Page 138 of The Dravenhearst Brides
“Do you want me to take you there? I’ll show you. I’ve done as you asked. I only ever do as you ask.”
“No.” She wrenched away. She wasn’t going anywhere with him, least of all the rickhouse. She turned and fled down the stairs.
Xander didn’t give chase. He remained on the landing, watching her with those milky aged eyes. Beau was at her heels, stepping on the hem of her skirt.
“Go to bed, Xander,” Margot called, trying to keep her voice from shaking. “You’ve no more business here tonight. Go to bed.”
He melted into the shadows of the house and disappeared.
Margot drifted to the base of the stairs, gripping the newel post in her shaking hands. Overhead, the crystal chandelier swung like a pendulum.The foyer was empty and cold, the veil to the past shattered. Babette was gone.
Margot’s mind raced.
Xander had been insistent. He took her bag to the rickhouse.
Ruth had barely mentioned it in her recollection, but Margot was certain she specified the stables. And again, Alastair had been very clear on the telephone tonight, the meeting place was the stables. He was told so by Ruth herself when he arrived outside the party—she browbeat him away from the door, directing him to the stables to hide.
He waited there all night, Alastair did. Waited until dawn for a woman who never showed. Alastair, who swore on his parents’ graves he had not poisoned Merrick. That he had nothing to do with Babette’s death. That he’d lived with a broken heart for twenty years…
Margot rubbed circles over her eyes. When she opened them, weary, the front door blew unlatched in the wind. The chill of centuries blasted into the foyer. Beau yelped, pressing against Margot’s legs.
“Shh,” she murmured, bending to scratch the dog behind his ears. She peered outside and saw a woman running across the lawn, heading for the hill. A wedding veil fluttered behind her like an ivory parachute. When Margot passed over the threshold of the door, a shudder ran through her—the ghost of Richard, storming back inside the house, moving directly through her with tears coursing down his cheeks. Margot lost her breath. His crossing felt like being doused with a bucket of icy water.
The wedding veil disappeared over the crest of the hill.
Margot began to run. She had to see. She had to know. Paws thundered behind her—Beau, giving chase. Her white nightdress twisted insidiously at her ankles, threatening to trip her as she lengthened her stride. She lifted it to her knees, the skirt turning ominously silken in her hands. She pointed her feet in the direction she’d last seen the fluttering of Babette’s veil.
Not heading for the stables, but for the rickhouse.
The rickhouse doors were cracked open, their metal handles covered with frost. Light spilled out in a single thin beam. Margot panted, pressing a palm to the door, followed by her ear. Trying to listen.
The night was silent. It answered no questions.
Margot knew fear. It twisted its snakelike tendrils around the hammering beat of her heart. Squeezing, telling her no. Telling her to turn back. To wake Merrick.
Whatever she did, above all else,Do not go into that rickhouse alone.
But never yet had a Dravenhearst bride been able to resist the pull of Rickhouse One.
A lantern cast flickering shadows on the wood floor. Margot’s gaze lowered, and her hand opened in shock, dropping her skirt to the floor. The skirt that, horrifically, no longer belonged to her nightdress but her bridal gown. Margot wore silk. Silk where moments ago had been cotton and wool.
She caught her breath, a trembling hand raising to her chest. And then she heard it, just ahead. Beyond the first row of ricks—ricks that had been empty a few hours ago, now filled with barrels…blocking her view.
But she heard. Raised whispers.
And she saw. A pair of long shadows.
Ghostly black shadows on the wooden floor. Close together. Two people. Just beyond the first row of barrels.
Margot turned the corner.
Babette was there, pressed against a wooden beam by Ruth. Ruth, who had her hands in Babette’s red hair and her lips on hers. Kissing fiercely.
“You promised,” Ruth pleaded against her lips. “You promised me.”
Babette pulled back. “You should know better than anyone not to trust my promises.”
“You’ve always kept them tome. Always.”
