Harrison Investigations 1 Haunted (20 page)

By the time they had finished, Penny was groaning, Darcy was
laughing. And yet, Penny was very fond of Clint, and not half as
dismayed by his antics as she tried to appear to be.

Matt didn't come back in.

When they finished, Darcy excused herself, anxious to get up to
the Lee Room.

She turned the light on as she closed the door behind her. She
looked around the room, then closed her eyes, and tried to let any
sensations ease into her.

The room seemed extraordinarily still and quiet. And empty.

' 'Arabella?'' she murmured softly aloud. ' 'If there was an
injustice, we can at least let it be known. There's no need to be
so hostile. We're trying to help you."

No response. No whisper of a breeze, no hint of a voice on the
air. No coldness. Nothing.

The ghost was lying dormant. Darcy didn't even get her usual
chilling sense of being watched.

She hesitated a few minutes, then went out on the balcony,
gripped the rail, and stared into the night. So beautiful.
Surely, this area of Virginia was blessed.

After a few moments, she went back in.

She turned on the television, and was surprised to realize that
the late-night talk shows had come on. Idly, she began to strip
down for bed, started to choose a T-shirt for sleep, then
hesitated.

Matt would come. She was certain.

She opted for a light-blue silk peignoir.

Seated upon the bed, she watched the television for
several seconds, waiting. But that night, the Lee Room seemed
to be giving her nothing.

"I don't understand at all," she said out loud. "You obviously
want help. Let me help you. Or are you simply angry with the Stones
for what happened to you, Arabella, and eager to hurt them? They
are not the same people now. Matt Stone is not the man who did this
to you."

Still... nothing.

With a sigh, she turned around and curled up with her
pillow.

Matt wasn't sure why he stayed out on the porch so late. But
then again, there were times when he did just sit out there, doing
nothing, feeling the light, watching the land beneath the
moonlight. There was something calming and reaffirming about doing
so. He did love Melody House. More than that, he loved Virginia,
especially his county. It was as if the heritage and history were
ingrained in him, and as if his love for the land returned to him
sometimes on nights like this, strengthening.

Either that, or he didn't want to listen to any more
nonsense from Penny.

Carter had gone to play pool. After a while, Clint, too, had
decided to head into town claiming he was feeling a little edgy and
might as well go to the Wayside Inn and play some pool.

Matt lingered outside a bit longer, then went in.

The house was silent. Those who hadn't headed out
rabble-rousing had gone to bed.

He went to his own room first, but didn't stay more than a few
seconds. Walking out on the balcony, he paused a few minutes again,
staring at Darcy's door. It was closed. She probably hadn't locked
it, though, and he didn't know if he'd be relieved or angry once he
made certain that he was right. She should be locking it.

But then again, maybe she had left it open for him.

He tried the door. Open.

He should go in and yell at her.

Matt stepped into Darcy's room, closed and locked the balcony
doors behind him. For a few moments he stood where he was, thinking
that she had been through a traumatic day. Except that a
near-death experience hadn't seemed so traumatic to her.

He should leave.

He wasn't about to do so.

The television was on, but the lights had been dimmed. And Darcy
was soundly sleeping.

He walked to the bed, treading softly.

She looked like a heroine of old, red hair splaying out like an
elegant, fire-touched shawl. She was long and lean, slender legs
visible beneath the gauze of her nightgown, feet just peeking out.
The way she slept...her position enhanced her cleavage. And
the way her arms were curled around it...he wanted nothing more
than to be her pillow at that moment.

"Darcy?" he said softly.

"Urn?"

She stirred, turning. Her eyes, heavy-lidded, opened slowly. She
stared at him, a slow, seductive smile curling her lips.

"Why, Sheriff Stone," she said softly.

"You left the balcony doors open," he said, sliding down to sit
beside her.

Her smile deepened. "Not to be too presumptuous, but...I assumed
you might arrive here," she said. Heavy with sleep, her voice was
husky, the sound of it eliciting drumbeats in his veins that echoed
into his mind. And beyond.

