.

"We know because the father of this child came to your door one day and told you that he was the one who introduced Viola to Alistair."

"Garrick!" Eve brought a hand to her mouth. "Oh, my. No wonder his mother hates Viola, still."

"He doesn't know," Reverend Younger said in a low voice, as if someone might be listening beyond the open doors. "If you have any decency at all within you, you won't tell him or anyone else. What purpose would it serve?"

"Reverend Younger," Lucien began, "you said you cared for Viola."

"Yes."

"That perhaps you even loved her, a little."

"Perhaps."

"Were you the man she came to asking for assistance when she decided to..."

"No," he interrupted.

"Then who?" Eve asked. "Who?"

The reverend shook his head. "I have no idea. She would never tell me. I will tell you that she regretted her decision immediately. In her heart she was a good person, and she knew what she had done was wrong. She just..." He swallowed hard. "She came to that realization too late. Dear God, I should have stopped her, somehow. I should have found a way. Alistair might not have killed her, if I had only done my job properly."

For the first time, Lucien felt sympathy for the aging preacher. He held himself responsible for Viola's mistake, he blamed himself, still, for her death. It was a heavy burden to carry for thirty years.

"Don't feel guilty, Reverend," Lucien said as he and Eve stood. "Alistair didn't kill her."

Younger looked properly confused. "Then who did?"

"That's what we're trying to find out."

* * *

The temperature had dropped with the sun, so as they sat by the bonfire, with many of the other residents of Plummerville, Eve held Lucien's hand and leaned in to him, stealing a bit of his warmth. Some of those who were gathered here sat directly on the ground, as she and Lucien did. Others had come prepared with blankets and pillows.

All the members of the Plummerville Ghost Society were present, but they were spread around the U-shaped gathering. Daisy and Buster were talking in low whispers about something, Katherine sat next to Miss Gertrude, who gave Lucien the evil eye every now and then, and Garrick sat near his father.

Garrick. Viola's son. Was Douglas Hunt the man she had invited into her bed in order to make another child? It made a kind of twisted sense. She'd kept his secret about Garrick, and he would keep hers. She doubted he would have found the invitation distasteful, in any case.

Lucien had told her that none of them, not the spirits or those still living, were perfect. In her mind, she had made Viola perfect. The loving wife, a kind woman. And she had been those things, Eve imagined, but she had also harbored dark secrets.

Would Douglas Hunt have killed her to make her keep his secret?

Eve recognized many of the faces around the fire, other than the society members. The man who ran the general store with his wife; a few of the ladies from church, including the preacher's wife; Gerald Porter; a few courageous children; Douglas Hunt and Mrs. Markham, who sat side by side.

Most of the ghost stories that had been told thus far this evening were old tales she had heard many times. Occasionally a name or place was changed, but the tales... and the endings... were familiar. People jumped and shuddered and squealed in the appropriate places, as the tales were told.

Lucien was oddly quiet this evening. He studied the faces around the fire pensively, occasionally frowning. He had been as shocked as she by the news about Garrick. No doubt he was also dismayed by the request to keep that news to himself. She knew how he detested lies of any kind.

He was so lost in thought that now and then he seemed to forget she was here, but he always made up for the lapse with a gentle smile or a squeeze of her hand.

The crowd thinned as the hour grew late. It had been a long day for most, and one by one, and sometimes two at a time, they said good night.

Most of the children who had been around the bonfire when the ghost stories had begun were gone, some carried by their parents, some led away by a mother or a father's guiding hand. Only four children remained. Zeke, his friend Seth, Miss Gertrude's nephew Chester, and the little girl who had so easily charmed Lucien.

"Zeke," Lucien said, glancing across the way and capturing the child's attention, and everyone else's, with his deep, clear voice.

"Yes, sir?"

"I believe it's time for you and your friends to get to bed."

One did not question the dictates of a fortuneteller, especially not when the command was delivered in a voice like that one.

"Lucien?" Eve whispered as the children said good night and ran toward home.

He squeezed her hand and spoke to the crowd. "I have a story to tell. One you haven't heard before. At least, not in its entirety. It doesn't have an ending. Yet." He had the attention of the entire crowd. "I'm talking, of course, about Alistair and Viola Stamper."

Someone seated at the far end of the U-shaped gathering scoffed; it was a man Eve had not seen before. "We've heard that story a hundred times!"

"Not like this," Lucien said. "You were told a story, I'm sure, but it wasn't the truth. I'm the only one here who knows what really happened that night, thirty years ago."

He had the perfect voice for telling ghost stories, Eve decided as a chill ran up her spine.

Lucien threaded his fingers through hers. "Most, if not all of you think that Alistair Stamper murdered his wife and then killed himself. You're wrong. They were both murdered by someone else."

"How do you know?" Gerald asked. "Did they pop in to tell you what really happened?" He laughed at his own joke.

Lucien pinned his eyes on the laughing man. "Yes," he said softly. "They did."

All laughter died. The night was filled with silence. The only sound was the crackling of the fire.

"This is ridiculous," the elder Hunt said, jumping to his feet.

Justina Markham also rose. "I agree. Would you walk me home, Douglas?"

"Of course."

"Sit down," Lucien ordered. The two complied without argument.

Lucien looked at every face in the crowd, studying each one. Eve noticed that Daisy held her breath, and even Katherine seemed interested in what Lucien had to say. And they knew more than anyone else in attendance.

"Alistair loved his wife, very much, but he was not a man without fault. He was... weak, where women were concerned, and in their three years of marriage he strayed more than once. He knew this weakness for women was a failing, and he fought it. He was winning that fight, I believe, until the day he died. A woman visited him that afternoon." Lucien laid his eyes directly on Justina Markham. It was hard to tell, in this light, but it seemed she went pale. Then he looked at Miss Gertrude, a woman who had gone positively stony-faced. There were a few other women in the crowd, including Reverend Younger's wife. He studied them all, his gaze lingering here and there. "A woman who secretly loved Alistair and hated Viola for taking him away from her, even though, in fact, she'd never truly had him.

"Tired of sitting aside and watching her friend have all the fun, this woman went to Alistair's office at the mill and did her very best to seduce him."

A hushed exclamation went up from the crowd. Daisy covered her ears, but only for a moment. No wonder Lucien had sent the children home!

"I'm not sure if she succeeded or not," he continued. "In any case, the encounter went far enough that Alistair was wracked with guilt. He wanted to tell Viola what had happened, and he planned to, but he could never bring himself to do so."

"So he killed her!" Gerald shouted.

"No," Lucien said calmly. "He did not." He looked directly into Eve's eyes, and after only a moment had passed she knew why he stared at her this way. He needed her strength, and her silent affirmation that he was doing the right thing. She squeezed his hand and he continued.

"Alistair was drawn from his marriage bed by a noise from downstairs. A thud. A scrape. At first he thought that perhaps the wind of the storm that was raging had loosened one of the shutters and it was knocking against the house. He lit a candle and went downstairs, leaving Viola sleeping soundly."

In the distance, a rumble of thunder shook the night. Already Eve could smell rain on the wind. The entranced crowd seemed not to be aware of the rapidly changing weather.

