“Horatio . . .” Archie peered down at his friend from the saddle. “Achilles can carry the both of us at least halfway. You’re fair worn out.”

Why Horatio had insisted on walking Archie did not know. Riding would not be so difficult if only Horatio would bother to learn, and Archie was more than willing to teach him with the good horses in the castle stables. But Horatio had wanted to walk, and had gallantly kept up with Achilles’ leisurely trot for the past hour while the two of them took the fresh air of the misty Scottish countryside. Now, however, his steps dragged, shoulders hunching and large nose shining with sweat even in the October cold.

But stubborn as ever, Horatio frowned at Archie’s offer, regarding Achilles with a hard, untrusting grimace. “I’d rather not, Archie. That damn beast has it in for me, I know it.”

Rolling his eyes, Archie looked to up the gray autumn sky thick with rolling dark clouds. They had no time for this; the late-morning sky had not been so dark when they had left the stables earlier. “Horatio, it’s going to rain. The sooner we get back the better.”

“This was your idea,” Horatio grumbled back, making a face. Archie snorted. They could have been out here on orders from Admiral Pellew and the sky would have been just as threatening. He never said those things aloud, of course.

Pulling his cloak tighter against the wind, Archie shook his head and studied the terrain ahead of them. It felt good to be out despite the chilly, dry air. Their temporary home could seem crowded at times with his sister, her children, and her stepdaughter Emmaline – all come seeking reprieve from Fiona’s blackguard of a husband. Father had sent “Mr. Carlyle” as his steward to see to the Kennedy lands and to sniff out what he could regarding a family suit that his father – a Whig and an American in the eyes of certain relatives – should not be Earl. Archie had been glad to bring the others, of course, particularly Horatio who patiently taught Latin and arithmetic in the icy, poorly lit chambers of Culzean Castle and who had even generously extended a few Latin lessons to Miss Ward – a sign that he was beginning to think better of her – but Archie still missed the privacy of their little house in London.

He and Horatio had been following the river that ran near the family castle, gray now where it reflected the dark sky, but no doubt in springtime its banks would be rich and green and the air warm. For the time being, Archie was glad for his hat and gloves, but would be gladder still when he could warm himself before the fire in the grand bedchamber he occupied back at the castle.

“Damn it!” Horatio’s shout drew Archie from his thoughts. He turned, ready to ask what the matter was when a cold, fat raindrop fell onto the tip of his nose. Wiping it away, Archie drew Achilles to a halt, staring down at Horatio impatiently.

“Horatio, come up here! I don’t mean to catch my death.”

This time, Horatio did not object, hating nothing more than to be wet and cold. He grabbed on to the pommel of Achilles’ saddle and hoisted himself up, only to end up with both his long legs swinging over the side in his clumsiness.

Archie could not help but laugh, latching an arm around Horatio’s waist to prevent him from falling backward. “You can ride side-saddle,” he said. “Like a maid.”

“Archie . . .” Horatio turned his head away in embarrassment and lowered his eyes.

In truth, it was foolish for Horatio to have climbed in front of him, being taller and therefore making it difficult for Archie to see over his shoulder, but forcing Horatio to mount again in order to switch places would be more trouble than it was worth. Instead, Archie simply kept an arm around Horatio, keeping him slightly to one side as he dug his boots into Achilles’ flank, urging the beast into motion.

Horatio set his features when Achilles’ began to gallop – with their combined weight he could not be made to run for long – holding the pommel with one hand and sliding the other around Archie’s back for balance. The rain fell faster as they went and the wind picked up, whipping an icy shower into their faces. Archie cringed, tightening his arm for warmth, pulling Horatio closer against his chest.

“Why do you have to be so obstinate, Horatio?” he asked in his lover’s ear. “We could have had at least a few moments’ start had you come up here earlier.”

Horatio rolled his eyes at him, his full, ripe mouth settling into a frown. “If you and this damned animal could just get us back in one piece,” he muttered.

