Hearts of England Page 10

  "No probs," he replied. "But you'd better break the news to him the road girl is first up on the shooting list as soon as you can. After all, he's going to be manning one of the cameras. Then when he's okay about it, would you ask him if he'll talk to me, strictly unofficial and off the record? A local's knowledge of the actual place would be very useful."

  "I will. In fact, I'll do it now. I'm meeting him for lunch. Wish me luck. Oh, and help yourself to my notes. You know where they are."

  "You'll be fine," he said and received a smile and a wink as she dashed out the door. Heather tackled life head-on and at full throttle.

  Mark's own lunch was sausage sandwiches and a packet of crisps, and he ate it at his desk, reading Heather's onscreen notes and handwritten scribbles. It didn't take long. The book she'd found it in, The Folk Tales of Wiltshire, had been written in 1923 and lived in the Reference Department in Salisbury's library. She'd photocopied the relevant page and listed several books that had the same or similar stories but set in different locations around Britain. He'd just dropped his lunch packaging into the waste bin when Heather emailed him.

  Kev agrees, but he's wobbling so better make it soon. Dinner tonight, our place? I'll cook lasagne. H xx

  He hesitated. His lover, Jack, was due home in the next few hours after two months away as part of the site director's team excavating a Greek temple in Cyprus. They had plans for the evening that didn't involve anywhere other than Mark's apartment—primarily his bedroom. Then his mobile phone vibrated in his trouser pocket, and he knew even before he looked at the screen he'd see Jack's name there.

  "Hello, love," Mark said, and Jack's warm chuckle sparked a corresponding warmth in his blood.

  "Good to hear your voice," Jack replied, as if they hadn't spoken, texted, or emailed every day. "God, I miss you. Can't wait to be home."

  "Can't wait to have you home," Mark answered honestly. "Uh, how forgiving are you feeling?"

  Jack groaned. "Don't tell me. You have to work." Thankfully he sounded amused rather than irritated.

  "Not exactly. Remember Heather? Her boyfriend's a cameraman on the show, and he saw something years ago that relates to the first shoot of the new season, but he doesn't want to talk about it on the record. She's invited me to dinner, and if it's okay with you, I'll ask her if you can come along as well. She makes a great lasagne."

  "Hmm. Lasagne, is it? That's a powerful bribe, lover. As long as we can leave early, I'm game."

  "Thanks. I'll owe you one. Or two," he added with a grin.

  "Oh, I'll hold you to that, Sunshine," Jack purred in his ear, and Mark shifted to ease his cock in his suddenly tight trousers.

  "I'll look forward to it," he answered huskily. "You're through customs? You'll be home soon?"

  "Yup. Just grabbing a coffee, then I'm heading for the long-term car park and my car. Traffic permitting, I should be home in a couple of hours."

  "Great. I'll be there."

  They talked for ten minutes while Jack finished off his drink; then Mark returned to his work. First he phoned Heather to make sure she was fine with the additional dinner guest, promised to bring the wine, and then set about transcribing Heather's written notes to the computer. The books she'd listed weren't only to be found in public libraries; they also sat rubbing shoulders on his bookshelves.

  Mark's collection of ghost stories, folklore, myths, and legends had taken years to compile and were more wide-ranging than most libraries. He'd documented his own personal experiences of spirits and hauntings as well, but no one attached to Goldstream Media had seen or even knew about them.

  Dominic Waldron claimed to be a psychic. Mark Renfrew was the real deal.

  * * * *

  Sprawled on the couch, surrounded by half a dozen books, Mark didn't hear his front door open. But when a deep voice carolled, "Honey, I'm home!" in a fake American accent, he stood so fast the books tumbled to the floor in a series of thuds.

  "Jack," he said, drinking in the sight of his lover like a man starved of essential nourishment. Sun-bronzed, his dark hair free of its usual ponytail and tousled around his unshaven features, Jack looked like a romantic's ideal image of a gypsy rover. His wide smile and brilliant grey eyes added a mischievous charm to an already handsome face, and Mark thanked the day he'd met the man.

  "God, I missed you!" Jack strode towards him and scooped him into a rib-springing hug. Laughing, Mark returned the strong embrace, enveloped in the familiar beloved scent of sun and woody notes and warm male skin.

