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I’m sure the words came out harsher than he’d anticipated. Hell, the whole conversation had been harsher than I’d anticipated.

  He turned and walked away. “I’ll see you after the break.”

  “Finn, wait.”

  He didn’t, and I didn’t chase after him. I stood in my spot, bewildered, wondering how our conversation had escalated from a spark of indignation into a full-blown fire.

  »»•««

  Lizzy, with her uncanny ability to sniff out sexual activity of any kind, zeroed in on me during another quick break. She left her spot in the violin section and pulled me into a quiet corner. Giggling, she pointed at my neck. “Who gave you those? Finn? Please say it was Finn.”

  “No. Of course, not. Good grief. Do you honestly think I’ll fall into bed with him after so many years apart?”

  “I was kind of hoping you would.”

  “Lizzy,” I warned. “We’re professionals. He’s my boss.”

  “There are ways around these things.”

  I nodded at Joseph, who was making notes on his sheet music, his gaze drifting often toward Lizzy. “So I see. Are you enjoying your drummer?”

  Her freckled face lit up as if someone had turned a spotlight on her. “Joseph’s cool and extremely well-hung. He’ll do for now.”

  “You’re terrible.”

  “Enough about me. Seriously, Renata. Who gave you the hickeys?” She touched my scarf, moving it away from my skin, and shook her head in clear admiration. “He strikes me as very possessive.”

  You’re mine. He will not have you. Hugh’s echoing voice sounded in my ear, so clear he might have been standing there with us. “Um…it’s not what it looks like.”

  “My friend, I’ve seen a lot of hickeys. You might be able to pull the wool over Finn’s eyes…”

  “I’m not trying to pull the wool over anyone’s eyes.”

  “Except your own, maybe?” She peered at me. “Look, I know you better than anyone, and I know you don’t sleep around. Who bit you?”

  Heat shot up through my roiling insides, and I was sure my face turned scarlet. “You wouldn’t believe me.”

  All the merriment left her eyes. “Okay, now you have me worried. Spit it out.”

  “Hugh Dawlish did this.”

  She stared at me for a moment until realization made her eyes widen in disbelief. “Dream dude? The one from the portrait?”

  I nodded, feeling as credible as the boy who cried wolf. As I described my latest dream, Lizzy’s jaw slowly dropped.

  “Jesus,” she finally said. “He’s good.”

  “Lizzy, this is wrong…”

  “Don’t look so devastated. They’re just sex dreams. They should be fun, right?” She eyed my hickeys again and frowned. “Although these ones seem rather vivid.” She shook her head. “You probably just scratched yourself in the afterglow.”

  “Scratches don’t leave hickeys.”

  “Well, I don’t know. There has to be a reasonable explanation. Sometimes my skin reacts when I travel. Maybe it’s a touch of eczema or rosacea.”

  “Rosacea. Right.” That sounded credible. Granted, I’d never suffered from any sort of skin ailment other than teen-year zits, but I could convince myself I had rosacea.

  She adjusted my scarf so it covered the blemishes. “Whatever it is, you might want to keep wearing a scarf until it clears.” She inclined her head toward the conductor’s podium. “Finn’s not impressed.”

  I snuck a glance. Although one of the violinists tried to engage our conductor in conversation, Finn was too busy glaring at me to respond. He gripped the podium so hard his knuckles showed white. He blinked a few times and walked away, leaving the violinist alone and mystified.

  For the rest of rehearsal, Finn wasn’t his usual congenial self. He barked commands and doled out a couple of harsh criticisms. Whispers spread through the group, but no one dared question him. The sections he chose to rehearse were all choral passages, so I sat and barely opened my mouth for two hours. I wasn’t sure if he’d chosen those passages because they needed the most work, or because he just didn’t want to deal with me.

  Either way, I was relieved.

  I made a few notes, but spent the duration of the rehearsal thinking of Hugh and remembering how perfect he felt inside me. As my heart tripped to a strange, new beat, I wondered when I’d see him again.

  As a strange dread infiltrated my system, I realized I couldn’t wait for his next visit.

