Into Thin Air (13 page)

A shiver made her teeth chatter, and she wrapped her arms around herself. Through the open window, the clank of metal against metal rose on the air and drifted in, accompanied by several harsh words, and then a deep, deep laugh.

Followed by a cacophony of feminine giggles.

Easing over to the window—who would keep it open in the middle of December?—Ellie peered out and searched for the makers of the giggles, laughs, and curses. There was nothing but the North Sea, and the snow-dotted rock cliff on which Castle Grimm perched on.

Hurrying out of Gawan's room, Ellie slipped into the passageway, then pulled up short when she came face-to-face with one of the lady spirits.

The one with a big white bird on her head.

Lady Follywolle—Ellie could now see it was her hair shaped into a swan—gave a warm, friendly smile, the corners of her ghostly eyes crinkling with mirth. And
devilment.

Ellie liked her.

"I know of a wondrous spot from which to observe the match, dear." She gave Ellie a slight nod, the swan on her head taking a tiny dip south and to the left. "I find myself in it often. Come. You'll certainly fancy the watching of this."

In the passageway, Lady Follywolle turned and made her way through the dark. Ellie noticed she was nearly transparent, but not all the way. The woman had no doubt once been quite elegant, because even as a spirit, she moved with grace and poise.

Or, Ellie thought, the ghostly floating gave her that effect.

Together they wound their way to the other side of the castle, until finally, they stopped at a massive twin oak doorway.

Lady Follywolle inclined her head, the beak of her coiffed swan dipping so precariously close to Ellie's nose she had to back up to avoid being pecked. "This chamber has the best views of the battlements. 'Tis where Sir Gawan and Sir Christian take up their blades nearly every morn." She grinned. "A fine treat to behold, indeed, and neither is even remotely aware of it. And we shan't tell them." With ease, the spirit sifted through the door. From the other side, she whispered, "Hurry."

Hurry she did, as Ellie pulled on the heavy latch and slipped inside the monstrous room. A comfy-looking sage chenille sofa covered with several large throw pillows perched before yet another immense fireplace, and Lady Follywolle stood at one of the four tall double-hung windows. She waved a gloved hand for Ellie to join her.

Once at the window, Ellie edged in beside Lady Follywolle and glanced down one level and then to the right. She stared, let loose a gusty sigh or two, and then felt her mouth slide open in pure appreciation. An itch, a prickle—no, a
shuddering thrill
—shot through her as she watched the man who had given her the most startling kiss she
thought
she'd ever had. A guilty pleasure of voyeurism swept over her as she,
ahem,
took private inventory of the Best Kiss Giver Ever.

Bare to the waist, save the leather straps crisscrossing his back and chest. Dark hair wild and loose atop very broad shoulders, the long bangs pulled back and secured. Ancient-looking tattoos visible, moving with each flex of his muscle as he parried and thrust. Some sort of form-fitting, dark brown pants tucked into a pair of mid-shin, well-worn boots. A short knife sheathed into one of the straps.

As frosty air met his warm breath, a puff of iciness came with each exerted grunt.

Good
Lord.
The man was
beautiful.

Ellie studied the knighted spirit dodging each thrust of Gawan's sword—Christian of Arrick-by-the-Sea—who gave it back to Gawan full force.

Not too shabby, either, for a dead guy, but definitely not Gawan.

"If Christian is a ghost, then how is it Gawan's sword can strike his?"

Lady Follywolle simply smiled. "Sir Gawan has many talents, love. You'll have to ask him the particulars, I'm afraid, although I do believe Sir Christian somehow conjures the illusion and sound of his own steel."

"Hmm."

"Quite the spectacle, wouldn't you say?" Lady Follywolle said, her voice all dreamy and soft. She sighed and propped her shoulder against the window frame. "Fine specimens, indeed." She pointed a long, elegantly gloved finger. "See you there, next to young Davy, Lady Bella and her cousin, Lucinda? You've not met her yet. Dear, dear, they are a naughty pair. They were in life, as well.

Lady Lucy made an appearance at Castle Grimm just this morn, you see, after being on a century-long haunt with a traveling opera troupe. Lovely lot, I'm told." She sighed.
"Sooo,"
she cooed and turned to Ellie, "do tell me one thing, love, because I cannot take the not knowing of it a single moment longer. How on
Earth
does it feel to be kissed by an
Angel—"

"Here now, dear Ellie! Do come away from that gaping window before you topple through it!"