"When Alistair reached the ground floor," Lucien continued, "he was surprised to find muddy footsteps in the foyer. It had been raining for a while, but the rain hadn't started until after he and his wife retired for the evening." He looked at Mrs. Markham. "There was mud in the foyer when you found them, that next morning, wasn't there?"

After a pause that lasted a beat too long, she whispered, "I don't recall."

The crowd remained silent. No one so much as moved.

"Alistair heard a noise in the parlor," Lucien continued. "He went into the room to investigate, and when he did his candle was extinguished. By a draft or the well-aimed breath of the intruder, we will never know. His attacker then stabbed Alistair in the chest. When the first blow of the knife struck he called out, waking Viola. When the second strike came, he fell. Dying, but not yet dead."

In the distance, lightning crackled across the sky. Thunder rumbled. The wind picked up.

"Viola grabbed her dressing gown and drew it on. She didn't take time to light a candle or a lamp, not wanting to waste precious seconds and assuming that if Alistair had gone downstairs he had taken some source of light with him. But her trip down the stairs was made in darkness. She called her husband's name. She looked into the parlor, seeing nothing but black shadows even though her husband lay there dying. She turned toward the dining room, and that's when the attacker grabbed her from behind and stabbed her, for the first time. She fell, not understanding what had happened. As she lay on the floor, the man who had stabbed her drew down her dressing gown to bare her back. He leaned over and whispered in her ear." Lucien turned to Eve. "Darling, what did he say?"

"I love you, my little Violet," she said softly. She did not need to raise her voice. Everyone listened closely.

"Ah, yes. My little Violet. Alistair's pet name for her. Calling Viola by this name, the murderer then stabbed her again, and Viola died thinking her husband, who did have a weakness for other women, had tired of her and decided to kill her. For thirty years, she believed that her husband had murdered her. That belief kept her tied here, kept her bound to this earth, kept her trapped in that house. And Alistair stayed because he could not bear to move on without the woman he loved."

The wind made the dying fire crackle and dance, casting an eerie light over the hushed crowd.

Lucien took a deep breath. "It was an act of great cruelty for the killer to use this pet name, something he probably overheard and remembered. It was a viciously callous way to end a woman's life, to make her think that the man she loved would drive a knife into her back." The anger in Lucien's voice and on his face was clear for everyone to see. "This killer took Viola's wrapper with him. Because it sported a muddy handprint that might alert the authorities to the fact that the murderer came from outside the house that night? Or for his own sick amusement?"

A particularly strong gust of wind whipped a number of skirts about, causing one woman to squeal. Eve didn't see so she couldn't be sure, but she suspected it was Daisy.

Lucien continued. "Alistair and Viola no longer haunt their home. Viola now knows that Alistair did not kill her, that the man she loved did not betray her. They've moved on, but the killer still walks among you."

In the ensuing silence, Eve heard only the crackling of the fire and the dance of the wind. Finally someone asked, "Who? Who did it?"

The silent crowd awaited an answer.

"That's for you to discover." Lucien stood, bringing Eve with him. "He is one of yours, a face you trust, perhaps even a man you like. Find the wrapper and you find the murderer."

"What kind of half-wit would keep that kind of evidence around for thirty years?" someone asked, laughing to break the somber mood.

"A monster who would purposely make a young woman believe herself betrayed at the moment of her death," Lucien said angrily. "That kind of halfwit." He pulled Eve close and they headed for home. Neither of them turned to look at the crowd around the bonfire, but Eve felt the glares that followed as if daggers were being thrown at their backs.

* * *

They were almost home when he felt the first raindrop. Lucien grabbed Eve's hand and together they ran. He pulled her through the front door just before the bottom dropped out. Thunder clapped, closer and more menacing than the last few rumbles had been.

He lit a match, ignited the lamp in the foyer, and turned to take Eve into his arms.

She sighed. "What on earth have you done?" she asked, her mouth working softly against his chest.

"What was I supposed to do?" he asked, removing one pin and then another as he took down her hair. "Let someone in this town get away with murder?"

"You're angry," she whispered.

"Yes, and the more I think about it, the angrier I get. Watching them all tonight, sitting around the fire playing at telling nonsensical ghost stories and laughing and drinking, it suddenly seemed too much of an injustice to ignore."

"Do you think they'll find the real killer?"

Lucien shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe the murderer was foolish enough to keep the wrapper. Maybe someone will ask the right questions and the killer will be revealed."

"Who do you think it is?"

"I don't know. Hunt, maybe. The good reverend. I wish I could be sure."

Eve pushed his jacket off and onto the floor. "Did a woman actually seduce Alistair that very afternoon?"

"She tried, at least, and he felt terrible that things went as far as they did. I don't know if it was a kiss or something more, but... whoever this woman was, she was terribly jealous of Viola, and the only way she could avenge herself was with Alistair."

"How do you know that?"

He laid his eyes on hers. "Alistair told me. It just all came together as I was sitting there watching those idiots play at rousing ghosts, and I remembered... things I learned while Alistair was with me. He realized that this woman's attempted seduction was fueled by jealousy, and it sickened him. I wish I could see her face, hear a name, know somehow exactly who this woman was."

A soft knock on the door made Eve jump. Lucien stepped in front of her when she made a move to answer, and opened the door himself.

Douglas Hunt, red-faced and wet and angry, stood on her front porch and glared. His hands balled into fists. "How much do you want?" he asked, his voice hoarse.

"I beg your pardon?" Eve asked.

Lucien stood in front of her, protective and determined not to allow this man to hurt her.

"Do you want the house or our silence?" he asked. He waved a hand before Hunt could answer. "It doesn't matter. Neither are for sale."

"How much do you know?" Hunt asked softly.

"Everything," Lucien said confidently.

The man's face fell. Wet and defeated, he looked not at all fearsome. "Are you going to tell?"

"About Garrick?"

Hunt nodded. "Yes. I don't suppose anything else matters, at this point, but... I don't want him to know. It will break his heart."

"Will it?"

"Mr. Hunt," Eve said, her voice much more friendly than Lucien's. "It is not our intention to destroy anyone's life. Our purpose is only to assist Alistair and Viola." She stepped around Lucien and took his arm. "It was you, wasn't it?" Her breath hitched. "Oh my. It's true, isn't it? Viola wanted a child, and she went to you."

He didn't even try to deny the accusation. "I was only surprised that it took her so long. Viola was a passionate woman, and Alistair was... I thought he would be tired of her in a year. I thought he would get bored with her and neglect her, and then I could... I could..."

"Move in for the kill?" Lucien offered.

"No," Hunt said. "It wasn't like that." What might have passed for a wry smile touched his lips. "My wife hasn't let me touch her since the birth of Mabel, our second daughter. She found such activities... distasteful. She agreed to take Garrick into our home, to raise him as hers, as long as I gave up my mistress in Savannah." He shook his head. "She was furious when Viola and Alistair married and moved to Plummerville."

"But when you introduced them, you thought that might happen," Lucien said.

"Yes," he admitted. "They were two of a kind, in many ways. But I never expected..." He choked on a word. "It never crossed my mind..."

