CHAPTER THREE
LINDY
Sweating in weather that wasn’t conducive to any form of salt upon skin other than the sort that came from the sea, I managed to reclaim my underwear and luggage from the front door. Towing the tenuous, overstuffed mass through the castle to locate the bedroom designated for my usage for the duration of my stay was a whole ‘nother effort. I slumped over my case just inside the doorway to my room once I located it after discovering innumerable but incorrect hallways, able to see my bed but not reach it due to legs that no longer worked like they should.
“This is the worst form of torture,” I groused to the threadbare carpet. Pink glitter glinted at me from one corner that looked as though either it most recently hosted a hen’s party or a drag queen event.
Either way, the prior party probably had a whole lot more fun than me.
Buttercup the cow seemed to be the least of the castle’s worries. California was a damn long way from the top of the Scottish lochs and it only took two and a half miles of winding stone staircases, eleven lefts, fourteen rights and thirty-six corridors for me to feel homesick.
Not that I have anything to feel homesick about .
Shutting that thought away I shoved myself upright with the last of my strength and pushed my suitcase across the thin carpet.
Its wheels, duct-taped together with a cache I seconded from the kitchen, warbled along the carpet, tipped over and sat spinning on alone.
I plopped onto the floor a foot inside the door and leaned forward until my forehead bumped the ground.
“There is no way I'm getting up again. Not after that.” I spoke into an unhygienic mouthful of carpet threads that was probably once a lush pile carpet, but no longer.
“Pity. I just located a wine cellar with the most stunning looking Beaujolais I’ve ever seen. Would you like to join me for dinner?”
A pregnant pause drew out into eternity while I groaned into the threads. “You need an answer, don’t you?” I managed to raise my eyes—just those—to stare at my unintentional holiday companion.
Or at least, his shoes.
My dusty castle-goer took his sweet time answering. Not that I was going anywhere. “Yes. Please.”
“In a better mood now you’ve milked the cow? Do you also need to have a release valve handled?”
He made a strangled sound I reciprocated as I levered against gravity and managed to win. My back creaked, and more sweat poured from my body. Fabric stuck to me in places no fabric should ever stick, but I made it. Cheering out loud as well as internally, I raised my arms over my head and let out a moan.
“That hurt.”
Dustman let out another strange sound. “When you’re ready.”
I glanced up to find the tall brown-haired, brown-suited man staring at me with a reddened face. “Are you alright? You resemble a Christmas bauble,” I informed him.
“I’m fine.” He coughed. “Do you need to shower? The hot water actually works.”
“Oh, thank fuck.” I tipped my head back and let gravity take hold until I starfished on the floor. “I’m staying right here. Just pour the goddam wine.”
“Do you always have such a potty mouth?” The blessed man took me at my word, producing a pair of wine glasses—crystal, no less—out of absolutely nowhere.
“Yes. Is that going to bother you all Christmas?”
“No.”
“Alright then. Also, why are you in my room?” I eyed him as he placed a glass full to the brim—that’s trust right there—in my trembling, sugared out hand, and closed my fingers gently around the crystal.
His touch wasn’t dry or crusty or dusty. His touch was warm and reminded me of nights in bed with a man?—
—who broke hearts wherever he went and whom I refused to think about this trip. Hands down.
I forced a smile, drawing my wine glass back and tipped it up, draining its contents. About halfway down, my brain recognized it wasn’t a great plan and this was not, in fact, a prime Beaujolais as advertised. Too committed to back out, I slugged the contents as originally intended, holding Dustman’s too-heated gaze over the rim of the crystal the entire time.
My grace lasted until the last drop hit the back of my tongue. Then?—
“That was port. You damn liar.”
He grinned smugly. “Port whiskey, actually. Forty years, on the bottle. And that was for upsetting my placid cow.”
“You got me back for the cow?” I raised my eyebrows, impressed at both his vengeance plan and my ability to still feel my face.
“Yes, ma’am.” He watched me carefully. “Are you going to puke?”
“I will not.” I swallowed, tasting that truth and shook my head as the ground swam a little. “Food is probably required. It’s been a good…dozen hours?”
“I have snacks.” He nodded decisively and dashed through a wall.
No, wait–
Not a wall, a slice in the wall that allowed him to slide between two stone sections like a ghost. A nearby—also threadbare—tapestry waffled against the wall to complete the effect.
I have a Dustman ghost.
Somehow, the concept that I wasn’t alone in the enormous, stark castle left me feeling as warm as when his hands folded around mine.
Dustman returned in moments, cradling a bag of promised snacks.
“You’re quick.” I rolled to one side and scooted my butt to the bed, resting my back against its tall double ensemble frame and sighed. At least it looked to be in more than threadbare condition.
“You were meant to have a shower. Perhaps I was too fast with the libations.” He held out a hand.
