The Unquiet - J. D. Robb [107]
Bree could feel a vicious headache beginning at the base of her skull and radiating up to her temples. It was a struggle to keep her composure. “Thank you for your kind words, Gwynn. And for the tour. I believe I’ve seen enough for today.”
“Of course.” The older woman preceded her down the stairs before leading the way to a formal parlor, where a fire blazed on the hearth. Above the mantel, an ancient, brooding Highlander peered down from his lofty perch.
“You must be weary from your travels, Mrs. Kerr. Sit by the fire and I’ll fetch some tea and sandwiches.”
“Thank you. That would be lovely.”
When she was alone, Bree sank down into an overstuffed chair. She’d thought she was prepared to meet people who’d known Barclay. But had they really known him? Just walking the halls of the home where Barclay had spent his childhood had a hundred questions flooding her mind. Every room, every wall, seemed to mock her.
Had he truly been happy here as a child? If so, why had he refused to return, even after their marriage? She’d all but begged to meet his mother, and to see the place where he’d spent his childhood, but Barclay had adamantly refused, saying he wasn’t ready yet. But someday, he’d promised. There was plenty of time for a visit. All the time in the world.
How young and foolish she’d been. How trusting.
“Here we are now, Mrs. Kerr.”
“Bree,” she said gently as the housekeeper set a silver tray on the table beside her and began pouring tea.
Accepting a linen napkin, she nibbled a chicken sandwich.
“Oh, this is heavenly.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
Bree smiled and sipped her tea. “Will you join me, Gwynn?”
“ ’Twouldn’t be proper. I’ll take my tea later, with Duncan.”
“At least sit a moment with me.”
After a brief hesitation, the older woman settled herself in the opposite chair, though it was obvious that she wasn’t comfortable breaking with tradition. She perched nervously on the edge of her seat, watching her young guest with a look of speculation.
After a brief silence, she took a breath. “I must warn you, ma’am, about staying in the cottage.”
“Warn me?”
“There are . . . things that could alarm you.”
“Such as . . . ?”
“The power is apt to go on or off at strange times. Dishes fall from shelves. Doors open and close.”
When Bree held her silence, the old woman went on. “Nobody’s ever managed to stay the night at the cottage.”
“You mean I’ll be the first?”
Gwynn Logan gave a sigh. “I mean that all who’ve tried have been driven away before morning.”
“Driven away? By what?”
“Not what, ma’am. Who. He’s a . . .” The older woman glanced toward the fireplace, then away. It was obvious that she was struggling to choose her words carefully. “Those who’ve seen him swear he’s a fierce, vengeful creature bent on destroying anyone who dares to cross his threshold.”
“Are you talking about a ghost?”
The old woman swallowed. “I am. A very angry ghost, by all accounts.”
Bree took a moment to ponder this bit of news before nodding. “Very well. If such a creature exists—and I don’t for a moment believe it does—then he shall have to deal with having a houseguest, won’t he?”
“It’s not something to be dismissed lightly. You could spare yourself the trouble by staying here, Mrs. Kerr.”
Bree touched the napkin to her lips. The food and hot tea had restored, if not her energy, at least her determination.
She had come to this place for a number of reasons, the most important of which was to set her own rules and follow her own agenda, no matter what others thought.
“Thank you, Gwynn, for the