LITMIR.BIZ

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intruder continued his path between a clump of overgrown bushes. Fury burned away all her caution. “What are you doing in my house?” she called. The intruder didn’t stop to answer. One look behind and he fled across the grass and out through a side gate.

      Dixie chased, racing through the gate, out into the lane and careened into a dark figure.

      “What are you doing?” she demanded, too angry to consider fear.

      “Dixie?” She knew that voice.

      “Christopher? Christopher Marlowe? What are you doing here?” This was a bit much, first intruding on her dinner, then her property.

      “Walking home. Are you alright? You’re shaking.” Strong hands gripped her shoulders.

      That last bit was true. She shook from her knees to the shoulders he held. Dixie stepped back from his hands and looked sideways. They stood in a narrow, unpaved lane. Behind her loomed the high brick wall and ahead, distant lights from the new houses glimmered through the trees.

      He stepped closer. “Something scared you. What are you doing here at this time of night?”

      “Looking at my house.” Had he been the intruder? He’d been suspiciously close but he wasn’t breathing heavily. After that sprint across the garden, a marathoner would be wheezing. “You really live out this way? You said you lived by the station.”

      “It’s a shortcut.” One hand went back to her shoulders. “You shouldn’t be wandering around here after dark. It’s not safe for a woman.”

      She’d ignore that. “Someone was there, in the house. I saw a light. He ran out this way.”

      “And you thought it was me?”

      How did she answer that one? She still did—halfway. “There’s no one else.”

      “I promise it wasn’t me. I don’t wander around empty houses by torchlight.”

      “You think I imagined it?” Let him dare answer yes.

      “No. It’s probably some teenager braving out a dare. The house is supposed to be haunted. You likely interrupted some lad’s attempt at machismo. This time I am walking you home. You’re scared and it’s not wise to wander around after dark.”

      She let him walk her back to Emily’s. Familiar with the path, he warned about roots and hazards hidden by the shadows. Crossing the edge of the Green, he took her elbow. “There’s a dip here, watch out,” he said. She stopped and explore with her foot. There was a hollow, deep enough to trip on but hidden by the grass.

      “How did you know?” she asked, looking up at his pale face in the moonlight.

      “I walk here all the time.”

      Ten minutes later they stood by Emily Reade’s front gate. He waited. Surely he didn’t expect her to invite him in? He was going to be disappointed.

      “Thanks for the escort. I think I can find the way next time.” She held out her hand.

      A strong, cold hand grasped hers. “Take care, Dixie. I’ll be seeing you around.”

      He waited at the gate as she walked up the path. Dixie turned and waved as she reached into her jeans pocket for the key. It felt warm after his fingers.

      Without turning on her light, Dixie watched from her bedroom window as Christopher retraced his steps across the Green. Had he spoken the truth? Was that path by her house a shortcut to his? A few questions or a check on a map could answer that. She watched him halfway across the Green until his silhouette faded in the dark.

      Christopher Marlowe paused in front of Orchard House and willed himself to think about the library inside. He wouldn’t think about its new guardian, her copper curls, her skin smooth as clotted cream, or the warm green eyes that glittered with intelligence.

      Most of all he’d ignore the warm rich blood that coursed though her veins. Temptations like that could ruin everything. With her ancestry, she was more likely adversary than ally. He wouldn’t forget that. He’d learned that much in four hundred years.

      “You’re an incompetent idiot! What this time? Scaredy cat frightened by a ghost? Give me strength!” Sebastian felt the blood rise up his neck as he snarled at James.

      Pale eyes glowered back. “You try it! Nothing’s there. I’ve gone through that room twice.”

      “Make it three times!”

      “You try poking round that mausoleum in the dark. I’m not going back.”

      A nasty chuckle vibrated in Caughleigh’s chest. “You will. I’m taking LePage round the property in the morning. It’ll be on the market by tomorrow afternoon. You’ve got one more night to find everything.”

      “Or, dear Uncle?”

      “Or you’ll find we’re not as benign as you thought. We can be quite nasty when roused and crossed. As the old ladies found out.”

      That hit home. Sebastian smiled. He had James where he needed him.

      “It’s beautiful.” Dixie ignored Caughleigh’s benevolent amusement. She’d need more than a morning to grasp the reality of owning such a house. Mysterious and eerie last night, the red brick glowed a welcoming warmth in the mid-morning sun. The cracked paving stones were worn, not hazardous, and the garden looked neglected, not sinister. But the elegance of the house remained, like a weary dowager resting her tired bones in the sun. “How old is it?”

      Sebastian shrugged. “Hard to say exactly. Too heavy to be Georgian. Maybe Queen Anne. The local historical society might know something. I think it’s listed. The back is much older of course.”

      Dixie held out her hand for the key; it was four inches long and weighed several ounces. The lock turned slowly but it clicked. Dixie grasped the dulled brass knob and pushed open the heavy black door.

      A musty smell and cold, damp air hung about the wide shabby hallway. Dustcovers protected the heavy furniture but a film of dust covered the marble fireplace and obscured the windows. Cobwebs decorated the crystal chandelier and the banister rails. It didn’t take much to imagine mice nesting in the rolled up carpet by the wall. “Miss Haversham would feel quite at home here.”

      Sebastian Caughleigh smiled. “Your aunts had a reputation for eccentricity.”

      “Surely they didn’t live like this?” She remembered Gran’s obsessive spring cleaning and her insistence on linen napkins and polished glassware.

      “Miss Faith died almost two years ago, she tended to be the organizer. I’m afraid Miss Hope didn’t manage too well and the house has been empty since October.”

      Sebastian strode from room to room like a zealous realtor. Dixie followed, collecting impressions: a wide, airy drawing room with faded pastel curtains, a dining room with a heavy, black oak table and exquisite pale wood paneling with a carved fireplace to match. The breakfast room looked out on an overgrown flower garden. A small parlor with worn modern furniture and an ancient TV looked like the Misses Underwood’s everyday room.

      The kitchen was dark, low-ceilinged and several steps down from the rest of the house. “Much older,” Sebastian said. “They built the new house onto an old farmhouse.”

      Upstairs were four bedrooms and another room filled with books from floor to ceiling. Dixie figured that must be the collection Christopher had referred to. A sixth room held an immense claw-footed tub, a pedestal washbasin large enough to bathe a small Doberman, and twin toilets with a double mahogany seat.

      Dixie stared. “Why double toilets?”

      Sebastian coughed. “Old-fashioned. You’d never see it nowadays. Whoever buys the house will have to modernize.”

      “But worth it. With some money spent on it, this would be a beautiful house.”

      “We need

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