Penmort Castle (Ghosts and Reincarnation #1)(52)
Author: Kristen Ashley

Fenella pointed a finger at Abby and squealed, “See!”

“Fenella, don’t point,” Nicola’s voice was gentle but firm. “And don’t tell tales.” Nicola descended the stairs to come close to them but her kind eyes were on Abby. “You must be Abigail.” At Abby’s nod, Nicola went on, “My eldest has a vivid imagination,” she explained, “she swears Penmort is haunted.”

Cash heard Abby’s indrawn breath and felt her press closer to him.

He had, of course, heard about the Famous Ghost of Penmort Castle. It was the spirit of the raven-haired beauty, supposedly named Vivianna Wainwright, who was also the spurned lover of one of Cash’s ancestors.

Legend told that Vivianna was a practicing witch and once her love was thwarted, she’d put a spell on her soul before hurling herself off the tallest tower of the castle, falling down the side of the tor to a gruesome death.

She’d done this not to kill herself but to live eternally within the castle as a malevolent phantom, wreaking vengeance by causing intermittent havoc and murdering the true loves of Penmort’s male line.

In all the castle’s history, this had allegedly happened only five times. Not generation-to-generation but, the tale dictated each time the victim had been Penmort’s master’s one, true, abiding love.

It was, Cash knew, complete rubbish.

His fingers covered Abby’s on his bicep and he murmured, “It isn’t true, darling.”

“Then what just happened?” Fenella demanded to know.

“I’m sure spooky Vivikums has better things to do than ruin Mummy’s dinner party,” Honor retorted.

Fenella’s face blanched before she whispered, “Don’t call her that. She doesn’t like it.”

“Hogwash,” Honor returned on a sharp hiss.

Nicola’s hand came out to touch Abby lightly. “Abigail, what must you think of us? Let’s take your coat and get you a drink.”

Cash escorted Abby up the steps and into the outer, took her bag and then her coat from her shoulders, motioning with his chin that Abby should follow Nicola.

He saw Nicola take Abby’s arm in her hand and guide her toward the drawing room saying, “I’m Nicola, Cash’s aunt. You’ve met Fenella, this is my youngest, Honor.”

Fenella and Honor trailed them and Cash watched as Abby cast a tremulous grin over her shoulder at Honor.

They disappeared into the drawing room and Cash took off his coat and tossed his and Abby’s belongings over a wide window seat before he traced their steps.

They were gathering in the drawing room, Alistair and Suzanne already there and when Cash entered Abby was greeting Suzanne.

Suzanne was Nicola’s middle child and the only one of the three that Cash actively detested. Far prettier than both her sisters, she knew it. She had the same sultry aura of Abby but where Abby’s was simply a part of her, Suzanne’s was a weapon she used.

And Cash had learned over the last year she used it aggressively.

As pretty and alluring as she was, she was no match for Abby’s striking beauty and casual glamour.

The minute his eyes fell on Suzanne’s face, which was turned to Abby and filled with unconcealed spite, Cash saw that Suzanne knew that too.

Cash felt his body tighten, instinctively going on guard at the malice he saw in his cousin’s eyes.

“Abigail!” Alistair boomed and Cash turned from one opponent to another.

His uncle did not look like a Beaumaris, at least not any of the former occupants of this house whose portraits hung in the gallery upstairs.

He was not tall, but of average height. He was not dark-headed with black eyes, but had light brown hair and faded blue eyes. He was not lean, straight and broad, but paunchy, slightly stooped with narrow shoulders.

And his eyes were mean.

He’d apparently decided to play the effusive host. Cash knew this because Alistair approached Abby, planted his hands on her shoulders and gave her a kiss on the cheek.

This was not Alistair Beaumaris’s normal manner.

“Delighted you’re here. Absolutely delighted,” Alistair proclaimed as Cash positioned himself close to Abby’s side. Alistair looked up at his nephew and smiled a rusty smile. “Cash, my boy.”

“Alistair,” Cash replied shortly and with considerable effort controlled the desire to curl his lip in loathing.

“Sit, sit,” Alistair motioned magnanimously to one of the two facing sofas. “Where’s Trevor?”

“Here, sir,” Trevor, one of several Penmort servants that Alistair had long since lost the ability to afford, came forward.

“Abigail, what would you like to drink?” Alistair asked and Abby opened her mouth but Cash spoke for her.

“Amaretto and Diet Coke, only if it’s diet and only if it’s chilled. Crush the ice. A splash of cherry juice and three cherries,” Trevor, Alistair, Nicola and her three daughters stared at Cash as he went on, “for me, whisky. Neat.”

All eyes moved to Abby when she said quietly, “Or, if that’s a bother, a martini would do.”

Trevor looked relieved and asked, “Gin or vodka?”

“Vodka,” Abby replied, hesitated and then went on, “up, no ice,” she hesitated again and queried, “would you mind chilling the glass?” On Trevor’s shake of the head, she hesitated yet again and added, “Olives, no onions,” and then she paused and completed her exacting litany, “three of them, on a toothpick, please.”

The minute she was finished, he couldn’t have helped it and didn’t try, Cash burst out laughing.

When he was done, he slid his arm around her, curling his fingers on her shoulder. He pulled her to him and gave the side of her head a kiss.

When he moved away, Abby’s head tilted back and she stared up at him, her face soft but stunned, her eyes shining in a way he’d never noticed before.

Her gaze felt like a physical thing, light and sweet, almost like a caress.

Cash noticed something move in his peripheral vision and with regret he tore his eyes from Abby, looked to his audience and saw they were all watching.

Alistair looked angry.

Fenella looked bewildered.

Suzanne looked irritated.

Honor looked astonished.

Nicola looked pleased.

Cash shared Nicola’s mood and guided Abby to the sofa, seating them both, crossing his leg and tucking her close to his side with his arm around her.

“So tell us, Abigail, what do you do?” Alistair asked, positioning himself at the fireplace, close to the mantel, assuming a Man of the Castle pose.