Camden Place: The Haunted Book Three Page 2

  She shook herself from troubling thoughts and looked down to find a dark area, like a big black spot, on the hardwood floor. It looked as if someone spilled a glass of red wine and never wiped it up. However, it was faded as if someone scrubbed at it in an effort to remove it.

  “Oh, maybe it’s blood left by the guy with the knife. This will make some great holiday dinner conversation around that dining room table,” she murmured sarcastically.

  She took another deep breath and forced herself to calm. She’d certainly dealt with worse than a ghostly apparition. She could handle this. “I got this,” she said out loud. She knew from experience, it was the living monsters that were the scariest.

  With some hesitation, wondering what else she might see or find, she moved on. The next room on the lower level was a music room, a gleaming grand piano at its heart.

  “Did Uncle Thad know my love for music, know I majored in it, know it was my whole world?” she asked out loud. Of course, there was no reply. “Maybe he loved music as much as I did and wanted a piano. It makes the room.”

  The piano seemed to whisper in her ear, beckoning her, and making her forget about the mystery figure in the doorway. She worked to ignore it as she moved on, but no matter where she walked in the room, she couldn’t take her eyes from the piano.

  Like trying to chat with someone with a big sunburned nose. She couldn’t see anything else.

  She left the room, and the alluring piano, and found the kitchen. There was also a bathroom off the back of the house. The old-fashioned kitchen fixtures were dated but appeared functional. The refrigerator looked like it was from the fifties, but the light came on when she opened the door. It was completely empty. “Thank you to whoever cleaned it out so I don’t have to deal with rotten leftovers,” she said out loud.

  She closed the fridge door and moved to the back door. It was old and beautiful, and she couldn’t help but wonder how many sunrises it had welcomed. It opened easily and Clare stepped to the threshold to peer into the backyard and garden. She stood there, at her own backdoor, as the cool air of the approaching night brushed against her. The garden was planted in what looked like the crumbled foundation of a building and was surrounded by a wrought iron fence. She couldn’t wait to see what annuals would bloom there in the spring. There were two palmetto trees, one at each corner, of the far end of the back yard. She could put a small table and two chairs out there in the back for nice days when she wanted to sit out and enjoy her tea.

  She stepped back and closed the door. She planned to explore the bedrooms upstairs but again stopped at the music room.

  Did her uncle play? Did Liam Camden? Had anyone ever filled the house with music?

  Again, she glanced around the room in awe. She’d had no idea her uncle owned anything so extravagant. The house itself was grand, but not a mansion. The furnishings were breathtaking, complimenting the house as if they’d been chosen by an artful eye. She didn’t know if she’d keep the house, but she knew she wouldn’t pick it apart and sell it piece by piece.

  She turned, fully facing the piano. It no longer whispered to her, it called to her seductively.

  She hadn’t touched any ivory keys in… It felt like forever. But for the first time since her world fell apart she felt no pain, no anguish—mental or physical—at the thought of her lost career. Of the music she’d no longer make.

  There was only her unending headache.

  Her uncle must have known, somehow, that this would bring her some peace. That must have been why he’d left the house to her. He had to know what she’d endured the past year, just as he’d known of her musical talent. She wouldn’t be surprised if her father, or one of the other family members, had told her uncle what had happened to her. Just because no one ever spoke of her uncle didn’t mean no one spoke to him.

  She hoped here, miles away from the terror of her memories, she could get back a little of what had been snatched away from her in one horrid night. Perhaps she could even rebuild her career, write again. Her hands twitched, suddenly eager to move along the smooth ivory on the piano, silent but begging to be played. A shiver of anticipation passed through her, setting her on edge.

  She didn’t bother searching for a light switch. Instead, she moved around the room and used the lighter to light several candles that were set about. In the soft candle light, the music room was even more inviting than the dining room.

  Idly, she ran her fingers over the keyboard, lightly pressing each key. The sound was beautiful. The keys were cool beneath her fingertips. Surprisingly, like the dining room table, the piano was free of dust.

  My fingers feel at home… Can I play again, after so long?

  Heart racing, she closed her eyes and played a rolling C chord, feeling the sound as it vibrated through her. She let out a slow breath. The rush of panic didn’t come. Her eyes still closed, she played five notes with one finger. Then ten, and waited, her finger still on the keys. The heartache that usually choked her didn’t come.

  Despite the echoing of a room empty of people, the piano was in tune and sounded perfect. There wasn’t even the tin, hollow sound that often came with age or neglect. She opened her eyes and drew in a deep breath. A sense of calm filled her. Her music had always had that effect on her.

  Without thought, she sat down on the bench. It creaked beneath her weight and made her smile. Piano benches always creak. She placed her fingers on the keys. They seemed to know just where to go. She supposed this was like riding a bicycle. No matter what happened to her, her fingers still knew what to do.

  Amazing.

  She swallowed the lump in her throat and played a song she’d written, something she called, “The Road to Anywhere.” The notes came to her as if they were merely an extension of her fingers. She played with hardly a mistake, despite the fact she hadn’t played this piece, or any piece, in over a year.

