Ghost Walk Page 6

  Grace’s dark brows tugged together. “It must’ve been terrible for you. Dying, I mean.”

  “Nah, t’was over in a flash. One minute, I was hanging by my neck and wishing I could breathe. The next, I was standing outside of my own body. I never felt a thing.”

  That was a lie. Ghosts didn’t sleep, but sometimes Jamie still dreamed of murderous faces and twisting flames. In life, Jamie drank a bit, and stole a bit, and tupped more than a few willing women, but he’d never been a truly bad sort. At least he didn’t think so, no matter what his father had claimed. Not even spending his childhood under that asshole’s thumb had prepared him to witness the mindless savagery of Harrisonburg’s lynch mob, though. The hatred and evil and fear. Even in death, he couldn’t escape the nightmarish memories of his death.

  Grace stared at him, as if she understood the shadows passing over his face. As if she’d seen the darkness, too.

  Jamie cleared his throat and glanced away from her. It was a crying shame that he couldn’t have some of that merlot. …Even if it was a shockingly inferior vintage. “The hardest part of being a ghost is not being able to touch anything.” He said abruptly. “You’re powerless to change or interact with a single bloody thing around you.”

  “Well, you’re sitting on that sofa.”

  Jamie looked down at the floral cushion. It appeared to be one of the few items in her home that hadn’t been rescued from a dumpster or purchased at a yard sale. The woman was clearly on a mission to save everyone else’s broken-down, forgotten, and/or homely castoffs.

  The soft, flowery upholstery suited her, though. Grace Rivera struck him as a very feminine creature. The kind of lady who would’ve never consorted with Jamie, back when he was alive. In his day, she would’ve carried a dainty lace parasol, and poured tea for well-bred gentlemen callers and worn cream-colored pearls.

  …And crossed the street to avoid pirates.

  In this age, she was stuck in a cramped apartment with no one to challenge that wanker Robert for treating her badly. Sometimes he wondered how people like Grace endured the modern world. The meek were undefended here. Left to flounder alone, as others sped past at impossible speeds. The strong and selfish survived, while weak-spirted girls collected chipped pottery and remained nearly as forsaken as Jamie.

  “I’m not sitting on this sofa.” He assured her. “I’m just… hovering. Like a mist. I can’t actually touch things or interact with anyone.”

  Although, when Grace had walked though him at Robert’s house, Jamie had experienced something. Some electrical jolt that zinged through him like nothing else ever had.

  He’d felt her.

  Grace arched a brow, like she was reading his mind. “Then how do you explain what’s happening between us?”

  “I can’t explain it and donea even want to.” Jamie wasn’t one to look a gift horse in the mouth. He had somebody, now. Another person in this world was talking to him. Seeing him. Calling them an “us.” That was enough. “For whatever reason, you’re the one, Grace Rivera.”

  “The one for what? I’m never the one. Why is this happening to me?”

  “I donea know. There must be something special about you.”

  “There’s not.”

  “To me, you are the most special person in this world.” Jamie assured her. “I need you to help me clear my name.”

  This uptight woman was his only hope. For over two hundred years, he’d been branded a murderer. More than even dying, he hated that everyone, everywhere thought he was a killer. That, throughout history, he was disparaged and reviled. This was his one shot to prove his innocence.

  Grace stared at him for a long moment. “You’re out of your invisible mind.”

  Of course she couldn’t make this easy.

  Frustrated, Jamie got to his feet and restlessly moved to look at the books on her cluttered shelves. Not one romance or fairytale. Just dry historical tomes, guaranteed to bore the hell out of anyone with an ounce of passion in her soul. “Do you not own a paperback, love?”

  “I’m a stable and practical person,” she shot back, “except when I’m being haunted by condescending jerks.” She shifted on the sofa, so she could glower at him. “Don’t try to change the subject. How do you expect me to clear your name?”

  “Does that mean you’re drunk enough to listen to all I have to say?” Hopefully so, because Jamie was eager to fix his unlife. He had no doubt it would take some convincing to get such a timid lass to lend a hand, so he’d like to get started.