"That they might fall in love?" Eve finished softly.

Hunt sighed. "Exactly. That was most definitely not in the plan." He laid his eyes on Eve. "I wanted Viola here, so that perhaps one day things could be the way they'd once been, for us. She..." He shook his head. "She wanted to see Garrick, and be a good little wife, and belong here the way she had never belonged in Savannah."

"She wanted an ordinary life," Eve whispered.

Hunt nodded. "What do you want? I have money. Lots of money."

"I don't want your money," Eve said. "I want to know who killed Viola."

Hunt was interrupted by the approach of horses. He turned, saw Buster and Garrick approaching, and said a quick good night, slipping out to his own waiting horse and mounting in one smooth motion. He waved at the other two men and then took off, his horse throwing up water and mud as he sped away.

Buster and Garrick dismounted and hurried to the porch, where they would be sheltered from the falling rain. They both looked unusually somber.

"Was that my father?"

"Yes," Lucien said simply.

"What was he doing here?"

Eve answered quickly. Was she afraid his penchant for honesty would kick in? "He told me if I decided to sell the house to let him know."

"Oh." Garrick looked a little confused, but not terribly concerned.

"Come in," Eve said. "We'll light a fire and you two can get warm and dry. I'll make tea."

Garrick shook his head. "No, thanks. We just came by to see if you need us tonight." Buster nodded silently. "We've escorted the ladies home, and we could stay here, if you'd like, just in case the ghosts return."

"No, thank you," Lucien said.

Buster took a step back, but Garrick did not. He moved in slightly. "I thought this ghost business would be a lark," he said, looking past Lucien to smile at Eve. "It's not, is it? This is quite serious."

"Yes, it is," Lucien answered. "Always."

"If you need anything," Garrick continued, "anything at all..."

"Thank you."

They said good night and Lucien closed the door, sighing as he rested his forehead there. He hated knowing the secret of Garrick's parentage. Should he tell? Or keep the secret? He hated to lie, even by omission, but it would do Garrick no good to know that the woman he called Mother had not given birth to him. Eve laid her hand against his back, and he instantly turned to face her.

"Viola and Alistair are not showing themselves tonight," he said. "They're usually quite active, by this time of the evening." He glanced into the parlor. "Your sofa seems to be unoccupied, at the moment."

Eve began to unbutton his shirt, her fingers slow but sure. "Can we forget Alistair and Viola tonight?" she asked. "They're safe, now, they're where they belong. And so am I." She untucked his shirt and slipped her hands beneath to touch his skin. "You're so warm." She had only to touch him, and he was ready for her. Tonight he wanted her fast and slow. Beneath him and above. He wanted to make her scream.

Lucien unfastened Eve's blue dress, moving more quickly and efficiently than she had when she'd worked his buttons. He kissed the flesh he revealed, sucked on her tender throat, and cupped a still-covered breast in his hand.

"Come to bed with me," he said, not wanting to think about anything but the way Eve felt in his arms. "We will probably never know who killed Alistair and Viola, and as frustrating as that is, perhaps that's as it was meant to be. Our job was to prove that Alistair wasn't the guilty party so Viola could move on, and we did that. They're safe now. Safe and free and together."

He extinguished the lamp. In just a moment, his eyes adjusted to the darkness. Evie was no more than a dark outline, a silver-gray shadow. He took her hand in his and they headed for the stairs.

Halfway up the stairway, Lucien scooped Eve into his arms. She laughed, and his heart leapt in his chest as she draped her arms around his neck.

"I love you," she said softly.

"I love you, too," he said. Even in the dark she was a vision, hair loose, dress halfway unbuttoned, her creamy neck and the swell of her breasts revealed for him. He couldn't get to her bedroom fast enough.

He kicked open the door, kicked it shut, and tossed Eve onto the bed. She laughed, bright and joyfully, and reached out to pull him down with her. The bed bounced when he landed on top of her, and fully dressed, Eve wrapped her legs around him.

With a tender, loving hand he touched her. Her face. Her breasts. The leg that was raised high to rest over his.

"Evie, what color is your corset tonight?" he asked as he finished unbuttoning her gown and a touch of lace was revealed.

"Strawberry," she said breathlessly.

"I would light a lamp to watch you by," he said as his fingers worked the hooks and eyes down the front of that corset. "But that would mean letting you go and leaving the bed and I am not prepared to do that."

"Good," she breathed.

He lifted her skirt and laid his hand on her thigh, raking his thumb over the tender flesh there while he lowered his head to kiss her throat and then the swell of her breasts. Her response was a series of uncontrolled trembles and deep sighs that touched and aroused him. When he took a nipple into his mouth she moaned.

It was ten-fifteen.

Chapter 20

She was lost in another world, drowning in sensations she had never dreamed of. Lucien undressed her, and as he did his fingers stroked and caressed, his mouth tasted. When she tried to help, to hurry the process along and rid herself of the annoying clothes that came between them, he shushed her, kissed her, and told her to be patient.

Patient. When her heart was pounding and her blood was screaming, he asked her to be patient.

There was only darkness and sensation, hunger and emotion so deep she was astounded by the way they blended into one unstoppable power. Outside their cozy shelter, lightning split the sky, thunder cracked so that the house shook. Her body arched into Lucien's, the moans that broke free could not be silenced, not even by the thunder.

She was naked; he was not. His shirt was unbuttoned and she had managed, at one point, to unfasten the top button of his trousers, but still... it hardly seemed fair. He should be as vulnerable as she was, exposed.

It was primitive, to lie naked before a man. To lie naked before her man. This need to feel his bare skin against hers, that was primal, too, as primal as the passion that swept through her body.

She reached for Lucien's shirt again, ready to whip it over his head and toss it aside, but he stopped her. His hands manacled her wrists tenderly, and he held her hands out, away from her body. Another flash of lightning lit the room, for a moment, and she saw a disheveled Lucien hovering over her, long strands of dark hair covering much of his face.

While she was trapped in that position, he began again to kiss her. Her lips first, a kiss deep and promising. Next he nuzzled her head to the side and laid his lips behind her ear, in a place she had not known could be so sensitive that the gentlest touch of her lover's lips made her shiver to her bones. Occasional flashes of lightning illuminated the room for a moment, and then all was dark again. Rain fell harder, pounding against the roof and the windows.

These sensations were new to her, unexpectedly powerful. She was caught in darkness, the sound of the rain, and the cravings of her own body. For a while she lay there, sometimes breathing deep, something holding her breath, while Lucien touched and kissed her.

Eve paid attention to each detail, to the way his lips lingered, the way his fingers could be soft one minute and firmly demanding the next. Then something happened and she went so deep into herself there was no room for rational thought. There was only her body and his.

She ached for him, her body throbbed. More than anything, she wanted him inside her.

"Lucien," she whispered when he lowered his head to take one nipple into his mouth. He sucked deep and she almost came off the bed.

His answer was a hum and a growl.

"Are you going to make me wait all night?" Her voice shook, her fingers and knees trembled.

"Do you want me, Evie?"

"Yes."