  For a long moment, she relished in the sound she created. The excitement, the rush of her music filled her, flowing into the hollow spaces. She’d been so empty for so long.

  In a single instant, for the first time in months, she felt…

  Able.

  Alive.

  Not perfect, not near ready to perform before an audience again. Perhaps not ready to write a single note. Not ready to face all the demons still lingering in her nightmares.

  But better. And, except for the headache, pain free.

  She smiled and took a deep breath. The scent of apples and cinnamon filled her lungs. It was mingled with the heady aroma of furniture wax and candle wax.

  Her fingers, still lingering on the keys, thrummed with an energy she’d never experienced before.

  The sounds of dishes rattling and the echo of laughter drew her attention. She jumped from the bench as if someone dumped a cup of ice down her back.

  What the hell? Another ghost? The man with the knife back to listen to her impromptu concert before slashing her throat? A chill skittered over her, sliding a cold hand around her neck, her shoulder, down into her chest. She shuddered. Had she left the door open? She raced toward the dining room, only to stop in her tracks.

  This is way too real…

  Before she could gasp, hands—warm and strong—grabbed her. Her screams died in her throat.

  Chapter Two

  Liam Camden paused, fork in hand, to listen.

  “Does anyone hear the piano? Who’s playing the piano?”

  His guests laughed and chuckled. Their spoons rattling against soup bowls, their wine glasses clinking together in good natured toasts.

  “Now you’re hearing things. Obviously you’ve had a bit too much wine,” his friend, Benford Galliger, said, his voice filled with laughter. “Why did you even purchase a piano and pay that ridiculous amount of money to have it shipped here? Do you even know how to play it? Of course you don’t.” His tipsy friend answered his own question.

  Evelyn Wanesworth was seated to Liam’s left, and she smiled at him shyly. She—all of them actually—were pe
rhaps expecting, at the very least hoping for him to ask Evelyn to become his wife. He wasn’t stupid, he knew matchmaking when he saw it, when he felt it. Evelyn might be shy, but with the help of his friends, she’d managed to become a permanent fixture in his home over the past month. And during meals, he always found her seated on his left, where the hostess, his wife, would sit. “I could learn to play it,” she said, her effort to make herself even more at home in his house was not lost on Liam.

  Not only was he not stupid, he wasn’t drunk either, and he knew he heard a sweet, but haunting melody coming from the piano. “Excuse me a moment.” He placed his napkin on the table and stood. He knew leaving in the middle of a dinner party wasn’t polite manners, but someone was in his music room. He had to check…he felt a pull he couldn’t ignore.

  If he had to guess, Gerard and Millie, his house servants, were in the kitchen preparing dessert. Anyone who might remotely know how to play, or even be invited to play his piano, was already seated at his table. And whoever was playing it knew how to play it well. So who…

  The music stopped when he reached the door. His friends didn’t seem to hear it. In fact, they were more interested in their food and conversation than the fact that their host had left the table. They chuckled over him and continued with their enjoyment, and the meal and drinks he provided to them.

  Just beyond the dining room door he ran right into her. Shocked to find a stranger, a woman in his home, he instinctively reached out to grab her.

  Dark hair that was short and seemed to go in every direction, a sweetly pointed nose, ripe pink lips set on the prettiest face he’d ever seen. She stared at him with eyes so dark he could easily get lost in their depths. He wondered who she was, how she came to be in his house, why in hell she might be playing his piano, and what matter of dress she wore. Her red shirt looked like a knitted shawl sewn to make sleeves. Her pants were men’s trousers made of heavy blue canvas fabric, and she wore them tucked into a tall pair of black boots. The entire ensemble accented her breasts and her backside, both of which he wouldn’t mind spending more time admiring.

  She made a strangled noise and pulled out of his grasp, and his gaze flew back to her face. Her eyes were huge. She looked as startled to see him as he was to see her. “Who the hell are you?” Her voice echoed through the hall, her profanity shocking.

  “Who are you?” he asked, feeling better about keeping his composure, especially since he had guests in the room behind him, though none of them seemed to notice their visitor. Were they so engrossed in their meal they hadn’t heard her yell? Their gross ignorance baffled and annoyed him. But she gave him little time to dwell on it.

  “I asked you first! What the fuck do you want? What are you doing here? Get out of my house before I call the police.”

  Her cheeks were high in color. He stared at her, and an even more baffling thought came to him.

  My God, but she is lovely when she’s angry. Her energy radiated into him. Her heat warmed him. He fought the urge to reach out and stroke her cheek, wondering if her skin was made of porcelain.

  “This is my house. I live here,” he replied, struggling to keep his tone even and calm.

  “Yes, we all know you live here.” Benford came up behind him and bumped into his back, startling him. Always acting the best friend, Ben finally roused from his wine stupor to see what was the matter. “Care to explain why you simply stand in the hall talking to yourself?” Ben asked.

  “What?” Both he and the woman asked in unison.

  The woman’s question, however, was louder. Liam tore his gaze from the woman to look at his friend. Ben was peering into the hallway, just as he was, but he wasn’t looking at her.

  “How did you get in here? And who the hell are you?” She directed her question to Ben.