“Maybe a little,” I admitted, taking the proffered limb and hauling myself upright. A sniff confirmed I really did need that shower. “Hot water, you say?”
He grinned. The simple gesture transformed my Dustman from—well, a dusty old scholar into a more relaxed figure I didn’t expect. Or maybe it was the port whiskey he plied me with earlier. I would wake up with one hell of a stunning hangover headache if I didn't get some of those snacks into me, stat.
But first, shower.
“Back out that door. First right. The way you came.”
“Stalker.” I aimed a kick at my suitcase. It popped open on cue. I grabbed my comfiest sleep shirt, all the essentials, and headed out the door, my legs aching from tackling so many stairs.
Hey, at least I'd get fit this holiday. And maybe paint my way through a few hidden passages if Witnot Castle held as many secrets as I suspected.
A small deluge of hot water later I was clean. Dressed in my favorite nightwear, necessities clutched to my chest, I trotted back to my room to find Dustman having a picnic on my bed.
“Comfy there?”
“I started without you.” He held up a baguette sliced into even pieces and slathered with what looked like anchovy paste. My grandmother traumatized me with it as a child and I would never be able to forget the color. Or the smell.
“I can see that. Is the pantry full of this stuff?” I hadn’t had a good look through it on my way to the cow.
“Not by half. These were my rations for the month.” Dustman munched his anchovy paste and waved me graciously onto my bed.
I plopped down beside him, discarding my things into a messy pile just because my snob-dar told me it would annoy him the most. Yes, I could be bratty. Deal. He had to.
“This was what you had to survive on for a month?” I leaned in to poke at a round of brie that looked–and smelled—like it was still in date.
“Yes, ma’am. Though the kitchen seems to be equipped with a healthy complement of tinned salmon when I poked my head in post milking.”
“You do have good manners,” I approved. “You know I don’t know your name, even though you’re sitting on my bed.
He looked around as though surprised by his location. “So I am. My name is Covin Drysdale.”
“Covin.” I smirked.
“What?” He straightened and poked at his bowtie, sending it askew.
I half expected it to whir in a circle. Disappointment swamped me when my fantasy failed in reality. “You suit your name.”
“And what’s yours?”
“Lindy Watson. Artist,” I added when he stared at me unflinchingly for the longest time, anchovy baguette forgotten.
“Figures,” was the only response I received after a secondary bout of silence.
“Right.” I grabbed a slim cracker in the shape of a breadstick and pointed it at him. Eyebrows rose, but he didn’t move. “Any more of that and I’m confiscating snacks. You can exist on salmon while you read books or whatever it is you do in the– the?—”’
Covin leaned forward and whisked the breadstick cracker out of my hand. “You’d lock me in my tower?” He bit into the crispbread with a satisfying crunch.
Well, not so satisfying, as it wasn’t my crunch in my hand. “I might.”
“Intriguing.”
“What do you do up there, anyway?” I couldn’t keep the curiosity out of my voice.
“Nosy thing, aren’t you?”
“Okay.” I’d had enough. “I’m tired, achy and I’m rescinding my comment about manners. I want my bed back. Now.” My voice grew whiney, and I hated it. “No using the ghost door without knocking or announcing yourself. I’ll attack you with paint brushes if you step foot near my bed while I’m sleeping.”
Covin had the decency to look alarmed at that last and spread his hands before him in supplication as he scooted backward off the bed. “No creeping up on you whilst asleep. Promise made.” He gathered half the snacks, leaving the rest on a small table near the foot of the bed and headed for the gap in the wall.
Suddenly the room seemed…empty.
Cold.
“Covin?” I called.
He stopped, but didn’t turn back in full.
“Is your bedroom next door?”
“Yes, Lindy. I’m right there.” He shouldered the bag, and pointed to the wall behind my head. “If you need anything, anything at all, knock on the wall or yell your head off. I’ll hear you. Alright?”
He did turn this time. The gentle expression on his face warmed me more than the touch of his hands and the whiskey port combined.
“Goodnight, Covin.”
“Goodnight, Lindy.”
He slipped between the space in the walls, either a servant’s or a lover’s entrance that no doubt had a story I’d never discover, lost to time. I fumbled with the light string, and prayed the whole contraption wouldn’t come down on me.
The idea of screaming out Covin’s name—either for help or some other reason—gave me the giggles. Immature, maybe. Drunk? Probably. The room effectively blacked out, I rolled over and laughed myself silly into my down pillow until the alcohol wore off. Only then did I roll back and stare at the sky through the arched freaking lancet windows that faced the small town beyond Witnot Castle.
Small lights reflected the palest glow. Stars sparkled in the clear, cold sky above as I sank into the fluffy, cuddly bed. Before I could properly catalogue my first confusing day in a castle or the Dustman who fed me, I was asleep.