Ellie jumped at the interruption and turned to find Nicklesby, all skinny arms and legs and knobby knees and floppy ears askew, hurrying to her side. Ellie didn't miss the stern look he shot Lady Follywolle before grasping her elbow and giving it a tug. "Come, now, young Ellie. I've bubbling porridge on the stovetop at the ready. You musn't frequent the elements thus. You'll catch your death."

Ellie gave him a dopey grin—as if she hadn't already almost caught
that
—then glanced out the window again. Gawan and Christian had stopped their duel, or whatever it was called, and were both looking up in her direction. Even though they were probably more than a hundred yards or more apart, her nerve endings snapped and sizzled just
knowing
Gawan stared at her. If a mere kiss made her insides turn all gooey, she could only imagine what would happen if, well, more happened.

Though to be fair, it was hardly a
mere
kiss.

All at the same time, her head snapped up as a thought hit, Nicklesby pulled on her arm with a bit more strength than she thought his skinny self capable of, and her gaze caught Lady Follywolle's, whose one white brow lifted high into the tail feathers of the swan's backside.

"What did you call him?" Ellie asked her.

Nicklesby all but jumped up and down, reminding Ellie of the Scarecrow from
The Wizard of Oz.

"Why, she didn't call him a thing! Silly girl! Now, come along, sweetling, before my porridge bubbles over! 'Twould be disastrous!"

Ellie narrowed her eyes at Lady Follywolle.

The lady ghost's matching white brow rose to join the other one, and her red lips mouthed the word Ellie had
thought
she'd said, just before Nicklesby succeeded in pulling her away.

Angel.

Chapter Ten

"Nicklesby, slow down!" Ellie said, scurrying along to keep up with Grimm's steward. His lanky frame, clothed in a Victorian-era brown wool proper gentleman's suit, minus the top hat, shuffled even faster down the passageway. Rounding the last bend, they hurried down the steps and skidded into the great hall.

Ellie put on the brakes and nearly yanked poor Nicklesby's arm out of its socket. "Nicklesby! What is going on?"

The hurried panic on Nicklesby's face from before faded, replaced by a sheepish look of pure, out-and-out
guilt.
"Er, why, nothing, my dear girl. 'Tis just that I have your morning repast prepared, and—"

"Ooh, Nicklesby, you big fibber! You didn't even know I'd returned!" She stepped up to him and frowned. "Why did you just drag me out of that chamber, and
what
did Lady Follywolle mean when she asked how it felt to be
kissed
by an
Angel?"
With a forefinger, she poked him, and felt the bones in his chest through the wool of his topcoat. "Angel? What the heck does that mean?"

"Why, er," Nicklesby stammered, his face growing paler. "It, er, well—"

"First off," she interrupted, "the only way you'd know about that kiss was if Gawan told you, or you'd watched—Oh, Nicklesby! You didn't!"

"Well, I, er—"

Ellie gasped. "Watched, and
tattled."
She wagged a finger. "Shame, shame on you, Nicklesby!"

"What's going on?"

At the sound of Gawan's voice, she turned. Really, she felt only slightly embarrassed. It was a kiss, for crying out loud, not lewd sex in a back alley somewhere.

Young Davy skidded through the wall and stopped beside Gawan. "I could hear Nicklesby stammerin' clean through the walls!" he said. "What's the matter, lady?"

Great. Now she felt like an idiot. To carry on would just make a bigger deal out of it than was necessary. "Oh, nothing," she said with a wave and a smile. She gave Nicklesby a firm clap to the shoulder.
Extra
-firm. "We were just going to the kitchen for some bubbling porridge. Weren't we, Nicklesby?"

"Right, we were, indeed," he said.

Gawan narrowed his eyes at first Nicklesby, then at Ellie. He studied them both for what seemed like minutes, nearly long enough to make her squirm. Finally, he spoke. "I'll be down shortly."

With that, he turned and jogged up the steps.

Ellie watched, partly out of curiosity, mainly just to gawk. He looked as if he'd just stepped out of medieval times.
Scrumptious.
"Why on Earth is he wearing that?" she whispered to no one.

A scuffling sound made her turn, and when she did, Nicklesby had made it to the kitchen archway without a backward glance.

"Chicken!" she called out. "I'm not finished with you."