  Chapter Five

  My first couple of weeks in Shanley came and went. Finn remained professional, but distant. Lizzy continued shagging the percussionist. My hickeys faded.

  And Hugh stayed away.

  As much as I wanted to take comfort in the fact I’d had no other strange dreams, I still missed Hugh’s touch. Missed it in such a way I picked up other bad habits to distract me. I tore at my cuticles. I played with the ends of my hair. My nerves felt rattled, and I couldn’t stop wondering if I’d made him angry. Why would he avoid me?

  Although I obsessed over his absence, I acknowledged it was probably better this way. When I dreamed of him, I couldn’t think of anything else, and I couldn’t afford to lose my focus on the festival.

  In this sense, life returned to relative normality.

  On the next Friday, I told Lizzy I’d remain in Shanley for the weekend. She planned to head back to London, and Joseph planned to follow her there. However, I wanted to explore the small village some more.

  I also wanted to see if I could learn more about the Dawlish family, but didn’t announce it to her.

  After a wonderful sleep Friday night, I set out for Dawlish Manor early on Saturday morning. One of the other musicians told me the staff at the manor ran tours on the weekend, so I lined up at the front door with a handful of other tourists just before nine a.m. On the hour, the door opened and a voice rang out.

  “Your attention, please.” Dressed in tweed which appeared too heavy for summer, our tour guide appraised our group with hawk-like eyes. The elderly woman spoke in clipped sentences which left no illusion as to her authority. “Welcome to Dawlish Manor. My name is Mrs. Margaret Cummings. I am your tour guide for the morning. I have lived in the village all my life and am part of the local historical society. Follow me.”

  I smiled as I filed in with the others. This Mrs. Cummings meant business and everyone knew it.

  As we passed into the main entrance, one of the other tourists elbowed me and joked, “Stay behind the velvet rope, dear, or you’ll get your wrist slapped.”

  Once we were all in the foyer, our guide took her place several steps up on the staircase so she could be seen. “Today, I shall recount the history of Dawlish Manor. I like to think of it as England’s best kept secret. The manor was owned by the Dawlish family until it was acquired by our historical society in the 1950s. Although other great English families have held more influence and wealth, the Dawlishes were quite well known in this part of the country. The family is an old one and this branch can be traced back to before the 1500s. Are there any questions before we begin the tour?”

  “Here.” A man with a northern English accent held up his hand. “Is it true this place is haunted?”

  Mrs. Cummings stared back at the man through her glasses, her eyes squinting with mild annoyance. “I’m an historian. I don’t waste time on fairy tales.”

  With that, the topic was quickly dismissed. The man who’d asked the question groaned. He’d obviously hoped to glimpse restless spirits, wandering with their decapitated heads tucked under their arms.

  She led us into the drawing room, a magnificent chamber with warm, yellow walls and intricate white moldings. Gasps escaped from the mouths of the tour group. It was hard not to be impressed but I didn’t take much notice of the elegant silver candlesticks and plush carpets. I was more interested in hearing about Hugh and what his life would have been like.

  Our guide led us into other rooms, each one more ornamented than the last. She explained most of the furnishi
ngs were original to the home. As I strolled with the group, I discreetly touched the tops of tables and fingered the upholstery on worn chairs, knowing Hugh would have also touched these things.

  I felt his presence everywhere.

  When we finally arrived at the portrait gallery, Mrs. Cummings stopped before each painting, giving a brief history of the subject or the artist. Although her information would normally have interested me, I barely paid attention. Instead, my gaze flew toward the end of the gallery.

  Toward Hugh’s portrait.

  His gaze locked on mine, or so it seemed to do, and I felt powerless to look away. While the guide talked, I shuffled toward his portrait, needing to see him. Raw need tore at me, overwhelming every other desire I’d ever had, every other emotion. If I could have clawed my way into the portrait, I would have, but I had to content myself with staring at him and wondering.

  Would I dream of him again?

  “Please,” I whispered. “Come back to me.”

  I touched my faded love bites, wanting to feel him in some small measure, but the action provided as much relief as putting a Band-Aid on a limb that needed to be amputated.

