Moonlight And Mistletoe

‘Ah, yes, to make sure I noticed that you were with my rival for your affections.’

Hester gave an inelegant snort. ‘What nonsense! Sir Lewis was merely escorting me to visit with his sister, and in any case, surely I am allowed more than one friend?’

‘He is very good looking-or so the other ladies seem to think,’ Guy remarked pensively.

‘He is indeed. Very good looking,’ Hester teased, determined not to pander to Guy’s vanity by pointing out that he, too, was an attractive man. ‘It is odd,’ she added, suddenly serious, ‘but whenever I see him I am reminded of someone, but I cannot think who.’

‘Are you? Now that is interesting. I wonder if anyone else has noticed the likeness?’

‘To whom? Guy, you are being deliberately provoking and mysterious. I must tell you that now I have another prospective purchaser for the Moon House I can safely cut your acquaintance unless you stop teasing.’ It was so unreal in the moonlight and shadows that it felt safe to talk this nonsense, scandalously alone with a man.

‘Who has offered to buy it?’ He was all at once serious.

‘Why, Sir Lewis. Miss Nugent was telling me the most ridiculous stories from some old family collection of legends and he said that, if I was suffering from haunting at the Moon House, he would feel honour bound to buy it back.’

* * *

That made sense. Guy stared into the darkness that was the hall. Miss Nugent does her best to scare Hester with ghost stories and her brother makes an offer for the house. But why would the father sell the house and the children want it back-especially if they were the ones behind the hauntings? What could they possibly want so badly? It was obvious that Hester knew nothing of their motives. He knew things about their connection with the house that she had no idea of, and he was not about to enlighten her.

It was disturbing, yet curiously restful, to be sitting in the darkness next to Hester. She was curled up like a cat against the head of the chaise, so close he could feel the warmth of her. He moved his hand and it brushed her bare foot.

‘Your feet are freezing; here, put my coat over them.’ He reached behind the seat and found his coat by touch, tucking it around her legs and over her feet.

‘Thank you. I should have thought to put on my slippers, but I was so sleepy and thirsty that I didn’t think of it.’ She was smiling, he could hear it in her voice, despite the fact they were whispering. Now, if there was ever a moment, was the time to intensify his flirtation with her. Moonlight, intimacy-if he could not win her over to doing what he wanted by the end of the night, then he was losing his touch with women.

As he thought it Guy felt a stab of distaste. He did not want to flirt: or to persuade Hester into anything she did not want to do. He wanted… what? She wanted to be friends, she already considered him one, hence her furious sense of betrayal when she found him here. Was friendship enough?

Hester shifted slightly, but was quiet. She had a quality of repose which was attractive. It seemed she felt no need to chatter or to display her fears in order to attract attention. Guy smiled, recalling Hester’s courage and quick wits as she drew the sword on him. No, he wanted more than friendship-it seemed he wanted to court her.

Taken by surprise at his own thoughts, Guy shifted away to the other end of the chaise. Hester murmured, ‘Thank you,’ obviously thinking he had moved to give her more room.

Am I in love with her? He took a startled look at the question and made himself consider it, never having suspected himself of such an emotion before. She is delightful to look at, but then so were all the high-fliers and bits of muslin he had enjoyed an association with from time to time. She is quick-witted, unusual, direct, never qualities he had looked for in a woman before. And she is brave, to say nothing of stubborn, proud and secretive. How did that add up to love? If love was this feeling that was a mixture of desire, tenderness, protectiveness and sheer terror and he wasn’t simply suffering from brain fever.

After all, Guy reasoned with himself, you came here on an errand that could only be described as quixotic and romantic, perhaps you are just in the mood to fancy yourself in love.

‘Can you smell roses?’ he whispered. ‘I’ve only just noticed it-but surely there cannot be any in bloom now, or smelling at this time of night, come to that

.’

‘You can smell them too?’ she asked eagerly. ‘I thought it was only me. I smell them when I am happy, or when I am thinking about the house. I sometimes think that scent is the only ghost the Moon House holds. There are a few sodden blooms in the garden, but of course-’

‘Quiet,’ he murmured, putting his fingers over her mouth. Was he imagining it? No, there was the sound of movement from the hall, the merest brush of unshod feet on the marble, the almost imperceptible stirring of the air. ‘Stay here.’ He used one hand to press her down on to the chaise, with the other he reached for the sword. The thought of bullets flying in the darkness with Hester there chilled him.

Almost holding his breath, he drifted towards the door. The intruder was closer now, at the foot of the stairs. Guy lunged out of the door and a figure whirled around, cloak swirling as it did so. Guy took in only that it was fast, clad all in black and that it had no face, then his mind caught up with his imagination and he realised it was masked.

‘Stand! I am armed.’

The figure seemed to waver in the faint light, then something swept towards his face. Instinctively Guy threw up his left arm to protect his eyes and stabbed forward with the sword as pain lanced through his face. For a moment he thought the intruder had thrown a cat and it was clawing at him, then his hand closed around hard, thorny stems and crisp, dead leaves and he realised it was roses.

He swept them aside and drove towards his attacker again, lunging forward in a fencer’s attack. His foot came down, not on flat marble but something hard and rounded, slipped as the scabbard moved on the polished stone, and, completely off- balance, he began to fall. As he went down he dropped the sword and hit out with his right fist, to feel it connect with a satisfying thud on the masked face.

Then he was on the floor, scrambling to regain balance to spring to his feet as someone tripped over him with a cry of dismay. His reaching hands found themselves full of fine cotton and the warm female form beneath. ‘Hester!’ Unceremoniously he rolled her off on to the floor behind him and got to his feet. The hall was empty, the house silent. Where the hell had it gone?

The stillness lasted only seconds, then there was an outburst of cries and opening doors from upstairs and light from two candles illuminated the staircase.

‘Hester! What’s happening? Oh, you brute!’ Miss Prudhome, uncaring of curl papers, flannel nightgown and bare feet, flew down the stairs to Hester’s side where she rounded on Guy, one trembling hand holding a chamber stick, the other clenched to wave under his nose. ‘Hurry, Susan, bring the poker-the beast has tried to ravish her-see how she has scratched him!’

The maid was hard on her heels, poker in raised hand, her candle waving wildly.