  Luckily, there was quite a bit to appreciate about Grace while he waited for her to acquiesce.

  His gaze flicked to the long length of her legs. The fuzzy robe had slid up to her knees when she turned, so the view was suddenly spectacular. Of the many things he admired about this century, women’s fashions were high on the list. Whoever it was who’d convinced them to do away with long skirts and petticoats was a bloody genius.

  “Drunk or not, I’m not sure I want to listen to you.” Grace muttered, still not noticing his distraction. It was as if the woman didn’t even consider her own appeal. “If you’re not a brain tumor…”

  “I’m not a brain tumor.” He was bloody sick of repeating that fact.

  “…then you’re James MacCleef Riordan.”

  Finally, she was getting it. “Yes!” He moved to stand in front of her. “I’m Jamie Riordan.”

  “Captain of the Sea Serpent…”

  “Yes!”

  “…Patriot…”

  “Yes!”

  “… and notorious serial killer.” Grace watched him with a brooding expression. “Did you hurt those girls?”

  “No.” He crouched down, his eyes locked on hers. “I’ve never hurt a woman, Grace. I give you my word of honor.”

  She didn’t look convinced. Hell, he didn’t blame her. Even when he was alive his word of honor hadn’t meant much. The girl was right to be skeptical of a cad like him.

  “Gregory Maxwell, the hero of Yorktown, wrote a whole book about your crimes and his poor murdered sister.” She said with an obstinate expression on her face. “Horror in Harrisonburg. My aunt has an original copy.”

  “Gregory Maxwell was the biggest moron alive, outside Parliament. I doubt he could write his own name, let alone an actual book. And he certainly wasn’t a hero at Yorktown. He ran at the first sign of battle. Believe me, I was there.”

  “I’ve read that book at least a dozen times.” Grace insisted. “It lays out all the evidence against you in a very convincing way.”

  “If it was even halfway comprehensible, then someone ghostwrote the damn thing for him.” Jamie sighed and got to his feet, again. “No pun intended.” What could he say to persuade her to help? Nothing brilliant popped to mind, so he went with the truth. “Look, whoever killed those girls put a great deal of effort into the crimes and it netted him nothing but blood. I am not a fellow who puts a great deal of effort into my crimes, unless I’m going to gain a great deal of coin.” Jamie arched a brow. “I was business man. I cared about money and all the nice things it bought me.”

  He cared about having enough that no one would even hold him prisoner, again. For thirteen years, he’d been a hostage to his father’s hatred and the memories of it still shook him to the core. Ian Riordan had been a righteous and God-fearing pastor, with a dark hatred for his only child. Jamie’s twinkle of knowing had damned him forever in his father’s eyes. He was an odd-duck, when Ian wanted a swan. Nothing could have convinced him than Jamie wasn’t the devil, so “spare the rod” hadn’t even been an option. He’d been determined to beat the magic right out of him, the way he had with Jamie’s mother.

  Fiona Riordan had been a shell of a woman by the time Jamie came along. Once she’d been pretty and lighthearted and saw fairies dancing in the hills, but those parts of her died in Ian’s captivity. For so long, Jamie had been angry at his mother. With no way to support herself or her son, she’d squandered her life on that sadistic bastard. She’d stayed with
Ian until she finally escaped into death. Maybe his mother was just afraid to leave her comfortable house and servants. Or maybe she’d made the right choice and saved them from dying on the streets. Either way, money had killed her. The lack of it, anyway.

  Jamie had left Scotland the day she died, determined that he would somehow acquire enough gold to keep himself free forever. And he had… for all the good it did him. Damn treasure was lost, now. Buried with no map to find it, again. Stuck in the darkness.

  Just like Jamie.

  “You were a pirate.” Grace corrected. “Not a businessman.”

  True enough, but he’d rather she not focus on that part of his biography. It wouldn’t help to convince her he wasn’t a criminal, if she knew he stole for a living. “I prefer the term ‘privateer.’”