  "Missed you, too." He would have said more, but Jack's mouth closed over his and he gave everything to the kiss. They'd been lovers for just over a year, the last two months of which they'd spent apart, and Mark could not envision his life without this man in it.

  "Next time I'm hired to work on a foreign dig, you come with me, okay?" Jack whispered into his hair. "Sod the TV show."

  "I could probably swing a couple of weeks' leave. But we don't have to talk about it now. We've got a few hours before we have to be at Heather's, so—"

  "I like the way you think," Jack said solemnly. "I need a shower, then you."

  "That can be arranged."

  Chapter Two

  Damn, but it was good to be home with Mark. Much as he loved his career as a freelance archaeologist, being in this spacious second floor flat in a Victorian townhouse with his lover topped it. Just. He hadn't had a real home since he'd left his parents to go to the University of Bristol and hadn't known he needed that kind of base until he found it with Mark. It scared him a little sometimes how much he enjoyed spending time with Mark, how much he cared for him. But all it took to dissipate the fear was to meet Mark's green eyes and see the same enjoyment and caring in their depths.

  When it came down to the bottom line, it was simple: Jack loved the man and knew he was loved in return. They fit together perfectly. Even Mark's weird gift no longer freaked him out the way it had at first. It was simply an integral part of Mark. Like his perpetually untidy chestnut brown hair and his reading glasses, both of which made him look like a rather sexy librarian. Especially when he had his nose stuck in a book. Like now.

  Jack leaned against the bedroom door, his towel wrapped around his hips, and gazed fondly at his lover. Mark lounged on the pillows under the duvet, a book in his hands and another beside him. The golden glow from the bedside light gilded his nakedness, and it didn't matter that cold, wind-driven rain splattered on the windows. Here was warmth and comfort and Mark.

  "Glad you didn't start without me," Jack said loudly, and Mark looked up. His welcoming smile said it all as he set aside books and glasses then threw back the covers. Jack dropped his towel and crossed the room in a few strides. He flopped onto the bed, rolled to wrap up Mark in his arms and legs, and burrowed his face into his neck. "God, you smell good," he murmured. "And you taste good. I want to be balls-deep inside you, and afterwards I want you in me. Then I'll know I'm home."

  "Mmm. Coming home is the best part of going away."

  "Yeah, but going away together is better."

  "We'll find a way to manage it," Mark promised, and swivelled his hips. Their erections were trapped between them, smearing precome across their bellies and sparking fire along Jack's skin. He clamped his hands on Mark's lean buttocks and pressed him even closer. When Jack slipped his fingers between Mark's bum cheeks, he discovered his lover had done more than just lie in bed reading a book while waiting for him. Lubricant slicked the way to his entrance, and Jack took full advantage. He groped for a condom in the bedside drawer and knelt between Mark's spread legs to tear the foil packet and roll the condom onto his cock.

  Their gazes locked together, Mark's pupils expanded to fill his eyes with dark heat, banishing the sunny green iris to a narrow ring. Jack caressed slowly down Mark's body, relishing his involuntary responses. As always, nothing was held back. Mark gave all he was to their lovemaking, revelling in sensation like a true sybarite. And Jack shared his delight. They were a perfect match as far as h
e was concerned.

  Without breaking eye contact, Jack positioned his cock at Mark's entrance and pressed inside on one smooth glide. The heat and welcoming constriction around his shaft brought Jack close to orgasm, and he struggled to retain control. Mark gasping his name and writhing in ecstasy didn't help. They'd been apart too long for either of them to go slow. Unfortunately, they only had a few hours now. Later on they'd have all night. So Jack drew back a short way and drove in deep.

  Not for a second did they glance away from each other. Gazing into Mark's eyes as they approached their climaxes made the experience even more intense. He reached down and wrapped one hand around Mark's straining cock, pumped and thrust at the same time, and a rush of pleasure surged through him as he reached his peak. Then Mark convulsed beneath him, his semen spurting in creamy strands.