  He did not respond to her voice or her words or her profanity. Either Ben was a fine actor or he couldn’t see the beautiful woman dressed in men’s clothes, whose gaze sliced between him and Ben.

  Liam was forced to ask, “You don’t see anyone in the hall?”

  Ben laughed. “Of course not. Should I see anyone besides you?” Ben turned to him, pinning him with quizzical eyes and arched eyebrows. “Do you?”

  Yes, I do. I certainly do. “I thought I heard someone,” Liam muttered, “at the piano.”

  “Yes, I know. You already said that.” Ben’s gaze landed on the large piano as though he were looking through the woman.

  “You both need to leave, right now!” The woman marched to the front door, her boot heels pounding against the floor. Ben didn’t respond to the sound, didn’t even look in their direction.

  She pulled the door open. “Get out!”

  Ben looked toward the door, just as Liam did. But Ben looked at the door, not the woman standing angrily beside it. “The wind must be gusting out there.” Ben stepped across the hall and closed it, not paying the least bit of attention to her. “Funny, it was calm when we arrived.” He sniffed the air. “But someone is wearing a lovely perfume.”

  The woman planted her hands on her hips, which thrust out her chest, which made Liam swallow the lump forming in his throat. “It ought to smell nice. It’s Oscar and costs seventy-five dollars a bottle. And it certainly smells better than the air out there, which stinks like fish. But aside from that, would you care to tell me what the hell is going on here?” The woman sounded just shy of hysterical. A sound from outside made her turn toward the window.

  There were a few carriages on the street. “What are those?” she asked, her voice strangely hushed.

  He wanted to tell her what was going on, but he didn’t have a damned idea.

  To his disbelief, Ben actually stepped close to the woman on his way back into the music room. The woman still stared outside, but managed to jump out of the way at the last moment. Otherwise, Ben would have walked right into her as Liam had. Ben moved through the music room door. The woman looked at him, took two steps to follow him but stopped.

  “That’s it. I’m calling the police.”

  She pulled a small box out of the pocket of her strange pants. “Damn, either I’m in a dead zone or my phone is dead.”

  She stared at the small thing in her hand for a moment, tapped it and shook it. Then she let out a huff and put it back in her pocket. Her gaze landed on Ben, who stood looking about the music room, a drunken haze settling over his expression.

  “What is wrong with you?” she asked, a hint of wariness and a dash of frustration in her voice.

  Ben didn’t respond.

  She turned back to Liam. “What is wrong with him? He acts like he can’t hear me. You can hear me, can’t you? You can see me?” she whispered. “Tell me you see me!”

  Liam nodded.

  “But he can’t? Why the fuck not?” Her urgent whispered words touched something in Liam, warming his heart despite the profanity and unsophisticated mannerisms.

  A thought, a rather unexpected thought, pushed at him. Would she sound as breathless, laying in the dark beside him, whispering his name as he kissed her…touched her...

  Damn, I must be losing my mind. Maybe he’d just spent too much time with only house servants as company. Perhaps his fever had returned. Maybe the wine he’d served at dinner was a bit too potent. But if that were the case, why didn’t his dinner guests share his insanity and see this mystery woman?

  “Why can’t he see me?” She sounded desperate now, and he longed for a way to ease her anxiety. But why? Hell, he didn’t know her, it shouldn’t bother him, but it did. Oh, it did. It took everything in him to keep from reaching out to comfort her.

  She stepped close to him, her dark gaze never leaving Ben, who still stood just inside the music room.

  Liam breathed deep of her, the scent of The Oscar, whatever that was, infusing him with a desire he couldn’t understand. She did, indeed, smell good.

  “I don’t know,” he answered softly.

  From the music room, Ben said, “What don’t you know? I know there’s n
o one near the piano. And I can’t see anything out of place.”

  “Obviously not,” Liam murmured, fighting the urge to roll his eyes at his friend.

  Apparently, the woman was as annoyed by Ben as he was. She stepped toward Liam, her finger inches from his chest. “Who. Are. You?” This time her question was not as angry but still urgent, and now mostly curious. “And would you please tell me what the hell is going on here. Why are you dressed liked that? And why are you in my house? And do you have anything to do with the guy I saw earlier?” She moved out of the way as Ben walked up beside them.

  Liam wanted to ask what she was talking about, but Ben’s gaze stopped him. “Liam, you haven’t been yourself since your fever last week. In fact, since you’ve returned from Long Island, you’ve seemed preoccupied. Now you’re hearing things. Maybe you should spend a few more days in bed.”

  Was that all she was—a hallucination brought on by the lasting effects of his fever? But she was so real, her warmth, the flush of her skin, the lushness of her curves, her scent.

  Suddenly, it was as though a fire were lit behind her eyes. “Liam? Liam Camden?” She was no longer whispering. The look of astonishment on her face captivated him.

  “Yes,” he said then paused, answering her question without saying anything that would make Ben call for the men to take him to the asylum.

  “No way. That is not possible. God, am I going insane? I must be,” she muttered, turning in a circle, taking in the room, the sights out the window, and Liam and Ben, with a glazed look in her eye.