"Finished wi' what?" Davy asked. He wiped his nose with his sleeve and cocked his head. "Wanna play me in chess later?"

Ellie pushed murderous thoughts of Nicklesby and lusty ones of Gawan aside and looked at Davy.

The old soft hat he wore sat cocked, as usual, to one side.

"Or we could play wi' Cotswald. Only we have to go outside. Nicklesby don't allow no dogs in the hall—even ghost ones." He kicked at an imaginary something with the tip of his beat-up boot. "I'm sorry I nearly made ye take a tumble last night." He lifted his gaze. "I was busy after Cotswald and didn't think ye'd jump aside, seein' how we'd just slip on through ye. But Nicklesby says yer still gettin' used to bein' mostly dead. Aye?"

Wow. Talk about a serious
reality check.
She wasn't anywhere close to getting used to the idea of mostly dead. To dwell on it made her panic, made her remember she couldn't
remember,
and that she had no choice but to lean on Gawan for help.

The smile Ellie pasted on her face felt stiff. The kid was cute as could be, and seemed genuinely concerned about her welfare—alive or mostly dead. "It's all right, Davy. Really." She lifted her hand to ruffle his hair, but clenched it into a fist and put it behind her back instead. "Tell ya what. After I get back from checking out the cottages, we'll play with Cotswald first. Then I'll take you on with the chessboard." She gave him a mock glare. "Me. You. Here." She drew close, nearly nose-to-nose.

"Later."

Davy's ghostly features lit up, and he cracked a gap-toothed smile. "I'll be 'ere!"

With that, he turned and sifted through the wall, calling
Cotswald!
as he disappeared.

On her heel, Ellie turned to the kitchen, where she could finish drilling Nicklesby about the whole Angel comment, which made no sense whatsoever. Still, curiosity gnawed at her gut, something she couldn't put her finger on. Or was it that knowing look that had been plastered to Lady Follywolle's face? Instead, though, an idea struck, and she paused.

Mostly dead or not, she wanted a shower and a change of clothes.

Badly.

Certainly, she could wear one of Gawan's sweaters. It'd be nice and baggy and comfy. No way would his pants fit, though. Nicklesby's, on the other hand ...

With the idea of a nice, steamy shower and a change of clothes in mind, Ellie bounded up the steps and made for Gawan's chamber, mentally comparing Nicklesby's measurements to her own. The picture that fell to mind nearly made her laugh out loud. Nicklesby's pants would probably be too tight. At least no one would
see
her.

Not outside of Castle Grimm, anyway.

Gawan shifted his backside in the seat for what seemed the hundredth uncomfortable time, gripped the steering wheel, and then eased another swift, inconspicuous glance to his left at the quirky woman beside him.

Ellie. Mostly dead. Can vanish into thin air without warning and reappear just as hastily, with as much tangibility as himself. And he could barely keep his pitiful eyes off her.

All while she wore her hair bound in a horse's tail, one of his tunics that drooped so much, she had to roll the cuffs up several times, and a pair of Nicklesby's wool gardening trousers that hung several ridiculous inches too long at the ankle, yet cinched vastly snug across the rear.

Adorably so.

It amazed him, in truth, that even in her state of being, he could smell her fresh-scrubbed skin, and remember just how that skin tasted.

Saint's robes, he was an idiot. That kiss would stay emblazoned in his mind, at the ready to torment.

At least, that is, until midnight on the Yuletide's Eve. Then, the memory of those soft, supple lips entwined with his own would disappear forever. Until then, though, he'd treasure it.

He quickly averted his gaze forward, so as not to get caught.

Ellie had been uncharacteristically quiet since they'd left Grimm, and Gawan could only assume she felt uncomfortable about the kiss they'd shared. Saints, he'd thought of nothing else, except how he would get her out of the bloody mess she was in. He felt like a bumbling idiot, and hardly knew what to say to her. Mayhap:
"Er, sorry, gel, for stealing your Intended's kiss without your
permission the other night, even though you know not that I am indeed your Intended, nor that you
even possess such a luscious mark as the one at the curve of your mouth. I vow, 'twas an
overwhelming sense of pure lunacy that claimed me, all of a sudden-like. And whilst I'm spurting
forth my scruples, I've a pair of bloody wings strapped to me back ...

"Is there something wrong with you?"

Gawan jumped from his thoughts so hard, his backside nearly left the seat cushion.
See, Conwyk?