Chuckling to himself, Archie leaned closer so that his cheek lay against Horatio’s, just for a little warmth in the biting cold. Horatio must have been cold too, with so little meat on his bones, for his arm tightened beneath Archie’s cloak and he pressed himself so close against Archie’s chest that Archie could feel his warm breath on his skin. Horatio’s proximity felt strange with the stinging rain and Achilles’ body between his knees, clattering on in the open air, but the blessed heat against Archie’s cheek drew him toward Horatio’s mouth. Archie angled his head and kissed him, one with his warmth for a sweeping moment as they rode along.

“Archie . . .” Horatio gulped when Archie pulled back, eyes wide as saucers as though he had never been kissed before. The color drained from his cheeks. “For God’s sake, are you mad? We’re out in the open.”

“There’s no one to see.” Archie shook his head, urging Achilles on with his knees.

“There’s a house there.” Horatio glanced ahead of them away from the river, through a thicket of trees.

Sure enough, a tiny building peeked between the branches. Archie had not noticed it before. But even though the little shack was not far off at all, he did not concern himself with the place.

“It looks empty,” he said, and then leaned down and nuzzled at Horatio’s cheek and ear, just to be contrary.

At least he had intended only to be contrary. But Archie had to admit he found something irresistibly liberating in savoring Horatio’s warm skin in the cold and rain while they sped along under the open sky. The same spell must have worked on Horatio; he twisted toward him, tilting his head so that their mouths met, hot and soft, blocking out the rain and melting the searing chill for a moment. Archie closed his eyes, determined to prolong the distraction for as long as he could.

It was not long; Achilles hit a rut and Horatio slid from his grasp. Archie heard a hard thud and immediately drew Achilles to a halt. He whipped around and caught his breath to see Horatio rolling down the riverbank in a tangle of cloak, as if some invisible hand were pushing him toward the water. His hat slipped from his head, and Archie made to hop down and seize him before he hit the river, but thankfully Horatio’s boot caught in the weeds, stopping his descent. He ended up sprawled on his side, the breath knocked out of him, pressing a hand to his coat.

Panic flared in Archie’s chest. He spurred Achilles the few yards to the grove of trees obscuring that mysterious house, secured his bridle there and ran back down the slope, dropping to his knees at Horatio’s side.

“Are you all right?” Horatio’s eyes were open, but his features were contorted and he held his lip between his teeth in obvious pain. “You’ve cut your face.” Archie touched a finger to his cheek gently, where a river of blood trickled down, smeared by the rain and running into his mouth. “Horatio?” Archie bent closer when Horatio did not answer, laying a hand on his shoulder though he dared not move him yet. Rain pelted the back of his neck as he did so, coming down harder and harder.

At last, Horatio rolled onto his back with a deep groan, breathing hard through his nose as he clenched his teeth in the effort. “Damn that animal,” his voice was rough. “It was almost as though someone pushed me.”

Archie shook his head. It would have seemed that way, had anyone else been there. But given how clumsy Horatio was on horseback the simple answer was that Archie was a fool to have kissed him. He frowned, wiping at the red mess on Horatio’s cheek with the soggy sleeve of his coat.

“Can you move at all?” They could not stay here. Horatio was getting more soaked by the minute – his curls shrunken by now, clinging to his forehead like a net. Even the gray river before them rippled and seemed to rise as the torrents beat down.

Horatio flinched at the prospect of moving. “I can try,” he muttered, attempting to be brave despite the pain nonetheless. He slapped a palm to the wet earth before he lost his nerve, screwing his features in a mighty effort to hoist himself up into a sitting position. Gallantry failed, and he ended up near screaming through clenched teeth. Archie caught his wet body by the shoulders, supporting him and watching worriedly as Horatio heaved for air only to worsen the pain. “Feels like the damned beast danced on a jig on me,” he said after he caught his breath.

The horse would have killed him if he had, Archie knew, fairly certain Achilles had not got him with his hooves. But whatever had happened, they had to get out of the rain. A fine thing if Horatio caught a chill along with his injury.

“You’ll have to stand up; I can’t carry you,” Archie told him with a frown. “Do you think you can manage it?”

Holding a hand to his side, Horatio nodded. “I can try,” he said again.

“Right.” Archie slung an arm around Horatio’s shoulders. “One the count of three. One. Two –“

They both gritted their teeth, clutching at each other with Horatio leaning forward against his own hand for support. Horatio did not let go of him even when they stood aright, his face flushed, wet with blood and water. Archie wiped at his cheek once more with his sleeve. The gash must have stung terribly.