  Locked in each other's arms, they lay together while their breathing and heartbeats evened out. The post-orgasm quiet time was as pleasurable as the sex. Part of Jack wanted to suggest they stay home, not go to dinner with Heather and her man. But the rest of him knew it was important to Mark. Besides, he was pretty curious himself.

  * * * *

  The lasagne was as good as Mark had said it would be. Heather's boyfriend, a lanky, good-looking blond with a wide grin and no obvious prejudices against gays, asked a lot of intelligent questions about archaeology. He was nervous, though, and Jack noted that Mark kept the conversations away from the paranormal. At the end of the meal, Heather suggested they all move to the couch and armchairs and brought over a tray of coffee.

  "So," she said brightly, "Jack, would you mind helping me with the washing up while Kev and Mark talk?"

  "Sure," he agreed, but Kevin shook his head.

  "It's okay," Kevin said quickly. "You don't have to leave. Mark, Heather said you want to know about the girl in the road."

  "If you want to talk about what happened, yes, I would. But—"

  "As long as it stays unofficial. I don't want Domiprick getting his grimy paws on it."

  "He won't, I promise. It'll stay between the four of us."

  "Good. Just, don't laugh, okay?"

  "We won't," Mark vowed, and Jack nodded. Heather sat beside Kevin on the couch and took one of his hands in both of hers.

  "Okay," he said again and paused to take a few swallows of coffee. "You know the story, right?"

  "I don't know much," Jack said. "All Mark's told me is that this girl runs out of the trees and into the path of cars."

  "That's it, in a nutshell." Kevin's smile looked uncomfortable. "The way my Gran told it, back in the eighteen hundreds, the local lord of the manor was a villain in the best music hall tradition. Wild parties, wild living, wild gambling. Worked his way through half a dozen wives and took any woman he wanted, whether she agreed or not. Got to the point that none of the local families would let their daughters work up at the manor, and he had to hire servants from London or Bath. But they never stayed long."

  He paused for more coffee. "I expect you can tell where this is going. He was out riding and saw a pretty girl gathering apples in an orchard. She was the youngest daughter of one of his tenants, and he wanted her. She told him to sod off and ran home. The lord ordered her father to bring her to him or he'd kick the whole family out of their cottage. So the father did. But that evening she fought off Sir Whatshisname when he tried to rape her and escaped from the house. He set his hounds on her trail and rode after her. She ran through the woods towards her home, and just as she crossed the road, a coach came round the corner and she went under the horses' hooves. She's supposed to haunt the woods and the patch of road where she died." He forced out a laugh. "Gran loved that story. She'd tell it every Halloween, given half a chance.

  "Anyhow, ghost or no ghost, accidents happened at that corner, people were hurt, a few died. Some said they'd seen something in the road and they'd swerved to avoid it. Dad was driving us home from Chippenham one night. We'd gone to the pictures to see a Disney film, and it was dark. No streetlights out in the country. Something white suddenly appeared, right in front of us. Dad tried to avoid it, and we ended up in the ditch beside the road, inches away from a bloody great tree. Afterwards Dad said it was a pale plastic sack, one of those that horse feed used to come in, blown at us by the wind. But that wasn't what I saw. She had blood on her arms and face, her clothes were torn, her hair was all tangled, and she was screaming. She looked terrified, mad with fear. And then she was gone."

  They were silent for a moment, and Jack didn't doubt for a moment that Kevin had described exactly what he'd seen. Goose bumps prickled down his spine. Mark cleared his throat.

  "Did you hear her screams?" he asked quietly.

  Kevin shook his head. "Only Mum's. And Dad swearing. I saw her, Mark, clear as I see you now. And she saw me. Our eyes met and she fucking saw me!" He picked up his coffee with a shaking hand and drained the mug. "Dad got out of the car and looked around. Didn't find a thing. Not even a plastic bag, let alone the sodding feed sack. I was nine years old and so fucking scared I wet myself."

  "Can you show me on the map exactly where it happened?"

  "Yes, I think so. It's one of the back roads out of Neston. I'll have a muck around on Google Maps and give the coordinates to Heather for you."

  "Are you going to be okay working on that shoot?" Mark said. "You might want to call in sick when they're due to do the location work."

  "No. I'm fine. It was just a stupid kid's overactive imagination, right?"