"You're sure... you're fine? After today?" he queried.

Her smile deepened. She lifted her arms, curling them around his
shoulders as she halfway rose to him. Head cast back, throat at an
incredible arch, voice richer than carnal sin itself, she assured
him. "Really, truly, fine. Better than fine. Want me to prove
it?"

She had come to him completely, hot breath of her
whispered words against his ear, causing the drumbeat to
shudder down to a mambo in his groin. He wrapped his arms
around her, finding her lips, her mouth, depth and heat and
wetness, and locking her into a kiss that seemed to fuse his body
to hers. He had to press her back to struggle in his haste to
remove his clothing. Bared to muscle and sinew and pure lust, he
rose above her, fingers finding the hem of the gauzy gown, dragging
it up before he settled, flesh against flesh, arousal Spiraling
with the first brush of the senses. He could drown in the sweet
aroma of her soap, perfume, and self. The feel and taste of her
were seductive, intoxicating, and he ran his palms over her flesh
again and again, savoring the feel, bringing his lips against her
next for a taste of the texture of her skin. The impact of their
bodies against one another created an arousal within him that he
fought, not just for the desire to be a giving lover, but to
prolong the excruciating promise of climax and pleasure.

Yet that night, she was the aggressor, pressing against him,
pushing him away and forcing him to his knees, fingers
radiating over his chest, a flutter of kisses and the tip of her
tongue drawing exquisite lines against his flesh caused it to burn,
chill, and burn again. Her hands aroused and caressed, encircling
the fullness of his arousal, before her lips moved again, the
liquid toe of her tongue creating an agony of hunger, the energy
within her a lightning storm that catapulted around him until it
was unbearable and she was in his arms again, bodies fused and
fitted and moving in an ever increasing, staccato beat that drove
ever upward, wild, sweet, and all but blinding to every thing but
the needs of the senses, in the end, totally raw, and then
explosive. The force of climax left them both breathless,
veins still thundering, hearts pulsing, arms and limbs entwined. He
held her against him, loathe to let her go even as satiation seeped
throughout him. There were things he wanted to say, and could not.
In a distant corner of his mind, he longed not to be entangled,
because his world was real, and she believed so fiercely in all
that was not.

And yet...

Impossible. He harbored a fear of her. Not because she was an
elegant redhead. Because there was something-

Something, perhaps, that challenged all his beliefs, and
therefore, his strengths.

He thought of all the lies that passed so easily between men and
women. And she was far too fine to be told lies.

And yet...

"It's all right, you don't need to say anything," she told
him.

His muscles inadvertently flexed.

Shadow and light filled the room. "I've never expected forever,"
she told him.

"Darcy-"

"It's all right."

"Darcy-"

"I'm telling you-"

"Don't. Don't tell me anything," he said, and added, "Just be
with me."

He cradled her against him. Neither tried to speak again.

In the dream, or somewhere in the deep recesses of her mind, she
knew she was someone else.

The woman in the room.

She had known the woman in the dream before, sat within her
entity, and she had known the beginning of the scene from both
sides, for she had entered into the energy or entity of the man
involved as well.

But tonight...she saw it all from the woman's eyes.

Felt the spasm of fear as she heard the sound.

Near. Within the house. A creaking of old floorboards.

The woman hesitated, straightening, listening, wondering
why an ordinary sound should elicit such an instinctive sense of
fear.

So often, the house was filled with people. Not that night. And
at first, she had been glad that it would be so empty.

Now...

She rose, exiting the room, hurrying to the second-floor landing
of the staircase, and looking down. Her breath caught as her eyes
focused on the figure at the foot of the stairs.

He had entered the house. He had the right, in his own mind, at
least. He had the right to everything. She did not. Strange, he had
stood there, looking up at her, dozens of times before. Then, he
had smiled. Admired the way that moonlight played through the white
fabric of her nightgown. He had instilled within her an
intoxicating sense of anticipation, pleasure.. .excitement. He was
so many things that a man should be, physically arresting, sensual,
exuding a sense of power that was all but an aphrodisiac.