He released her hands and reached between them to spread her legs wider, to touch her where she was wet for him. She arched against his hand, closed her eyes, and moaned while his fingers fluttered. If he touched her again that way she would come apart before he pushed inside her.

Lucien kissed her while he freed himself, and with her mouth latched to his, her body trembling, her blood on fire, he guided himself into her.

When he took his mouth from hers, she gasped. It was dark in this room at the moment, too dark, but still she saw the shape of Lucien above her as he pushed deep inside. He surged against her and the bed rocked. The headboard banged against the wall, the mattress—the entire bed—swayed as he made love to her.

Eve's body instinctively answered his, her hips rising to meet his thrusts, her legs twining around his. The lightning and thunder came again. The wind shifted direction so the rain pounded hardest against the windowpanes near the head of the bed.

Lucien plunged hard and deep and she screamed as completion, more intense than she had imagined it could be, swept through her body. While she quivered around him, Lucien found his own release. The movements on the bed slowed gradually, until he sank down to cover her.

Her body trembled, her mouth was dry, and her heart pounded so hard she was sure Lucien could feel it hammering against his chest. She speared her fingers through his hair and laughed.

"You're more dressed than not," she said breathlessly. "That's really not fair."

"Not fair?" He lifted his head to look down at her.

"I wanted to see you," she whispered. "To touch you." Her fingers traced his jawline, and she felt the stubble there. "I wanted to feel your skin against mine, and make you moan with pleasure the way you made me moan."

Lucien drifted down to kiss her, sweetly this time. His lips brushed against hers, left for the span of a heartbeat, returned.

"Evie, my love," he whispered. "It's not as though we're finished for the evening."

She draped her arms around his neck. "Will it always be this way?" she asked. "So powerful and exciting, so complete and... wonderful."

"For us? Yes. I believe so."

"This isn't at all ordinary, is it?" she asked softly. "In fact, it's quite extraordinary."

"Yes, it is. Extraordinary."

Their bodies were entwined, and she didn't want to let go, not ever. In all her life, she had never known anything so undeniably right. "You're mine, Lucien Thorpe," she said. "From the first moment I saw you, you have been mine."

"I know." He moved against her and she closed her eyes. "And I always will be."

* * *

Lucien pulled a sleeping, naked Eve against his chest and rested his head on the pillow, closing his eyes at last. He'd gotten everything he'd wished for tonight. His woman fast and slow. A writhing Eve beneath him while the thunderstorm raged around them, a dancing Eve atop him when the storm had faded to a steady rain. If only they never needed to sleep...

He was almost asleep when he heard the noise. It was the dying storm, he imagined, blowing things outside about. Shaking the little house. Or had Alistair and Viola come back for Halloween? This was the night when those thin walls between life and death faded, and sometimes disappeared altogether. Lucien lifted the clock from the bedside table and tried to read the numbers. It was too dark. He sat up, easing Eve carefully aside, and lit the candle that sat on the bedside table. Looking again at the clock he saw that it was fifteen minutes before midnight.

Still Halloween.

Downstairs, something moved. A piece of furniture scraping against the floor, perhaps. Again he thought of the ghostly couple who had haunted this house for thirty years. But why were they back?

He pulled on his trousers and headed for the door, when a whispered command stopped him.

"Don't go down there."

Before Lucien reached the door, he spun around, his eyes searching the dark room. "Alistair?"

"Don't go down there."

On the bed, Eve snuggled beneath the covers, as if disturbed by the spirit's intrusion.

In a rush that made him light-headed, Lucien realized that tonight mirrored, in more ways than one, what had happened thirty years ago. Eve's blue dress, the storm, the trip up the stairs, the past hour and a half. Now there was the noise meant to draw him down the stairs.

The murderer was waiting down there, and he was going to kill him and Evie, if they gave him the chance.

"Eve," Lucien whispered, returning to the bed to gently shake her shoulder, "wake up."

She sighed, rolled onto her back, and smiled. "Lucien, darling, you're wickedly insatiable. I rather like that about you."

"Evie," he whispered. "The man who killed Alistair and Viola is downstairs."

She sat up quickly, bringing the sheet with her to cover her breasts. "Are you sure?"

"I heard a noise, and now Alistair has warned me not to go downstairs."

"Why is he back?" she asked softly. "And how can you be sure this isn't just some bizarre ghost's Halloween joke?"

Alistair was apparently offended by her accusation. He left suddenly.

"Get dressed," Lucien ordered.

Eve slipped from the bed and reached for her dressing gown. Lucien almost stopped her, but there wasn't time for her to dress properly. The damned wrapper would have to do. If they didn't go downstairs, whoever was down there would come up... and they'd be trapped in this room with no escape.

"Do you have a weapon?"

Nodding her head, Eve ran to the corner of the room, where she collected her walking cane. The one she had used to poke him in the ribs on his first morning here. Lucien groaned. "I suppose that will have to do," he said as he took the offered stick.

He took Eve's face in his hands and kissed her, quick. "You stay behind me, no matter what. I'll get you to the door, and you run like hell while I hold him off."

Her eyes went wide. "No!"

"You made me a promise," he whispered. "I expect you to keep it." He kissed her one more time, and they headed for the door.

* * *

Since Lucien wasn't wearing a shirt for her to grasp, Eve held on to the waistband of his trousers with one hand, while the other hand carried the candle, held high and to the side. The flame cast a strangely dancing light down the stairs and, as they descended, into the foyer.

"Look," Eve said when the floor was partially lit. Muddy footprints marred the polished wood that had been spotless when Lucien had carried her to bed.

Lucien nodded. He was taking her to the front door, she knew. Before they got there, someone was going to try to stop them.

When they reached the foot of the stairs, a refined southern voice reached out of the darkened parlor. "Stop right there."

"Alistair?" Eve whispered.

"No," Lucien breathed.

They stepped toward the parlor, and Lucien took the candle from her. As he advanced, cane in one hand and candle in the other, a shadowy figure became clear. The man in the parlor held not a knife, but a gun. Lucien cursed.

"Run," he ordered.

"I can't," Eve whispered.

Lucien took another step forward, and suddenly they could see the killer's face. Gerald Porter.

Lucien placed the candle on a table near the parlor door, and forced Eve behind him, shielding her with his body as he shifted to the side so that Gerald wouldn't have a clear shot if she ran for the front door. "Go," he said. "You promised me you wouldn't take chances with your life."

She didn't want to leave him... but maybe she could get help. Her heart clenched. The nearest neighbor was a quarter of a mile away, and Gerald had a gun!

"You promised," he said again.

Tears in her eyes, Eve turned and ran. Her mind wasn't on desertion, but on getting help. Gerald had a horse, and it was probably hitched outside. If she could take his horse and go for help... She threw the front door open, and ran smack-dab into Justina Markham.

Justina had a knife.

"Lucien," Eve said softly.

"Run, dammit."

"I... can't."

Justina gave Eve a gentle shove and followed her inside. "For God's sake, Gerald, what's taking so long?" she snapped.