  "Maybe. But it was real enough to that kid. Thanks, Kevin. I really appreciate this."

  "No probs. Pity my Gran's not with us anymore. She could probably have added more details."

  "What you've told me is great," Mark assured him. "It confirms everything we've found in the research books and added a few more details."

  "Is the manor house still there?" Jack asked.

  "Yes," Heather answered. "I checked that out. It's the Darleigh House Hotel and Conference Centre these days, and the Darleigh Golf Club is in what was the family's Dower House."

  "Great." Mark smiled. "Names are a very good place to start." He stood, and Jack rose with him. "Thanks for a perfect lasagne as well. We'd like to stay longer, but..."

  "But Jack's been away for too long and you've only just got him back." Heather chuckled and hugged them both, then Kevin shook their hands. "We understand."

  "Yeah," Kevin said. "And thanks for being understanding about this. I really don't want anyone in Goldstream to get hold of what happened to me."

  "They won't, not from us," Mark promised, and Jack nodded agreement. He wouldn't want Dominic Waldron pawing through his childhood dramas either.

  * * * *

  The drive across Bristol from Filton to Staple Hill didn't take very long when the driver knew the side roads as well as Mark did, and Jack spent the time watching his lover's intent profile. Mark was obviously mulling over Kevin's story, making plans. Which Jack wholeheartedly supported, as long as he got to tag along on the ghost hunt. He grinned and rested his hand on Mark's thigh, gaining a quick sidelong glance and a smile.

  "After tomorrow I don't have meetings for the next few weeks," Jack said. "And where is it we're going, again?"

  "To Neston, near the Wiltshire-Somerset border. Are you sure you don't mind?"

  "Hell, no. Will you release her if she's real and not a kid's nightmare?" Jack didn't know how Mark did it, but somehow he freed the bonds that tethered the often terrified or angry spirits to the place of their torment and let them move on to wherever souls went after death. Of course, that probably guaranteed none of the assorted kit the show's techno team used would be able to show paranormal activity, other than residual electromagnetic fields. He'd seen Mark doing whatever he did a few times, and only once had he experienced anything even vaguely paranormal. But that one occasion proved more than enough to turn his innate scepticism to outright belief. At least, as far as Mark and his psychic gifts were concerned.

  Mark nodded. "If I ca
n. Don't want any more people killed or hurt. According to a newspaper report in Heather's notes, a bus turned over on that corner last year. Nobody died, but four ended up in hospital. The driver said the fog was pretty thick in the valley as he came down the hill. As he turned the corner, something flew into his windscreen. And," he continued, "he'd driven that route for years and seen nothing out of the ordinary. So have lots of other people. That corner is a well-known hazard. There're traffic warning signs at the top of the hill and on the approach from the valley. Yet every now and then, a crash is apparently caused by something appearing right in front of the vehicle."

  "Well, with any luck, someone throwing themselves in the path of a coach might have made it into a newspaper," Jack said. "And we have the Darleigh name. Want me to help out? I have access to the university's reference library. I'm sure it'll have books and research papers not available in the public libraries. I'll start on the Darleigh connection."

  "Fantastic!" Mark's grin showed appreciation—and an emotion a lot more basic. Both triggered a response in Jack's heart as well as his groin. "Thanks, Jack. I'll owe you another one."

  "I'm going to start a little black book," he promised, voice deep and vibrant with unabashed lust.

  Chapter Three

  Several days of trawling through now-defunct local newspapers' two centuries of archives found lots of fascinating incidents, but no mention of a girl or anyone else throwing themselves under the hooves of horses in the Wiltshire and Somerset areas.

  "After all," Mark said to Heather, back in the office after another headache-inducing session poring over microfiche, "not every ghost story is built up around an actual happening."

  "Tell me about it," Heather replied. "I've found a major inconsistency as well. All the accounts, including Granny Riley's, have the girl running away from the house. That is two miles away from the corner in question as the crow flies. You can't tell me she managed to stay ahead of a pack of hounds and a man on a horse for two miles." She laughed and shook her head. "Listen to me! Anyone would think I was trying to authenticate it! I need chocolate. Pass me the biscuit tin, please."