  My throat ran dry. A low pounding made my ears hurt. And all the while, an ache in my core made me want to cross my legs.

  I needed…him.

  A hand at my shoulder made me jump. I turned and saw Margaret Cummings at my side, peering intently at me. “You’re as white as a sheet, dear.”

  “I’m sorry. I just feel…out of sorts.”

  I noticed then that the tour group was filing out of the portrait gallery, another guide at their head. How long had I been staring at Hugh’s portrait? Mrs. Cummings continued to stare at me, but I thought I spied a softening in her eyes. “Come to the kitchen. I’ll fetch you some toast. It should settle your stomach.”

  I followed her down a hallway and behind one of the velvet ropes, feeling a thrill of excitement at seeing a part of the manor other visitors didn’t get to see. In the small staff kitchen, we exchanged a few brief pleasantries while she prepared a slice of toast and offered me a glass of water. I emptied my glass so quickly she gave me another of her queer looks. I told her I was one of the musicians with the festival and she nodded, as if she knew all about it.

  With each swallow of toast, I felt more like myself again. “Thank you. I don’t know what came over me.”

  Her white brow arched. “I should think it was Hugh Dawlish.”

  My cheeks burned. “It’s an incredible portrait. You must have strange women fawning over him all the time.”

  “We’ve had our moments.” Her gaze drifted toward my neck and I knew she saw what remained of my hickeys.

  “I shouldn’t keep you from your tour.” I stood. “Thank you for the toast and water.”

  “Ms. Bruno…”

  “Call me Renata.”

  “Very well, Renata. What I’m about to ask may sound strange, but I assure you it is with good intentions. Have you ever had dreams…of a sexual nature…of Hugh Dawlish?”

  “Pardon me?”

  “I assure you, dear, I’m not a perverted old woman. However, in my years at the manor, I have been witness to some rather odd phenomena. The way you looked at Hugh’s portrait…well, let’s just say I’ve seen the look before.”

  Pain shot through me. What did she mean? Did other women dream of Hugh the way I did? Did he appear to others? How many others? As jealousy shook my being, I could have throttled someone. Thrusting my hands behind my back, I said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Besides, you said you didn’t believe in ghosts.”

  “My girl, if I lent any credence to those tales, I’d have every ridiculous paranormal investigator and ghost hunter in the country descending on the manor like a bunch of vultures.”

  “You’ve seen him, haven’t you?” My question hurtled out of me with the force of an accusation.

  “Not personally, but I’ve spoken to others who have. Women much like you. The manor has hosted the Shanley Music Festival for decades. Over the course of that time, I’ve met several brunette sopranos who admitted to having dreams of young Dawlish.” For the first time since meeting her, her perfect posture took on a slight slump. “I’ve seen healthy women wither away over him. I’ve seen them pining, turning into empty shells. If you’re experiencing the same dreams, you need to know what you’re up against.”

  You’re mine. Something told me to stay far away from this woman, to keep my secrets. “I’m not having any dreams,” I lied. “I just liked the portrait, that’s all.”

  She stepped toward me, her shoes clicking on the tile floor. “Of course, dear, but just in case, please take my card.” She reached into her jacket pocket and produced a business card bearing only her name and phone number in a plain, no-nonsense font. “If you should happen to dream about Hugh, please ring me. Day or night.”

  She led the way out of the kitchen and I stumbled after her. “What are you, some sort of dream interpreter? A medium?”

  She turned and smiled. “No, dear. I’m just a tour guide.”

  »»•««

  I didn’t remain long after Margaret’s odd interrogation. It was too much information to process and I wanted to keep what was left of my sanity. For the first time since my parents died, I felt as if I were balancing on a slippery precipice. That the slightest blunder could pitch me forward into a menacing gloom.

  Kyrie, eleison. Christe, eleison. Kyrie, eleison. The words from Requiem sliced into my consciousness. Lord, have mercy. Christ, have mercy. Lord, have mercy.

  Other women had apparently dreamed of Hugh, women who resembled me. The pernicious thought settled in the darkest corners of my brain, making me want to do terrible things.