  “Except you weren’t a privateer. You were a pirate. Granted, you missed the Golden Age of Piracy by about fifty years, but you made up for that in the sheer amount of stuff you stole. You got rich by robbing merchants up and down the Eastern seaboard. And the rest of Harrisonburg thought you were guilty of far worse.”

  Lord, she could be a stern little thing. “They also burned a few midwives at witches. Harrisonburg’s justice system wasn’t exactly foolproof.”

  One black eyebrow arched. “No one was burned as a witch in Virginia.”

  He made a face, because she was technically right. “Well, it wasn’t for lack of trying, I assure you. The people of this town would’ve convicted a melon of a crime, if it came from the wrong family. All they cared about was having a respectable name.”

  Grace rolled her eyes. “Tell me about it.” She muttered. “Still, Horror in Harrisonburg points out there was overwhelming evidence against you.”

  “So you said in that slanderous Ghost Walk you gave. But the evidence was wrong.”

  She kept talking. “You romanced all three of the victims, and you couldn’t give an alibi for any of the disappearances, and you had a temper…”

  Jamie cut her off. “I’m Scottish. Of course, I have a bloody temper! But, I didn’t hurt those girls.” He carefully spaced out the words. “Those ‘reports’ of yours were given by the very fools who hanged me. You think they’d admit that they were the actual murderers? I did nothing and the wankers killed me in the street!”

  “The victims…”

  He cut her off. “I danced with them at the Summer Ball, but I had no reason to harm any of them. I danced with quite a few girls, that night. Not all of them died!”

  “Maybe these girls spurned you.”

  Jamie snorted. “Lucinda Wentworth was the only one I spoke to for more than a few moments. And I assure you, she didn’t spurn me at that ball. Or later that night.”

  Grace blinked owlishly. “You slept with Lucinda Wentworth?”

  Despite himself, he smiled at her shocked tone. “My time was not so puritanical as your time would like to believe. Miss Wentworth fancied bold men and wasn’t shy about revealing her predilections.” He paused, recalling Lucinda with a wry grin. “She wasn’t shy about revealing anything, actually. Once she even…” He trailed off, because, deep down, he struggled with lamentably honorable impulses. He tried to ignore them, but they were always whispering in his head, telling him not to be a jackass. “Well, Lucinda was a lovely girl.”

  For once, Grace actually looked interested in something he had to say. Her pretty face lit up. “I’ve seen all the layers women dressed in back then. How did she get in and out of her clothes? Did she take everything off when you two met for your dates? It seems like a colossal bother to deal with all the petticoats and stays. How did it work?”

  Jamie stared at her for a beat. “Do you really wish to hear what Lucinda wore to our assignations? That’s what you want to be discussing?”

  “No.” She reluctantly murmured, even though she clearly wanted to discuss just that. “We can talk about something else.” She paused. “I just… I mean… Did you love her?”

  His lips curved at that innocent question. Perhaps there was a bit of whimsy in the girl’s soul, after all. “No. T’was never a romance between us, just a bit of sport.” Lucinda had never been his and he’d never been hers. They were both waiting for other people. “We were friends, though. I liked her and I have no desire to gossip about her undergarments.”

  Grace’s head tilted. “Okay.” She said with far less hostility than she’d been showing him thus far. “I respect the fact you’re a gentleman.”

  Jamie frowned. “I’m not a gentleman.” God, he’d nearly rather be called a serial killer again. “I just never harmed a hair on Lucinda’s head. Or Anabel’s or Clara’s. That’s what I’m saying.”

  “You’re so touchy. I was giving you a compliment.” She paused. “And they didn’t have hair on their heads. That’s some kind of evasion thing, right? All of you wore wigs back then. Even the women. Shaved heads and wigs all tallowed into place.” She wrinkled her nose in a way that was quite delightful. “The smell must have been God-awful.”

  The Good Lord save him from this daft woman. “Can you focus on what actually matters here? We need to clear my name.”

  She made a face. “Except I’m still half-convinced you’re guilty.”

  Jamie shook his head. “You wouldn’t have been sent to me if you weren’t the one I was waiting for. I can’t rest until I’ve proven my innocence. Perhaps it’s why I’m still here.”