"What's your hurry?" Gerald asked, the voice his own once again. And then he smiled. "Getting a little anxious, my little Violet?" He asked the question in the same genteel drawl he'd used when she and Lucien had come creeping into the foyer.

Eve grabbed on to Lucien as Justina herded her into the parlor.

"Nice impersonation of Alistair you have there," Lucien said.

"How would you know?" Gerald asked, waving that gun about. "Were you even alive when he died?"

"I told you earlier tonight. He speaks to me."

"Hogwash," Gerald said. "There's no such thing as ghosts."

"It's a small man who only believes in what he can see," Lucien said softly. "Alistair and Viola are here now, in this very room."

Eve saw nothing, but then she didn't have Lucien's gift. "Are they really here?" she whispered.

Lucien nodded, once. "So, why did you do it?" he asked calmly. "Her I understand," he said, nodding toward Justina. "She's a bitter, jealous woman who would stop at nothing to get..."

An enraged Justina came toward Lucien with the knife. She touched his throat with the blade. "You'd better watch your mouth, fortune-teller."

"I'm not a fortune-teller!" he insisted, and then he returned his attention to Gerald.

Justina's knife dropped slowly. Eve suspected the woman didn't want to bloody her own hands. She was perfectly satisfied to allow Gerald to do her dirty work, once again.

"Why?" Lucien asked.

Gerald shrugged. "She paid me. I do all sorts of odd jobs. Yard work, deliveries, carpentry... anything at all."

Lucien shook his head in wonder. "You learned how to imitate Alistair's voice just so you could make Viola believe her husband killed her? That's... mad."

"No," Gerald said with a half smile. "I already knew how to do that. Miss Justina, she always liked it when I pretended to be Mr. Alistair. She liked it when I touched her and called her my little Violet. That's what she told me to call her when we were together, my little Violet."

"She paid you for that, too?" Lucien asked.

"In the beginning. These days I'll do it for free. Sometimes." Gerald's face softened. "She closes her eyes real tight and calls out another man's name, but I don't mind too much."

Justina appeared to be quite calm, even with this sordid secret made known.

"You didn't have to kill them," Eve said. "Just because he loved her and not you? It doesn't make sense."

Justina laid cold eyes on Eve. "He was going to tell her that I'd tried to seduce him. He felt that he had to confess everything, even though nothing really happened." She laughed. "A kiss. A wandering hand. And then he got an attack of conscience and sent me on my way. He said he'd have to tell Viola that her dearest friend was no friend at all." She shook her head. "My reputation would have been ruined."

Eve shook her head. "Why did you make her believe it was Alistair who killed her?"

"It was the only way I could think of to make her know what real pain was like," Justina said. "Viola never knew pain, before her death. It isn't right that some people know nothing but pain while others know none."

She turned to Gerald. "Kill them. Better make it look like a murder-suicide again." She smiled. "Coming on the anniversary and all, it should make a nice ghost story for future generations."

Gerald reached out and snagged something he'd placed on the chair at his side. It wafted delicately as he whipped it around and held it out. "Why don't you put this on, Miss Abernathy? I think you'd look right purty in it."

"Viola's wrapper," Eve whispered.

"Yeah. I hate to part with the keepsake, but since you've stirred up the town with talk of murder, I guess we'd better be rid of it." He shook his head. "What a shame. Miss Justina, she does like to put it on, now and then." He grinned. "Just so I can take it off of her."

Even from this distance, Lucien could see the stains. Viola's blood and mud from Gerald's hands. The wrapper had been washed and mended, but some stains never washed away.

"Come on," Gerald said, shaking the wrapper at Eve. "Take this thing and put it on."

"No," Eve whispered.

"We'll put it on her after she's dead," Justina said tightly. "Just get this over with!"

Gerald took aim, and tried to wave Lucien out of the way. Apparently Eve was to be the first target. Murder and suicide. She would be shot from a distance. Lucien's wound would have to be close enough to be judged self-inflicted. Or would he end up with a knife in his heart?

"No," Lucien said softly, and then he lunged. The walking stick swung up and out, knocking the knife from Justina's hand. She cried out as her wrist cracked.

Gerald squeezed the trigger, but something... someone... forced his hand up so the shot went off harmlessly. "What the hell..." he muttered as he regained control of the gun and took aim at Eve once again. An invisible force again shifted the weapon aside.

And then the force was not invisible. Alistair took shape and form, and so did Viola. They bracketed Gerald on either side, as Lucien picked up the heaviest object within his reach and swung it at Gerald's head.

Gerald went down with a thud, and the gun skidded away from his fallen hand.

Justina was silent and still, as she stared at the ghosts who now moved toward her. She grasped her wounded wrist delicately. Her face went white, her eyelids fluttered. The ghosts stood over her, hands clasped, eyes clear and smiling, and Viola leaned toward the woman who had once been her dearest friend. "No more secrets, now. Nothing to hide." Viola's hand reached out, as if to touch Justina's cheek. "We forgive you." Before that ghostly hand came in contact with a very real, very pale cheek, Viola and Alistair faded away.

"They're gone," Lucien said. "For good, this time."

Eve watched as Justina Markham's eyelids fluttered once again and she fainted dead away.

* * *

Lucien sat on the parlor floor with the badly damaged specter-o-meter in front of him. The sheriff had taken Gerald and Justina away, and there would be no problem with evidence, even after all this time. Gerald, still shaken by the appearance of the ghosts, had eagerly confessed.

Eve walked into the room and sat on the floor beside him. He smiled at her, and she smiled back.

"You hit Gerald over the head with your specter-o-meter," Eve said as she touched the dented device.

"I know. He was going to shoot you, Evie. A stick as a weapon simply would not suffice."

She caressed his cheek. "You didn't even think twice."

"I can fix this contraption. And if I can't, then I can build another one." He touched her as she touched him. "You, on the other hand, are irreplaceable."

She rested her head on his arm. "People are so blind, sometimes."

He mumbled an assent as he fiddled with the needle on the damaged specter-o-meter.

"Justina was jealous of Viola, thinking the woman didn't know pain, when Viola knew more pain than any woman I've ever known."

"She hid her pain well, even from Alistair."

Evie brushed her cheek against his arm. "Lucien?"

She sounded so tentative, he set the specter-o-meter aside so he could wrap his arm around her. "What is it, love?"

"You were right. Honesty is best, even when the truth is ugly. I will never lie to you."

"Of course you won't."

She snuggled against him, a little closer. "Do you think they're content now? Alistair and Viola. Do you think they're happy?"

Two very imperfect people who had fallen truly in love. All the secrets were gone, unimportant. Trivial, even. "I know they are," he said confidently.

Knowing that, Evie relaxed. He felt it, down the length of her body. "So, should we keep this house or should I sell it back to Hunt?"

"We will need someplace to stay, when we're not on the road."

"True," she said. "And at least this place has been cleared of ghosts, so we won't have that worry."

Lucien cleared his throat and looked to the corner, where a pale light danced. "Not cleared, exactly," he said.

Eve sighed. "Who is it?"

"A soldier who fought for the Confederacy in the War Between the States," he said, wrinkling his nose. "He won't talk to me because he doesn't like me. Seems even though the war's been over twenty years, I'm still a damn Yankee."