“Come on. We’ve got to get you under cover.” He looked again through the trees at that small house, the only shelter he could see. “Perhaps there’s someone inside,” he said. The trip home would be agonizing for Horatio no matter what, but waiting until the rain slowed would at least lessen his chances of catching his death.

It was not a long walk up the sloping riverbank and into the trees, but it was a slow one with Horatio heavy against him and the wind and rain so strong and thick they seemed to push their way through a curtain of water. By the time they made it through the trees they were both shivering, soaked to the bone and ducking their heads to keep the water from dripping into their eyes. Archie found himself clinging to Horatio as much for warmth as Horatio clung to him for support.

“I suppose I can now better appreciate your walk to court in Kingston, Archie,” Horatio said through chattering teeth, swallowing a mouthful of rain and the pain in his side. Archie snorted, surprised to hear Horatio jest about the incident even dryly. He tightened his arm, Horatio’s wet curls dripping onto his cheek under his hat. At least Kingston had been warm.

They reached the house to find the door wide open. The roof was old, leaking in several places, a loud constant dripping echoing from inside the house, and the place was terribly unkempt, with weeds growing around the porch and everywhere else. But Archie did not intent to stand around to mull over the place’s shortcomings.

“It doesn’t seem like there’s anyone inside,” Horatio observed, peering through the doorway. “There’s not a sign of life to be seen.”

Archie strained to look, seeing only unoccupied rooms and floors puddled from the leaks. “I’m afraid you’re right.” Frowning, he looked again. No one. “We’ll have to go in anyway. I want to have a look at you, and neither of us is getting any dryer out here.”

Horatio did not argue. He braced himself again, cursing, “Damn, damn,” as Archie steered them up the two porch steps and through the door. “Is anyone there?” Archie called when they stood inside, but received no answer. The place truly was deserted.

It had not been abandoned for long though; the place was too clean despite the leaks, as though someone had recently tidied it. There was a neatly swept kitchen with a bowl of apples on the table, a front room filled with plain furniture and wood stacked in the fireplace, and two bedrooms in the back. Archie guided Horatio into the larger one and helped him lie on the bed after a great deal of groaning and swearing.

“I feel like we’re imposing,” Horatio said, stretching out his long legs on the old coverlet. “What if the inhabitants return?“

Archie shook his head and set his hat down. “Well, it is my father’s land,” he shrugged.

Horatio did not chide him for that; instead, his dark, observant eyes flicked to the bureau facing the bed, where a small wood-framed mirror – likely the house’s only luxury – hung askew above it on the wall. “Look there, Archie, and on the doorjamb – there’s blood.”

Blinking in surprise, Archie got up and went over to the mirror. Sure enough, a rusty stain marred the dresser top, with another to match on the doorframe, so evident on the pale paint that Archie wondered how he had missed it coming in. On a hunch, he stepped back into the outer room, his eye immediately drawn to a third red smear upon the open door. Closing the door to keep the wind out, Archie suppressed a chill and then went back into the bedroom.

“Someone must have hurt themselves and ran out in a panic,” he told Horatio as he climbed carefully onto the bed. “They might be glad to find us here if they found no other help.” It must have been a woman, judging by the things on the dresser, but Archie did not want to tell Horatio that.

Whatever had happened did not really concern him though. It was Horatio he worried for now, lying on his back in obvious misery. Archie crawled over to him, pulling open his drenched cloak and then gently starting on the buttons of his coat while Horatio watched him with wide eyes and a tight mouth.

“I have to look,” Archie said, though Horatio had not protested. He pushed the coat aside and moved on to his waistcoat, opening the soaked linen in order to carefully tug Horatio’s shirt free of his trousers.

“Ouch!” Horatio complained when Archie tugged too hard, biting his lip, and then, “Well, damn it, you could have warmed them first!” when he slipped his hands beneath the cloth.

“Sorry,” Archie muttered back, pushing Horatio’s shirt up all the way. He saw no blood, no visible injury and sighed a little in relief, running his fingertips up from Horatio’s cold belly. “Tell me where it hurts.”

