The Unquiet - J. D. Robb [111]
At once she felt the heat of that furious gaze.
He pointed. “ And that damnable thing in your pocket.”
She placed the vase back on a shelf and reached for her cell phone. “Why don’t you like this?”
He arched a brow. “I would ask why you do. You think, by talking to people far across the land, that you’re somehow close to them? How do you know your connection with them isn’t all a lie? What makes you think they give a care about what you have to say while they’re busy with their own lives?”
His words had her remembering her last phone call to Barclay. Oh, the words he’d spoken. Words that she’d been so eager to embrace, like some lovesick teen. Later, when she’d learned the truth, all those sweet words had mocked her. And in truth, mocked her still.
She felt a knife pierce her heart.
Seeing the stricken look in her eyes, he crossed his arms over his chest and gave a knowing look. “I see. Ye’ve been lied to a time or two, have you, lass?”
When she remained silent, he nodded. “Aye. ’Tis true. In all the eons I’ve been here, while all around me everything external has changed, within the hearts of people nothing has changed. Nothing.” He spat the word before turning away. “So take your gadgets and your annoying self from my home and leave me to my own private hell.”
She brought her hands to her hips. “You haven’t been listening to me. I have no intention of leaving. There’s nothing you can do that will drive me away. This is all I have left in the world. I’m not about to forfeit it for the likes of you. As for hell, I’m well acquainted with it.”
At the vehemence of her tone, he turned and studied her for a long, silent moment.
“You only think you know hell,” he muttered. “Beware, Mistress Kerr. You’re no match for the likes of me.”
As she watched, he began to shimmer and fade. And then he was gone, as quickly as he’d appeared.
She stood perfectly still, waiting for her heartbeat to settle.
For all her brave words, she’d been absolutely terrified of this angry creature. And was, still.
She hadn’t simply imagined him. Though Gwynn Logan may have planted the seed, this wasn’t hysteria brought on as a result of an overactive imagination. Nor could it be blamed on jet lag. Bree had no doubt that the spirit of someone, some ancient, unhappy ancestor, still haunted this place. She didn’t have enough energy left to question the why or the how of it. There would be time enough for that in the days to come.
Numbly she tossed aside her jacket and crossed to the bed, quickly making it up with the fresh linens Duncan had left folded atop the bare mattress. While she worked, she had to fight to hold her tears at bay. These weren’t tears of pity, she told herself. She was simply sick and tired of being sick and tired. Of feeling overwhelmed by things beyond her control.
There would be no more of that. Hadn’t she come here to start over? To take control of her life?
The betrayal she’d experienced at the hands of Barclay, the pity she’d felt from friends when they discovered the truth, had to be put away, once and for all.
As for this ghost, this . . . creature, who seemed determined to be the latest obstacle in her life, she would deal with him as firmly as the rest of her baggage.
But not now. Not tonight.
For now, she needed to rest, to gather her strength for whatever ordeal lay ahead. If it was a battle of wills this restless spirit wanted, she would stand toe-to-toe and fight him with all her might. No man, neither flesh-and-blood nor ghostly specter, would impose his will on her ever again.
Never, she thought with such vehemence her teeth clenched. Never again. She settled herself into bed.
As the storm raged beyond the snug walls of the cottage, it was her last coherent thought before she gave in to utter exhaustion and sleep overtook her.
THREE
Strong arms enfolded Bree in a welcoming embrace. Oh, she’d missed this. Missed this feeling of being cherished. This