But tonight...

He did not smile.

They stared at one another for several long moments. Maybe an
eternity.

Then...

She saw what he carried. What was in his hands. And the way that
he held it...she knew what he intended to do with it.

A scream rose to her throat; she held it back, for there would
be no one to hear. Then words, disjointed, tumbled from her lips,
for she still couldn't believe what appeared to be his intent.

"You...you loved me," she murmured. "You must still...love me.
Somewhat. You can't mean to...to...you
can't!"

The last was whispered. It was a plea. It was a tone that called
forth all that had come between them...before. All that had been
shared.

His eyes remained upon hers. He didn't reply.

He started up the stairs.

And she ran.

First, back to the room where she had been writing, setting down
words, her own revenge. But even as she attempted to close the
door, she felt the force of his weight against it. As he burst in,
she saw the metal bed warmer hanging on the wall, and she grabbed
hold of it firmly, dashing him against the side of the head. He
cried out, staggering back.

She took flight, forcing her way past him, tearing down the
stairs, her white gown trailing in a diaphanous cloud behind
her.

Blackness, a cloud of shadows, arose around the vision.

Darcy's visions were often so crystal clear in dreams.
Sometimes, the fact that they were fading awakened her. And
sometimes, the fact that she awakened ended the dream. Perhaps,
some instinct inside caused her to awaken so that she wouldn't
witness too much. Maybe innate fear kicked in. But she didn't want
any natural defense mechanisms kicking in on her now.

But...

She was losing it. Losing touch of the vision.
Awakening.

No! She knew that she had to see the end. She cried out silently
in fierce frustration, knowing she was close...so close...to
knowing the end.

Knowing that she felt...what the
woman
had felt.

She fought both the fading of the dream, and the terror that was
washing over her. She leapt to her feet, crying out, racing to the
door. She thought that it was opened. It was not. She slammed
against it, woke completely, and stood, facing the door, shaking
off the aftereffects.

"Darcy?" She heard his voice, startled, deeply
concerned.

She was aware that he was looking at her, though her back was to
him. A wave of misery swept over her; she was certain that there
would be revulsion in his eyes.

She turned quickly, grabbing her robe from the foot of the bed,
slipping into it and heading out the balcony doors. She inhaled
deeply, breathing in the night air.

She was startled to feel his hands fall upon her
shoulders, his presence, warm and strong behind her.

"Darcy, are you all right?" His voice was deep, resonant,
husky, and deeply concerned. She wondered just what she had done in
her sleep.

"Yes. Look, I'm really sorry-"

"Don't be. What-happened?" he asked. "What was it? The house? A
sound?"

"No, nothing. Nothing at all. Just a dream."

"Tell me about it."

"I-can't," she lied. "It's faded already."

"Darcy, please, tell me-"

"I can't. It's gone."

"All right, then just-"

"You don't want anything to do with this...with me, and it's all
right, honestly-"

"Honestly, Darcy, even knowing you as I do, seeing what I've
seen...I'm not sure what I believe. But I wish you'd try to tell me
more about it."

She swung around, startled to see that the eyes she
expected to be so filled with wary distaste held nothing but
gentleness. Strangely, his manner made her a bit more
determined to pull away. He really didn't understand the half
of it. He still didn't believe. If he really did, he would pull
away.

She lifted her hands. "It's very difficult to explain what you
don't understand yourself."

"All right. Let me help." He smoothed back a lock of hair that
the night breeze had sent drifting over her forehead. "Did
you always...have visions?"

She shook her head. "No."

"Then?"

She had to turn away from him. She gripped the balcony. In
the distance, the mountains were deeper indigo shadows against the
rich deep blue of the moonlit night sky. The entire world might
have been at peace. The struggle was within herself.