He applied the gentlest pressure to various places along his sides, stopping when Horatio bucked up with a rough groan. “Damn it!” he swore and then sank limp against the pillows, gasping, his features contorting all over again. Archie reached up and stroked his wet hair by habit, caressing until Horatio’s features relaxed and his big eyes opened. “I must have cracked a rib,” he said after the pain passed.

“Indeed you’re likely correct, Dr. Hornblower!” Archie nodded. He knew nothing of broken ribs, but something of illness and that the sopped garments clinging to Horatio’s body would do him no good. “I’ve got to get these off you,” he said, tugging at Horatio’s open coat. Horatio narrowed his eyes and gave him a hard look.

“You should have done that in the first place.” His gaze swept over his hurting body and he frowned.

Archie licked his lips. “Yes, but . . . “ Well, he had only wanted to first be sure that Horatio was all right. “I can build up a fire in the front room. That way we’ll have to move you anyway.”

He did not wait for Horatio to agree, but stepped through the doorway, passing under the leaks. There were thankfully no holes in the roof by the fireplace, and the wood inside was dry, creating a fine blaze once Archie lit the logs. He remained there only long enough to warm his hands, and then looked about. The floor was too cold and the old sofa hardly looked comfortable.

Going into the smaller bedroom – dusty as though it had not been used in years – Archie yanked the coverlet off the bed and went back to spread it a safe distance from the hearth, just near enough for the heat to reach it. He left it there to warm while he returned to Horatio, gently slipping arm behind his head.

“Come on. Get up.”

Horatio stiffened, braced his palms on the bed and then pushed himself up with a great groan, all but flinging himself into Archie’s arms. He rested limp again Archie’s chest, clenching his teeth and breathing through his nose to lessen the pain. Archie held him for a moment, stroking his back as carefully as he could. Horatio was shaking from cold.

“Now let’s see,” Archie coaxed when he drew back, steadying Horatio on his feet. He unfastened Horatio’s cloak easily enough, along with the thick wet wool of his coat and the thinner waistcoat beneath. His trousers and boots would have to wait, but the wet, clinging shirt could not. Archie divested Horatio of his stock and unbuttoned his shirt, slipping it down from his shoulders so that Horatio would not hurt himself further by raising his arms.

He rubbed his hands over Horatio’s chest once they were free of thing, the nipples stiff with cold and the skin icy. Outside the rain rushed down unrepentantly, pounding furiously as if determined to crush through the walls.

Indifferent to the sound, Horatio smiled and closed his eyes at the little massage. “You’ve warmed your hands,” he said softly. Then his eyes opened and he was peering down at him, his dark curls still soaked, the little gash showing a darker red on his cheek now. But he raised a hand and wiped at Archie’s cheek instead. “You’ve blood on you.”

“Only yours,” Archie shook his head, and then slipped an arm around Horatio’s back. “Now come on. You’re covered in gooseflesh.”

They made it into the front room, passing under the heavy leaks and over to the fire. It was not easy helping Horatio onto the coverlet Archie had spread there, but Archie managed, stroking Horatio’s chest again when he fell back rasping.

“If only we could find some laudanum,” Archie said after a moment. He doubted they would in a place like this, but perhaps the heat of the fire would help with the pain. Instead, he turned his attention to the wet trousers clinging to Horatio’s legs. “We’ve got to get these off, too.”

Crawling over to Horatio’s feet, he unlaced his wet boots and tugged them off, along with his stockings, frowning to see Horatio’s poor feet pink with cold. His trousers came next, wriggled off his hips with a groan here and there. The drawers beneath were dry – all that kept Horatio from lying there naked, but hardly enough to keep him warm. Archie pushed the discarded clothing aside and got to his feet.

“Just a moment.”

He went back into the bedroom, dragging the coverlet and a pillow from the bed. The coverlet he draped over Horatio’s chilled body, the pillow he wedged behind his head. Horatio smiled appreciatively, and then caught his hand as Archie fussed with the blanket some more, tucking it right up under Horatio’s chin. Archie stilled at the touch, swallowing to have those large eyes peering up at him, glowing in the firelight.

