Chapter Eight
His mind was on the woman upstairs, his hands still burning from the feel of her soft skin against his fingers. So it was no surprise that he walked into the parlour and barely registered the other woman sitting by the fire.
“Evening, sir,” she said politely.
He damn near jumped out of his breeches, and any arousal he’d been trying to ignore withered in seconds. “What the hell?”
She chuckled and rose, a formidable sight in her old-fashioned gown, thick shawl, and lace cap sporting a jaunty ribbon of bright pink. “Well, that’s a fine greeting, I must say.”
Oliver blinked. Twice. She was…sort of shimmering in the firelight. It was the only way he could describe it. And the fact that she was doing it sent a chill over his flesh. He could feel the hair on the back of his neck standing on end.
“Who…” he croaked, his voice disintegrating. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Who are you?”
“Me? Why I’m old Jenny Bartholomew, sir.
Mrs Bartholomew. And I own the Craddock Inn.
” She sighed. “Or I used to.” She glanced around.
“I kept it in much better shape than this, I can assure you. People came from all over, they did. Stopping on their way from here and there to there and here, just for a taste of my venison pie.”
“Ah.” Oliver swallowed.
“Liked it, then, did you?” She tipped her head sideways, face hopeful.
“Er, yes. Yes, it was delicious.”
“There you are then.” She nodded in satisfaction.
He hoped she couldn’t see his heart, which was thundering at about a mile a minute as he stared at what he was coming to realise was an apparition. A real, honest-to-God apparition, right here in the parlour of this ancient inn.
“Oliver, did I hear you talking to…” Allegra walked up to his side, and froze mid stride. “Uhh…”
“Ah, there’s a pretty lass.” Mrs Bartholomew nodded in approval. “Glad to see there’s still some of ‘em around. In my time they were plentiful, of course.” She patted a wayward curl that had escaped from her cap. “I don’t mind saying I received quite a few attentions in my day, too.”
“I am not in the least bit surprised, Ma’am.” Oliver managed a smile, then turned to Ally, taking her hand in his and squeezing it. Hard. “Allegra, this is Mrs Bartholomew. She was apparently the owner of the inn some time ago, and she made that lovely pie we enjoyed earlier.”
“And I set out the towels for you, dearie. What a sight you were. All that snow…” she shook her head. “Could have caught a nasty cold, or worse.” She nodded at Oliver. “Do up her buttons, there’s a good lad.”
Ally opened her mouth, but nothing came out for a moment or two. “I…er…thank you,” she managed, voice a bit shaky as cool fingers met her warm back. “If I may ask, Ma’am, how long ago did you own this inn?”
Oliver wanted to hug her, but managed to focus on fastening her gown.
It was the perfect question and why he hadn’t thought of it, he had no idea.
Nor did he know how Ally had the presence of mind to ask it of whatever this woman was.
But she did, and he was so proud of her, as he gave her shoulder an avuncular pat.
Mrs Bartholomew smiled. “Well, now, that’s the thing, isn’t it? Why don’t we sit down and chat for a bit?” She settled her ample rear end back into her chair and glanced at the fire. As if on command, the flames leaped a little higher.
Since Oliver’s legs were still a bit weak from the shock of seeing what he was coming to think might be his first real ghost, he was only too eager to obey, and Ally all but fell into the welcoming cushions of the couch.
They sat close, touching, the heat of their thighs where they met a comfort through their clothing.
Ally’s gulp was audible. “So, er…Mrs Bartholomew. What can you tell us?”
The…whatever it was…smiled. “So many things, dearie, but few of ‘em are of any use to you two.” She folded her hands in her lap. “Let’s just say that when I lived here, as meself,” she frowned a little, “I suppose that’s the best way to describe it…
no matter,” she shrugged. “It was during the times of troubles,” she sighed. “Jacobite troubles.”
Oliver blinked. “The mid 1700’s, then?”
“Good lad.” The smile was approving. “I like a man who knows his history. Important, it is, you know.”
“So…” Ally swallowed again. “You owned the inn all those years ago?”
“I did that,” the figure nodded. “And a fine place it was. Always busy, lots of people making sure they stopped for a meal, like I told young Oliver here.”
“You know my name?” He didn’t think he could be more shocked, but he was wrong.
“Of course I do,” she shot him an amused glance. “Spitting image of your great-grandpa, you are.”
“My great-grandfather? You knew him?”
“I did that, lad. In fact, he’s the reason I’m here at all. Him and his cronies and that Book of Rowan of theirs.”
“He was a master or something, wasn’t he?” Allegra leaned forward a little, curiosity oozing from her every gesture. Oliver wondered if she was actually enjoying this odd encounter.
“Aye, that he was.” Mrs Bartholomew seemed to relax into her chair. Even though he could see right through her to the cushions, Oliver still felt she was getting comfortable. This entire thing was completely absurd. He must have hit his head.
“They used to meet here, of a Thursday. Pretty regular. There were six gentlemen, and your great-grandpa, well he was the leader. You could see it in the way he stood, right here, by the fireplace.” She sighed.
“A fine-looking man indeed, his hand on the mantel, his face to the room…I can see him now…” Her expression reflected her emotions.
“He had something to do with chalices…” Ally prompted gently.
“Oh those dratted things,” Mrs Bartholomew laughed. “Hated ‘em. Lord Arthur always wanted them shiny as could be. I got damned tired of polishing them, I can tell you.”
“Were they real chalices?” Oliver found himself asking the question. “Similar to the ones you’d see in church?”
“Look for yourself.”