  “Maybe you’re just not trying hard enough to leave.” She retorted. “All this happened over two hundred years ago. Maybe you need to just… let it go.”

  “I can’t let it go!” He roared. “I was hanged, woman! They put a rope around my neck and they fucking hanged me on the very street you walk along every day. They left my body strung up for three days, with a sign around my neck calling me a murderer! That’s not something I can let go of!”

  “You’re not even trying to…”

  He cut her off before she could offer another denial. “You have to help me, Grace.” He scraped a hand through his hair, pacing up and down the length of her small parlor. “I need to know who’s responsible for killing me. Because whoever murdered those girls? He was the one who should’ve died at the hands of that mob. Not me. Him. He killed me too and I want to know the bastard’s name.”

  “That’s impossible…” The phone rang, interrupting her protest.

  Jamie shot it an annoyed look. Telephones were not a part of modernity that he enjoyed. They were forever making shrill infernal sounds and, more importantly, it was damn hard to eavesdrop on only one side of a conversation. That seriously impacted his social life. With no one to talk to, Jamie spent most of his time listening to other people talk. That was much harder to do when one of the parties was only there via a plastic contraption. It was like only seeing half of a movie. Phones, texting, email… They were all a pain in the ass.

  He arched a brow when Grace sat there and let the phone ring, again and again. Odd. In his experience the living always jumped at the chance to play with their technology. “Not going to get that?” He prompted.

  “Nope.” Grace drank some more wine.

  “Why not?”

  “Because I already know who it is and my night’s been lousy enough without anyone reading my mind.”

  Chapter Four

  June 21, 1789- Eugenia and I had tea with Clara Vance today, as I was too bored to think of a reason to postpone it. Her company only added to my ennui. All she talked off was witches, for God’s sake! Like the Puritans of old! Her new fixation seems to be those fortunetellers, the Riveras. Her father, the Reverend Vance, warned her they’re devil spawn or some such nonsense. So she’s taken to crossing herself when she passes by their shop and now my dreary sister Eugenia vows that she will, too.

  I cannot imagine a more tedious Sunday afternoon!

  From the Journal of Miss Lucinda Wentworth

  “Grace?” The woman’s voice was demanding and full of authority. “It’s your Auntie Serenity. I know you’re there, so you migh
t as well pick up the phone. Hiding won’t do any good. I’m a psychic, in case you’ve forgotten. I know everything.”

  Grace sank deeper to her collection of pillows, at least half of which were decorated with flowers or mermaids. All of her attention stayed fixed on her carton of vanilla ice cream. “I’m not hearing her say ‘I told you so,’ right now. No way.”

  “I told you so about Robert.” Serenity said, as if on cue.

  Grace sighed, her gaze rising up to the ceiling in a silent bid for patience.

  Jamie arched a brow. “Your aunt is a psychic?”

  “She’s a tarot card reader, if you want to get technical. My family owns a palm reading and herb shop, here in town. The Crystal Ball.” Resigned brown eyes met his. “I’m sure you’ve heard of it. It’s been here since the Revolution, much to Harrisonburg’s dismay.”

  Oh, he’d heard of it alright. “Donea be telling me, you’re part of those Riveras?” This uptight little creature came from the most eccentric band of fortunetellers this side of Richmond? Well, that explained the magic he sensed in Grace and why she was trying so hard to suppress it. Death hadn’t done away with Jamie’s sense of humor, so he started laughing. “Bit of the odd-duck your family, are ya, love?”

  Just like he’d been. It was a pleasant surprise to have something in common with this fay girl, even if it was just the fact they both had trouble fitting in with their relatives.

  She didn’t appreciate his smile. “I’m glad my dysfunctional life is funny to you.”

  “Oh so am I.” He assured her happily. “Would have been a disaster if the only person who could see me was dull.”

  “Gracie?” Aunt Serenity continued. “There’s no sense in sulking. I saw it all happen when I did my nightly reading on you. You’re well rid of that asshole Robert. That’s all I’m saying. Your cousin had a bad feeling and I always trust Charity’s feelings, ever since she almost won the lotto that time in Florida.”