“You’re as cold as I am, Archie,” Horatio said in his soft but commanding way. “Come here.” Letting go his wrist, Horatio’s hand moved up to loosen Archie’s cravat, pulling away the thick, wet cloth that had begun to feel like a noose.

Archie sat back on his heels. He had not realized how cold he was until now, his own garments sticking wetly to his skin, but he could not resist the prospect of lying next to Horatio under a warm coverlet. His clothes came off in something of a hurry – everything but his shirt, stockings, and drawers – and he slid under the blanket beside Horatio.

“Are you all right?” he asked after a moment of careful shifting, slipping an arm behind Horatio’s head and pressing as lightly as he could against Horatio’s body while still soaking up his heat. Horatio felt so good, so familiar against him that Archie grinned with relief, threading his fingers absently through his lover’s unruly hair.

“More or less,” Horatio sighed, dropping his damp head onto Archie’s chest. He looked so innocent and childlike with his big eyes and long lashes that Archie could not help leaning down and kissing his forehead. Horatio smiled at that, always hungry for affection, and angling his head up, he cupped Archie’s cheek with his long, cool fingers.

Archie did not resist when Horatio pulled him down for a kiss, whimpering a little at the familiar taste of his lover’s warm mouth. For a long time he was content to let their lips slide together while the fire crackled, his hand tightening in Horatio’s hair. Only the need for air made him pull back, staring down at Horatio on the pillow.

Hot, hungry eyes met his, and if the delicious velvet of Horatio’s mouth had not heated Archie’s blood that look in Horatio’s eyes did it now. But Archie bit his lip against the stirring in his body and shook his head. “We can’t.” He glanced down at Horatio’s chest.

Nodding, Horatio continued to look up at him, something wistful in his gaze. “It’s been a long time,” he said very softly, as if there were someone around to hear.

Archie wet his lips, stroking Horatio’s hair again, a pang of longing rising inside him too. “I know.” How long had it been? A month? Finding time together was difficult in the castle with their quarters so far apart. He missed those moments, when the grinding of their bodies seemed enough to make the world stand still. “I’ll make it up to you when we’re back home in London. It won’t be long.”

“Hmm,” was all Horatio said, a tiny yearning smile on his lips. The smile faded and he stayed quiet for a moment before the familiar solemnity returned to his eyes. “What do you suppose really happened here, Archie?” he asked, staring into the fire. Stretching under the blanket, Archie frowned. He really had no answer. “It’s All Hallow’s,” he shrugged half-heartedly, not remembering that until now. “Perhaps they saw a ghost.”

Horatio glowered at him. “Archie . . .”

The exasperation in Horatio’s voice did not detour him, however. The crackling fire, and the empty house, and the foul weather created such an atmosphere that Archie could not help dwelling on ghosts for a moment, recalling the many unnerving stories his brothers and sister liked to tell as children. They had all relished giving one another a good fright on All Hallow’s, though the girls had often won that contest. One oft-told tale sprang instantly to mind.

“Blood and a mirror, Horatio. Don’t you know what that might mean?”

“No.” Horatio looked honestly confounded. “Unless you think they cut themselves shaving.”

“No, no,” Archie laughed at how dense Horatio could be. But then he thought for a moment and realized Horatio could not be blamed for missing this one. “That’s right – you don’t have sisters. Girls like to play in black magic, Horatio. They’ll sit around and summon up spirits and do all manner of heathen things.”

“Why?” Horatio made no effort to hide his disgust, having no patience for religion of any sort, much less superstition. Aboard ship he had been known to snap at his men regularly on the matter. Still, it could not have surprised him so terribly, given how mysterious and puzzling he believed the fairer sex to be.

“Well, there’s one spirit – Mary Margaret. She was mutilated in a carriage accident, the story says – her face and arms – and she bled to death looking at her wounds in the mirror. They summon her at the stroke of midnight, before the looking glass; they spin around and call her name thirteen times. They say she’ll kill her summoners if they can’t light a candle fast enough, but they never say how she’ll do it. That’s the frightening part.”

Fiona had claimed she would come through the mirror with an axe and lop off your head, yet Ophelia, his younger sister, was quite convinced she would slit your throat. Another cousin believed she would scratch you to death if you did not get her with holy water first, but Madeline was a Papist after her Frog father.

