In a sea of feminine perfumes and rustling skirts, Lord Ives forged an imposing masculine presence. He wasn’t a bulky man like his agent, but elegantly muscled, filling out the shoulders of his coat to perfection. He was still wearing old tweed and leather, but his collar was stark white against his sun-browned features, and his cravat was correct in all ways.
Iona studied him for the infamous Ives traits, but his dark eyes appeared more midnight blue than black. His nose was sharp and long but fitted well with stark cheekbones and square jaw. His hair was certainly Ives black with a hint of curl. He wore it off his collar in back, but a swathe fell across his high forehead. Trimmed sideburns softened the harshness of his jaw.
He was formidably masculine. Iona ducked her head when his gaze swept the room.
“Aunt Winifred.”Gerard acknowledged his aunt on her throne. “You are looking delightful, as always.”
He greeted distant cousins and was introduced to newcomers who made their presence known in the dimly-lit chamber. None of the people introduced appeared to be the beekeeper.
“The wool this spring was very fine.”
He thought the speaker, Grace, might be related to the wife of one of his uncles. The Ives side of his family had a distressing habit of marrying into the multitudinous Malcolms, probably due to proximity.
To make reparations for his earlier ill behavior, he complimented her on the beauty of the woven blanket in his chamber. He praised the cheese made by another of the ladies and inquired about the herb garden tended by a different aunt. The women didn’t hesitate to mention improvements that should be made or ideas for new projects of interest.
They were good women, he knew. They fed and clothed the poor with their efforts and employed a village with their projects. They did everything his wife might be expected to do—except share his bed, of course. He didn’t dare dip his wick in Wystan or the preacher would be at the door the next day.
He had just discovered the slight feminine shadow in a distant corner of the hall when an unearthly moan echoed from above.
One of his widowed cousins murmured “Oh, dear,” and turned to Winifred. “We had best see to Lady Alice.”
Lady Alice? Gerard suffered a moment of pure panic at the thought of the deceitful widow talking to his female relations. Alice washere? In his home?Why?
And what the hell was that keening—a banshee?
Winifred was already on her feet and out the door. The herbalist cousin followed, along with the widow who apparently translated spectral howls.
“Have a seat, Ives,” another aunt suggested tartly. “You needn’t hover. Tell us what you’ve been frivoling your time on.”
“I’d rather know what the commotion is about.” He should have put the medallion back in his pocket. He’d like a spirit’s opinion of his haunted household.
The wails had ceased as soon as the haunt had their attention.
“We call the banshee Ceridwen. We haven’t heard her in ages. The last time was when one of the kitchen maids miscarried. There’s nothing you can do. Have a seat.”
If he translated woman-speak—Lady Alice wasmiscarrying? That explained a great deal. He yanked at his collar to loosen it. If Lady Alice had been angling for a husband to hide her disgrace, he owed the mysterious interfering servant in Rainford’s library more than he realized.
He needed to get the hell out of here. He felt as out of place as a stallion in a cow herd.
“I don’t believe you’ve met Nan yet?” Grace asked, interrupting his panic.
Formal names were meaningless where so many were related in one manner or another and all called themselves Malcolm, regardless of married names. Gerard was fine with that. It prevented him from sorting one female from another and their rank in the pecking order.
But if the beekeeper was one of his many maternal or in-law cousins, he wasn’t aware of it. He waited expectantly for Nan to step into existence.
Instead, a quiet voice spoke from the far corner by the windows. “We’ve met, Grace, thank you.”
Gerard bowed in that general direction. “I’ve ordered Avery to build a fence around your skeps. He’s to keep his beast tied up until then.”
He waited for her to step into the light, curtsy in appreciation, anything that any normal young lady would do. She didn’t.
“A fence large enough to keep out that monster will need to wait until we build the new hives.” Despite the soft tones, her voice contained the confidence he was starting to associate with her. “The Langstroth hives will be larger and require more space than the current hives occupy. I wonder if a flowering hedge with a gate might not be better.”
He hated talking with an anonymous shadow. He might as well be addressing the banshee. “Do none of our journals make recommendations?”
He referred to the library that had expanded to a gallery built on the upper level of this hall. If he looked up, he wouldn’t see enormous paintings of his ancestors but row upon row of book-filled shelves and oak railing. The narrow staircase to access the gallery had to be difficult for women in billowing crinolines and trailing skirts, but as he recalled, the elderly librarian was small and dressed like a servant.
“I prefer to consult my queen on a matter of this importance,” the hidden Iona replied in all seriousness.