  I left the manor, wanting to be as far away as possible from Hugh’s sphere of influence. Needing a nap all of a sudden, I returned to the inn, knowing full well Hugh could still reach me there if he wanted. After tossing for about an hour, I did fall asleep. I think a part of me wanted to dream of him so I could scold him for flirting with other women. However, he did not infiltrate my dreams this time.

  The bastard only seemed to come to me on his own terms.

  I went to the Brandy Nan that night, resolved to drown my silly sorrows in a glass of Pimm’s and lemonade. I brought the tour booklet from Dawlish Manor and settled in a booth in back. Opening the book, I flipped to the page bearing Hugh’s portrait, whispering, “What do you want with me?”

  “Can I buy you a drink, love?”

  I started at the voice. A young man in an expensive suit stood before my table. He grinned, his gaze dipping toward my breasts.

  “I didn’t mean to startle you. You look lonely all by yourself.”

  “I’m fine. I mean, thanks, but no thanks.”

  He shrugged and walked back to the bar. Any other time, and I might have accepted. Right now, I didn’t feel like making small talk with strangers. I was too occupied with my thoughts, too caught up in reading about Hugh.

  Sometime later, when another male voice accosted me, I looked up and sighed out of frustration. Only this time Finn stood at my booth, a toothy grin on his face, holding an almost-empty pint of Guinness.

  “Hey, Lark. May I join you?”

  My heart skipped and the black clouds in my head floated away. His sway over me still amazed me. As nervous as I felt around Finn, he seemed to bring a sense of light with him, where Hugh only brought me an intoxicating darkness. I nodded and made room for him in the booth.

  He slid in next to me, put his arm around me, and kissed the side of my head. “I’ve been here for about an hour but didn’t say anything. You looked miles away reading your book.” He gazed at me, his eyelids droopy. He sighed. “You’re pretty.”

  I grinned and pointed at his glass. “Thanks. How many of those have you had?”

  “Three, maybe four. I don’t remember. But it’s all right. My room is within stumbling distance.”

  “You’re drunk, Finn.”

 
He waved at the air in front of his face. “I don’t get drunk. I’m a very important man. People look up to me. Didn’t you know?”

  “They do look up to you. I look up to you.”

  His lips compressed. “Right. Fucking fantastic. I’m thrilled you look up to me.”

  “How about I walk you home? Where are you staying, the inn?” I gave him a gentle shove and maneuvered him out of the booth.

  “Yeah.”

  “Me too. Come on, big guy.” I grabbed my tour book, and wrapped Finn’s arm around my shoulders.

  As we left the Brandy Nan, he waved at the other patrons. “Good night, everyone. It’s been wonderful seeing you. Stay real.”

  They gawked at him.

  “Oh, brother,” I said, laughing as we walked out. “You’re a silly drunk. How did I not know this?”

  “Because I’ve only been drunk twice in my life.”

  “Why did you get drunk tonight?”

  “Because you’re wearing another man’s hickeys.”

  “Oh. Look, they’re not…”

  “Fuck, Renata. Don’t lie to me. Not to me.”

  “Okay,” I said, wanting to change the subject. “So when was the other time you got drunk?”

  He stared straight ahead as we walked. “After I left Toronto. I think I stayed drunk for days, trying to forget you.”

  Ouch. We didn’t say anything else until we reached the inn. I tried not to analyze Finn’s inebriated rambling. He’d probably gotten tipsy watching a football game with the other men in the pub. Surely it had nothing to do with me.

  If he’d cared so much, why hadn’t he called me once during those eight years? Okay, I now knew his father never passed on my messages. Even still, Finn didn’t call of his own accord. I didn’t hear from him once. He’d run off to make a new life while I moldered. And now he wanted me to believe he was pining? Over me?

  Right.

  “Okay. Which room is yours?”

  “Second floor. Fourth room on the right. Or you can just drop me here on this nice floor.”

  “I won’t leave you on the floor.”

  We trudged up the uneven stairs, his arm feeling heavier on my shoulders with each step. He handed me a key and I opened up his room. He flopped immediately on the bed, rolling onto his back, closing his eyes.