"Darling," she said, deepening her own southern drawl, "you will always be a damn Yankee. Is he dangerous?"

"No."

"What does he need to move on?"

"I don't know," Lucien said, shoving the broken contraption aside and taking Eve into his arms properly. "But I'll find out."

"After the wedding," Eve said as she placed her lips against his.

"Of course."

"And you'll be on time," she added with a smile.

"I'll arrive at the church early," he said. "Just to be safe." He nuzzled her neck. "Evie?"

"Yes, darling?"

He held her close, tight, gentle. Never before had he ever felt as if he belonged in this world more than he did the next one. "You want a home. Something... normal. I swear, until I loved you I didn't even know what home meant. It was a room here, a hotel there, but now I know better."

"Does this place feel like home to you?" she whispered.

"You're my home, Evie. Wherever you are, that's home. You're mine to love, to protect, and we will share everything good and everything not so good that life brings us."

"That sounds wonderful."

He kissed her properly, and when the kiss was finished—for the moment—he rested his forehead against hers.

"Evie?"

"Yes, darling?" she asked breathlessly and with a heart-wrenching smile.

"Do I now have the right to be proprietary?"

"We're engaged. I love you. I suppose you do."

"And you have just promised me the same honesty I have always offered you."

"Of course, darling."

"Good." Lucien smiled. "Where's O'Hara?"

The End

Page forward for an excerpt from

Shades of Winter

Shades Of Winter

by

Linda Winstead Jones

writing as

Linda Fallon

New York Times Bestselling Author

Plummerville,

Georgia January 1886

Eve perched on the edge of the wing chair by the window and clasped her hands in her lap. On occasion she watched her fingers tapping against the skirt of her new dress as if the simple motion were fascinating. The simply cut day dress was blue, flecked with pale yellow flowers. The dressmaker, Laverne, said this shade of blue suited her. Lucien liked it well enough. Earlier in the day it had seemed a suitable choice for the occasion. Oh, she should have worn something brown! Something plain and muted that would help her to fade into the woodwork.

She had seen many frightening things, in her years as a ghost researcher, but nothing had ever terrified her this way.

Uncle Harold and Aunt Constance sat side by side on the parlor sofa. Constance Phillips was Eve's mother's younger sister. Eve didn't remember her departed mother well enough to know if she had ever been this sour. The loving way her father had spoken of the wife he'd buried too soon... she thought not.

Constance's daughters, Eve's cousins, stood behind the sofa with their backs straight and their eyes wide as they stared at Lucien. Both girls were dark-haired and green-eyed and well-dressed in matching shades of moss green. Penelope was eighteen, and pretty in a delicate way. Millicent was twenty, shorter and rounder in shape but still very attractive. The girls had a tendency to whisper in high-pitched voices and giggle until Eve wanted to throttle them both.

Lucien, the object of their attention at the moment, stood before the fireplace, a roaring fire blazing brightly behind him. If anything about this situation calmed Eve, it was watching Lucien. He had dressed nicely for the arrival of her relatives, in a new white shirt and his second best black suit. He had not cut his hair, but he had combed the longish dark strands. Six foot two, lean and handsome, he looked very dignified.

"I don't understand, Mr. Thorpe," Uncle Harold said crisply. "You make your living... how?"

"Lucien is a scientist," Eve said brightly. Informing her staid aunt and uncle that she was marrying a man who spoke to the dead on a regular basis would send them into a tizzy. Explaining to them that he made his living ridding houses of unwanted ghosts would not go over well. And she did want her wedding to be perfect!

"A scientist specializing in studies of..." Lucien began.

"It's all very boring," Eve said, standing quickly and stepping toward Lucien. "Physics and mathematics and mechanics and that sort of thing. I don't understand most of it myself." She put her arm through Lucien's, but when Constance gave her a disapproving glare Eve dropped her arm and clasped her hands together once again.

Lucien fought back a smile. Eve caught the twitch at the corner of his fine lips, the twinkle in his blue eyes. "Very boring," he said.

The last time she and Lucien had planned to marry, her only family and the man she loved had not met. Her aunt and uncle and cousins had arrived the day before the wedding, not several days ahead of time as they had for this ceremony, and Lucien... Lucien hadn't shown up at all.

That disaster of a wedding was behind them, now. He'd explained what had happened, and while she didn't like the idea that she'd been forgotten in favor of an interesting ghost, she had forgiven Lucien. It was just as well. She loved him so much more now than she had then. Their wedding would be all the more special, since their love had grown.

Aunt Constance shook her head. Her brown hair streaked with white had been piled atop her head, and tight curls bobbed. "Eve, what were you thinking to plan a January wedding! Spring is a much better time for such an event. There are more flowers to choose from, and travel is much easier for your guests, and personally I much prefer the fashions which suit warmer weather. Early summer would have been ideal."

How to explain to a prim woman that waiting was impossible? She and Lucien were already lovers. Hiding their closeness, sneaking about so no one would suspect the nature of their relationship, had been horrid. She wanted the world to know that Lucien was hers and she was his. She wanted to wake every morning to see his face beside her, not usher him out before dawn so he could sneak into his rented room in the Plummerville boarding house.

While Eve searched for an explanation, Lucien took her hand and raised it to his lips. "I must admit," he said as he lowered her hand, keeping it clasped easily in his, "the rather hasty timing of the wedding was my idea."

Aunt Constance's lips pursed tightly.

"I could not take the chance that such a wonderful woman might come to her senses and decide not to become my wife, when she could have any man in the world as her husband," he said. "I don't deserve Evie, and I want her to marry me before she realizes that for herself."

Aunt Constance seemed slightly mollified, Penelope and Millicent sighed in unison, and Uncle Harold rolled his eyes.

Harold Phillips was a reserved, quiet, decidedly difficult man. He wasn't at all mollified. "You will show up this time, won't you?"

Until now, no one had dared to mention aloud that Lucien had left Eve waiting at the altar, more than two years ago.

"Of course I'll be there," Lucien said, unsmiling. "Nothing could keep me away."

"Because if you embarrass my niece again," Uncle Harold continued, "I will kill you."

"Daddy!" Millicent gasped.

Aunt Constance patted her husband on the knee. "Now, now, Harold," she said calmly. "Eve is my dearly departed sister's child. If anyone kills Mr. Thorpe, it will be me."

"Please!" Eve said, growing concerned for the safety of her groom.

"It's all right, Evie," Lucien said with a smile. "Your aunt and uncle are being protective of you. I can understand that. And I don't fear for my life because I will be there. On time."

"You'd better be," Uncle Harold murmured.

"I really should be going," Lucien said. "My landlady gets concerned for me when I'm out too late."

His landlady was Miss Gertrude, the biggest busybody in town. She never got concerned, but she was always curious.

"I'll walk you to the door," Eve said. "Let me fetch your coat."

"Don't be long, Eve," Aunt Constance called after them, censure in her tight voice.

Eve collected Lucien's long, black overcoat from the entryway coat rack, and mouthed I'm sorry as she offered it to him. Aunt Constance had particularly sharp ears, so she didn't dare speak aloud.