She waved a hand and the air around the mantelpiece, and two grand vessels appeared, standing side by side on the dark wood. They did indeed shine, a bright silver revealing the intricate decorations surrounding each one. They were flatter than a wine goblet, but quite large.
“I can show you two, my two,” said Mrs Bartholomew. “Lord Arthur, now, he could call the other two and we’d have all four chalices bright as new. Very strong, he was. You could just feel the power on him.”
She shivered slightly, blurring herself even more and making Oliver suck in his breath. He still wasn’t comfortable talking to someone who was only half there.
“Doesn’t look like the power followed his line.”
The dry comment from whatever it was sitting in a chair and gazing at him still sounded mildly offensive. Oliver rose to the challenge.
“If you mean I’ve not inherited any strange abilities, Ma’am, you’re correct.
It would seem my great-grandfather kept all that to himself.
I’m here, or at least I came here, with the understanding that there might be a snuff box of interest available.
” He squared his shoulders and raised his chin.
“I have a collection that is, in fact, garnering quite a bit of attention.”
“Oh lovely.” Her tone of voice did not reflect the sentiment. “I’ll wager the ladies are lined up to see that.”
“Now look here…”
“Oliver.” Ally rested her hand on his arm. “You are about to get into an argument with an apparition. Stop it.”
He subsided, suddenly aware of the absurdity of the situation. But that didn’t prevent him from emitting a scornful sniff.
“Now, see? There’s something you’ve done just perfectly.”
Allegra blinked as the strange apparition nodded approvingly.
“You’ve gone and found yourself the perfect young woman. Beautiful, bright, and obviously very intelligent. She’ll make you a wonderful wife.” Mrs Bartholomew smiled.
“No, wait.”
“We’re not…we aren’t…” Ally struggled. “You have made a mistake, Ma’am. Oliver and I were sort of accidentally caught up in this journey. We haven’t seen each other for quite some time.”
“Oh now dearie. You can’t fool an old woman. Smelling of April and May, the pair of you. And that business upstairs?” She fanned herself with her hand. “Most enlightening. Don’t even bother to try and deny the attraction.”
“I…”
“Just a minute,” Oliver frowned. “Are you spying on us?”
“Me? Of course not. Whatever would you think of me if I went around poking my nose in other people’s business?”
“I’d think you were a very good inn owner,” remarked Ally. “Knowing who’s doing what is probably important when running a place like this. Especially in the Jacobite times.” She leaned forward. “Can you tell me…”
“Ally.”
She glanced at Oliver. “What?”
“I don’t believe Mrs Bartholomew is here to entertain us with tales of how she fought at Culloden.”
“You’ve the right of it, young man. I’m just here to make sure you’ve got everything you need.
” She paused and angled her head upward.
“There. The fire’s burning nicely in the master bedroom, so you’ll be warm tonight.
And I’ve put out a nightrail for you, dearie.
” She looked at Ally. “Can’t have you sleeping with nothing on, now, can we?
” Her grin was quite wickedly attractive, especially when it drifted to Oliver.
Then she paused, her face sobering. “Drat. ’Tis time for me to leave.”
“Oh no, must you?” Ally found her hand moving toward the apparition, ghost, whatever she was.
“I chose to come now,” said Mrs Bartholomew. “Christmas Eve, you know. I always loved the Christmas season.” She shook her head. “Snow, firelight, good food. Oh, brandy. I’ll arrange for some brandy…”
Her voice was fading, and so, it appeared, was she.
“I’ve had a lovely chat…” the whisper echoed through the room. “Be happy, children. Look for the Book of Rowan. You never know. Perhaps we’ll meet again…”
And she was gone.
The silence in the parlour seemed overwhelming, broken only by the hiss and crackle of the fire. The mantel was empty of chalices, and the chair in front of it was devoid of an occupant, spiritual or otherwise.
Ally found herself gripping Oliver’s hand anew. “What did we…are we having a strange dream? Did you see all that as well?”
His grip was firm, even though she could almost hear his heart pounding. A similar rhythm was taking place beneath her bodice; it was a struggle to take a steady breath. Too many strange things in too little time.
A horrid thought darted through her mind. “Are we dead, Oliver?”
He coughed out a chuckle. “God, no. At least I don’t think so.” He squeezed her hand. “Do you feel that?”
She nodded.
“All right, how about this?” He leaned over and pinched her arm.
“Ouch.”
“Right then. Not dead.” His gaze drifted to her lips. “But just to be on the safe side…”
She was in his arms before she realised it, and he kissed her, long, thoroughly, with soft sounds and murmurs, some of which she thought might well be coming from her.
His tongue was busy, hers too, duelling, learning, tasting with enthusiasm.
Finally she pulled herself back, gasping for breath, her body on fire, lit by his tender caresses.
“There,” he whispered roughly. “Did you feel that?”
Mute, she nodded, lost in those glorious blue eyes that gazed at her so passionately.
“Definitely not dead.”
A tiny clink distracted them both, and their attention was caught by a little flash of light by the fire. True to her word, Mrs Bartholomew’s promise of brandy materialised into a decanter and two glasses.
“Ahhh.” Oliver sighed and stood. “Just the thing.” He poured for them both and returned to the couch, handing one glass to her.
“Thank you,” she muttered, knowing her cheeks were probably quite pink as a result of his delightful kisses.
“Ally.” He held out his glass for a toast. “To Christmas Eve.”
She nodded and tapped hers against it, loving the musical ring of the crystal. “To Christmas Eve. And…” She thought for a moment. “To all the Christmases in the past that have been celebrated right here.”
He smiled. “I think my great-grandfather would have liked that.”
A gust of wind blew around the inn, rattling the shutters. But with it came a sense of distant laughter, instead of the howl of a storm.