Captive Bride by Katharine Ashe Read Free Book Online Page A

He may as well discover now if wanting Bea and not having her for so long had driven him to madness already. Talking to himself seemed a reasonable method of learning such a thing.
    “You do so when she is not watching,” the voice rumbled. “When none are watching.”
    A shiver passed across Tip’s shoulders, but now he knew it was not his conscience speaking. The voice was too different from his, rougher and flat-toned.
    “Except you, I presume?” he replied.
    “You wish to bed her.”
    Tip couldn’t blame the fellow for being observant, whoever he was. “Perhaps.”
    “Why have you not? Are you not man enough?”
    Tip’s neck bristled. “Who are you? Show yourself.”
    “I am Iversly . This is my home in which you sojourn.”
    Tip released a breath. No game-playing, after all. Just clear, simple bamboozling.
    “I understood that this house belongs to Lady Bronwyn’s father, Prescot . Why don’t you come into the open where I can see you?”
    “I stand before the tapestry that depicts a scene of hunting, by the north wall, near the window.”
    Tip’s gaze shifted to the spot. There was nothing there, of course.
    “You cannot see me,” the voice continued, “because you are not a maiden.”
    Tip couldn’t help chuckling. “Not remotely.” 
    “Why do you seek to conceal your desire for her?” The ghost returned to his former theme. “Why have you not taken her to wed?”
    “Who?”
    “Ach! You are a fool.” The voice rang with contempt.
    “And you are a villain, or so I am told.”
    “Insult me in my home again, lad, and I will show you my displeasure.”
    “I daresay. But how, I wonder.” Tip moved toward the tapestry. Chill air cut across the chamber despite the thick fire in the hearth nearby. “Do you throw objects, or are your methods more subtle? A loose board in the floor of a high battlement? A rusted nail in my wardrobe? I understand that ghosts get up to those sorts of tricks. Are you one of them?”
    The voice grumbled wordlessly. Tip lifted a brow, straining to catch the direction from which the sound came, but he could not discern it.
    “Ah, so you have no true corporeal powers, then,” he said. “I understand that is the way of most specters. Even ill-tempered ones.” He made a slow perusal of the chamber again, then looked to the tapestry, leisurely studying the hunting scene picked out in vibrant blues, reds, greens, and golds . A pack of dogs were bringing a young stag to the ground, leaping onto its long back, biting its flesh, drawing blood. The hunters, upon decorated steeds with bows at the ready and arrows nocked , closed in. “You know,” he said, “I am not at all certain you have the right to call me lad. Your voice sounds too young. How old are you?”
    “Five and thirty years I lived as a human. Since then centuries have passed, and now I am nearly as old as these mountains.” He sounded weary. Given the circumstances, Tip didn’t much sympathize.
    “I doubt that. In which century were you born?” The more questions he asked, the more likely the fellow would slip up.
    “I fought for King Harry when the blood of French princes and mercenary scum mingled upon the soaked fields of Agincourt.”
    “Ah, that long ago,” Tip murmured. He would unmask this humbug soon enough.
    “The girl is beautiful.” The voice dipped deep.
    Tip paused before responding. “You speak of your intended, I suspect.”
    “No.”
    Tip’s spine stiffened. This went too far.
    “My lord,” he said firmly, “ afford me the pleasure, if you will, of refraining from commentary on Miss Sinclaire . She is not your business.”
    “She is a maiden.”
    “ Which should not merit your interest. Haven’t you already chosen your bride, or am I mistaken?”
    Silence greeted him.
    “The curse stipulates a Welsh bride,” the voice finally said, hollower than before.
    Tip shrugged. “Well there you have it. Lady Bronwyn it must be, or none.”
    “The Sinclaire woman’s veins run