Lucien grinned as he took the coat and slipped it on. Oh, she wished he were going to be here with her tonight! Instead of holding him close as she fell asleep, she'd be crowded into her bed with Penelope and Millicent. And she was quite certain they giggled in their sleep.

Lucien took her hand, opened the front door, and hauled her onto the small sheltered front porch of her cottage. "I must love you very much," he said softly, as he pulled her into his arms and the red door of her cottage closed behind them. The night was cold, but it was very warm here with Lucien's arms around her.

"You must," she whispered. "I imagine most men would have run hours ago."

"Immediately upon the arrival of your relatives."

"Yes."

He tilted her head back and kissed her quickly. "I will miss you tonight," he said, his wonderful mouth close to hers. "And tomorrow night, and the next. But on the night after that you will be my wife, and there will be no more slinking off to a rented room I don't want or need. No pretending that I don't crave you to distraction. No pretending that your bed isn't my bed."

"Soon," she said.

"Not soon enough to suit me." He lowered his head and kissed the side of her neck. That quick caress sent shivers up and down her spine. "You could sneak out tonight," he whispered. "Come to my room. I promise to have you back here well before sunrise."

"I can't," she answered softly. "If my aunt didn't catch me sneaking out, Miss Gertrude would surely catch me sneaking in."

Lucien groaned. "You're right. I know you're right. Dammit, Evie, I am a very patient man, under most circumstances. But where you're concerned I have no patience at all."

"Our wedding day will be here soon enough," she promised.

"Soon enough?" Lucien asked with raised eyebrows.

Eve smiled. "Soon, then. In just a few days I'll be Mrs. Lucien Thorpe, and no one will be able to run you out of this house. Not ever. I love you, Lucien," she said gently.

"And I..."

The door behind them flew open, and Aunt Constance appeared there, the light of the brightly lit entryway behind her. Eve and Lucien jumped apart.

"Eve Abernathy," the persimmon-mouthed woman snapped. "Get into the house this instant. You'll catch your death of cold out there."

"Good night, Lucien," Eve said as she backed toward the open door.

"Good night, Evie," he said with a soft smile. "I'll see you tomorrow."

"Not likely," Aunt Constance said as she drew Eve into the warmth of the house. "We have so much to do tomorrow, I feel quite sure Eve won't have time for visitors."

"But..." Eve began.

"Good night, Mr. Thorpe." Aunt Constance slammed the door in Lucien's face.

"You needn't have closed the door so violently," Eve chastised gently.

"It's cold outside," Aunt Constance explained.

"And tomorrow..."

"Have you allowed that man to kiss you, Eve?" Constance interrupted.

"Well..."

"Don't say a word," Constance said with a raised palm. "I see the way you two look at each other. You have allowed him to kiss you." She tsked loudly, and then leaned in close. "Tomorrow afternoon, when Harold and the girls are busy with wedding preparations, you and I will have a little chat. Woman to woman. Since your mother isn't here, I suppose I must stand in."

"That's really..." Not necessary? A frightening concept? At twenty-seven, Eve hardly needed instruction on marital relations. "Very sweet, but..."

"It's my duty," Constance said, patting Eve on the arm. "You mustn't be afraid, dear."

"I'm not..."

Constance spun around. "Harold, I'm quite exhausted from the day's travel. I'm off to bed. We have so much to do tomorrow!"

Eve watched her aunt and cousins climb the stairs and head for their bedrooms. Her heart was heavy, and she missed Lucien already!

Blast him, he'd been right all along. They should've eloped two months ago.

* * *

On his walk to town, Lucien stopped in front of the Cassidy house. He didn't knock on the door, not at this late hour, but he did stand there on the roadway and study the place for a few minutes. It was a pleasant little one-story house, not as nice as Eve's cottage, perhaps, but cozy and well kept. Katherine took good care of the home her husband had left to her upon his death.

He'd thought ridding the house of Katherine's late husband's ghost would be simple work, but it had not been easy at all. Jerome Cassidy was hanging on with every mean-spirited bit of his measly soul.

The widow Katherine Cassidy was a member of the Plummerville Ghost Society, a secret club of six people interested in the study of the psychical world. He and Evie were among those six. The others were... well, they had no supernatural gifts, that he had been able to discern, but they were all accepting of his own abilities. That in itself was amazing, to him, after a lifetime of being treated as an oddity, or worse. He suspected they accepted him because of their affection for Eve. She loved him, and so they welcomed him into their midst.

He wished Hugh and Lionel, friends and fellow researchers, were arriving sooner. They would be here late in the afternoon on the day before the wedding, according to Hugh's last telegram. Friday. Almost two days from now. Perhaps if they could be persuaded to stay a while after the wedding, they could assist in Lucien's attempts to send Jerome Cassidy on.

It was too cold to stand still for long, so Lucien resumed his trek to town. He would much rather be taking Eve to bed, right now, than walking to a dreary room where he would have to pretend that they weren't already man and wife in every way except legally. But Eve's reputation was important to her, and therefore important to him. She cared about what her aunt and uncle saw and heard. She wanted this one part of their lives, their wedding, to be as normal as possible.

He wanted to give her that, since the rest of their lives would likely be anything but normal.

"Look!" a familiar voice called from the darkness. "It's our happy groom!"

Lucien turned as Garrick Hunt, president of the Plummerville Ghost Society, and Buster Towry, a young man who worked a nearby farm and also a member of their secret association, stepped from the shadows. Garrick was well on his way to being drunk, as usual, and Buster was doing his best to keep Garrick out of trouble. Lucien didn't think the two had been friends before the formation of the Plummerville Ghost Society, but these days the son of the richest man in town and the pleasant farmer were often seen together.

"A drink!" Garrick offered his flask as he and Buster joined Lucien on the roadway. "A toast to the upcoming wedding!"

"No, thank you," Lucien said.

Garrick drew the ever-present flask in close to his chest. "You're a bit of a stick-in-the-mud, Lucien. Have I ever told you that?"

"Several times." Lucien resumed his walk, and the two men bracketed him so that they sauntered along the roadway side by side.

"I have an idea," Garrick said. He wasn't yet drunk, but he was certainly on his way. "We haven't done much, as an organization, and as president I feel it's my duty to make sure that things move along for our little group."

"Move along in what way?" Lucien asked suspiciously.

"We really should do something besides meet for pie now and then. Old ladies could do what we've done so far."

"Well, we did try to get rid of Katherine's husband," Buster said defensively.

"A dismal failure," Garrick said darkly. "Besides, Katherine's house is right here in town, on this very street. How tediously ordinary. I think we should have ourselves a grand adventure."

"Adventure?" Buster asked suspiciously.

"We'll discuss it at the next meeting," Lucien said, in hopes that by that time Garrick would have forgotten his whiskey-induced idea.

"Yes, we'll tell the ladies all about it then," Garrick said with a wave of his hand. "But don't you want to know what site I've chosen for our escapade?"

"You've already chosen a place?"

Garrick nodded. "The Honeycutt Hotel," he said proudly.

"Never heard of it," Lucien said.

"Oh, I had forgotten about that place," Buster said.

It was the peculiar tone of Buster's voice that grabbed Lucien's attention. "What's so special about the Honeycutt Hotel?" he asked.

Garrick grinned widely. "It used to be some kind of resort. Rich people from Atlanta and Savannah used to go there to spend a week or two soaking in the waters from a nearby underground spring that supposedly had some sort of healing power. It was an impressive business, for a while, and then six years ago the doors to the exclusive Honeycutt Hotel were closed."

Garrick tried to make his voice sound ominous, but so far, Lucien was not impressed. "Hotels, even fancy spas, do go out of business on occasion."

"Not like this one," Garrick said gleefully. "Apparently there was a ghastly murder at the Honeycutt Hotel, and in the ensuing investigation it was revealed that over the years a number of guests had checked into the hotel and never left. They simply..." Garrick paused for effect before whispering, "disappeared."

"And no one knew about these disappearances?" Lucien asked skeptically.

"Oh, the hotel owner, one Marshall Honeycutt, knew very well. He and his staff had gone to some trouble to cover up the disappearances. And then one day..." Garrick gave a dramatic wave of the hand that clasped his flask. "He vanished, too."

It was nice to have something to think about besides the upcoming wedding and how he'd be sleeping alone for the next three nights. "That might be interesting. Where is it, exactly?"

"North and west of here," Buster said. "Not too far off the road to Atlanta. Less than a day's trip, I reckon."

"Just a few hours away," Garrick added.

"I would want to check it out first," Lucien said thoughtfully. "I wouldn't want to drag the ladies into a house I hadn't yet explored."

"In the spring, perhaps," Garrick suggested. "You can examine the hotel and make sure it's safe for the ladies, and then we'll all go spend the weekend there."

"Spend the night in a haunted hotel?" Buster asked, obviously worried about the possibilities. "I can't. Spring is a busy time for me. The rest of you will just have to go on without..."

"Nonsense!" Garrick said, clapping his friend on the back. "If necessary we will hire someone to take on the farm chores until we return. You are one of us, Buster. You must join us." He offered Lucien the flask again. "Are you sure you don't want a drink?"

"Positive."

Garrick pulled the flask close to his chest. "So, after the wedding, you can check out the hotel to make sure everything is acceptable, and then the six of us will have ourselves an adventure."

"How far away did you say this hotel was?"

"A few hours," Garrick said.

A few hours. He had two and a half days to kill before the wedding. Two and a half long, boring, Eve-less days. He had a feeling Aunt Constance would do her best to keep him and Evie as far apart as possible.

His ectoplasm harvester and Thorpe Specter-o-Meter were both stored in a closet in one of Eve's empty bedrooms. She hadn't wanted her family to see the devices and ask questions she didn't care to answer. Still, he didn't have to carry those devices with him for the initial visit. If the hotel was active, he could take them on the next trip. Besides, he'd travel quicker without those heavy pieces of machinery.

Just what he needed. A way to pass the next two days and an excuse to stay far, far away from Aunt Constance and Uncle Harold.

* * *

Eve lay in the center of her big bed, Penelope on one side, Millicent on the other. They should all be asleep by now, but only Penelope was sleeping. She snored gently.

Eve stared at the ceiling and wished for sleep to come. She wished for happy dreams of Lucien. Most of all, she wished he were here.

"He's very handsome," Millicent whispered.

"Yes, he is," Eve replied.

"I don't really think Daddy would kill him."

Small comfort. "I'm sure he wouldn't." Of course, there would be no need. Lucien would be at the church this time. He would arrive promptly, not three days late.

"But Mama..." Millicent drawled, a touch of unexpected humor in her voice. "She's likely to do just about anything."

Millicent was fully grown and very pretty. Not only that, she had a decided femininity about her that most men found attractive. She knew what to wear, how to style her hair, what to say in any social circumstance. Those were attributes Eve had never possessed.

Eve wondered if Millicent had had that woman-to-woman chat with her mother. She thought not.

"Do you have a beau?" Eve asked, keeping her voice low so as not to disturb Penelope.

Millicent sighed. "A few. No one special, I'm afraid. There's certainly no one who would stand before my family and tell them that I'm so wonderful I could have any man in the world that I wanted. You're so lucky, Eve."

"I am," Eve whispered.

"Lucien is so... so handsome and smart, and he adores you!"

How do you tell a young woman who has never been in love that while all those things were nice, they weren't a reason to promise yourself to a man for the rest of your life?

"We belong together," Eve whispered. "I know it more strongly and certainly than I have ever known anything." She had never spoken to anyone about her feelings for Lucien. Her friend Daisy knew she loved Lucien to distraction, as did all her friends. But she had never actually told anyone out loud how she felt. "Sometimes I feel like he's inside me, all the time. Like he lives in my heart and in my bones, and without him... without him I would be nothing."

Millicent sighed. "I hope one day I love someone that much. But..." her head popped up. "Is it painful? To love someone so deeply, does it hurt?"

"Sometimes," Eve whispered.

But there would be no pain in the next few days, as she planned for her wedding. Her family and friends were either here in Plummerville or on their way. Her dress, surely the most beautiful wedding gown ever created, was almost finished. Laverne wanted to sew on a few more seed pearls, around the scooped neckline. Miss Gertrude, Lucien's landlady and the best cook in town, was going to bake a tasty and lavishly decorated cake to be shared with friends and family after the ceremony.

Most important, Lucien was here. If she needed to see him all she had to do was take the walk to town.

It didn't matter what Aunt Constance said about the days ahead being too busy for Eve to see her groom. If she needed to see Lucien, he would be there for her.

And since he was here, Lucien wasn't likely to get distracted by an intriguing ghost that would make him forget what day it was. He would always be close by, in the days to come, near enough to see and speak to at a moment's notice. She wouldn't have to worry about where he was. She wouldn't have to worry about him missing a train, oversleeping, forgetting where he was or where she was or when the wedding was to take place.

Millicent sighed and rolled over, very soon beginning to breathe in a deep and even way that told Eve she was asleep. It wasn't long before Eve relaxed and drifted toward sleep herself. She had nothing to worry about. All was well, in her world. Three days from now the wedding would be over and she and Lucien would be husband and wife at last.

Shades of Winter

by

Linda Fallon

~

Available in Fall, 2012

Since the publication of her first book in 1994, Linda Winstead Jones has published more than sixty novels and novellas. She's a five-time finalist for the Romance Writers of America's RITA Award and—writing as Linda Fallon—winner of the 2004 RITA for paranormal romance.

Her leisure activities include retail therapy (she never met a shoe she didn't like), easy hiking (as long as it's not too hot or too cold), and, naturally, reading. She attempts to grow things in her garden, occasionally beating out the squirrels for fruit and vegetables. An active member of the Romance Writers of America, she lives in Huntsville, Alabama with her husband of more than thirty-nine years.

Linda enjoys hearing from her readers. You can visit her at www.lindawinsteadjones.com

Table of Contents

Cover

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Excerpt from SHADES OF WINTER by Linda Fallon

Meet the Author