Horatio simply rolled his eyes. “Why risk it if they believe it? Why not let the dead be?”

Archie suppressed a chill thinking on it. The idea of a vengeful spirit lurking behind the mirror had always seemed disconcerting, as silly as it was. “They think she’s bound to answer a question. They want to know who they’ll marry.”

He received a disdainful grunt for answer, and then a dry, “Wonder what she’d tell *us*.”

“Well, I don’t care to find out,” Archie shook his head, pulling his side of the blanket higher up against his chest, starting to grow cold again.

Horatio looked up at him suspiciously. “Archie, you don’t believe in this nonsense, do you?”

Archie swallowed, lowering his head. “Well, no, I . . . “ As a child he supposed he might have been a little frightened when he had heard Fiona and his girl cousins whispering, but that did not mean . . . .

A strong gush of wind shook the house and all at once the rain beat down with a newfound fury. Archie gave a start despite himself.

Unfortunately, Horatio noticed and put a hand on his arm. “Archie, there are no ghosts in mirrors,” he said firmly. “It’s a scientific impossibility.”

Yes, Archie supposed it was, but that did not stop him from prattling on. “She’s not always in the mirror. There was a girl I met in Spain who’d been to Mexico. In her version the spirit walks by the river and drags the hapless down into the water to drown. Her name’s Maria, but they call her La Llorona – the Weeping Woman.”

“Archie, that’s . . .” Their eyes met, and Archie caught the sudden flicker of doubt there. Horatio turned his head away on the pillow to hide it, but Archie saw his lips moving nervously before he managed to cultivate a halfway rational tone. “Well I didn’t hear any weeping when I feel off that horse.”

“Of course,” Archie rushed to agree. He was only being foolish telling these tales. The house making him foolish, strange and deserted and cold as the place was, but as long as the rain poured down as hard as it did they could not go home. Archie suddenly, childishly, wanted very much to go home. He leaned a little closer to Horatio under the blanket, touching a finger absently to the cut on his cheek. The thing bothered him more than it should have.

“Archie . . .” Horatio caught his hand, a look of understanding in his eyes. He frowned and stroked Archie’s wrist gently. “There’s nothing to –“

The wind picked up force again, and then the shattering of glass echoed from the bedroom.

The hand on Archie’s arm went from petting to clutching. Horatio’s eyes flicked wildly about the room before settling back on Archie’s face. The crooked mirror had fallen from the wall, they both knew it. Archie swallowed hard. Horatio’s near falling into the river, the cut on his face, and now the broken mirror; the oddities were piling up.

Horatio was looking at him, leaning so near to him that Archie could feel his heart beating faster. “I think we should be gone from here, Archie,” he said, “before we lose our wits. We hardly belong here in any case.”

They certainly did not belong, but Archie glanced down at Horatio lying on his back under the blankets, scarcely able to move without swearing or groaning. He grimaced. “Horatio, you’re *hurt*. The ride home would be terrible.”

His friend’s lovely features hardened into that familiar mask of determination, insisting yet again upon playing the hero. “Archie, if we remain here much longer it’ll get dark and we’ll be forced to stay the night. Your sister will worry,” he added after a moment.

Archie cringed; he did not want to stay the night in this god-forsaken house, nor did he want Fiona to send anyone out looking for them after dark, but he did not want Horatio to hurt himself either. “Or I could go back alone and bring the carriage,” he suggested.

Horatio shook his head, giving Archie the feeling that he had no wish to remain here alone, though he would never admit to it. “The ride would be just as painful. Now, come on. Help me dress.” He put his palms down to push himself up, but Archie did not move to assist him.

“The rest of your clothes are still in the bedroom.” He wished he did not sound so nervous. He was a grown man for God’s sake.

Looking at the small pile before the fire, consisting of only trousers and stockings, Horatio sighed irritably. “Well, damn it, why didn’t you put them before the fire so they would dry?”

“I was busy making you comfortable.”

With another sigh Horatio put a hand on his arm, patient but exasperated still. “Archie, don’t tell me you’re really frightened. You’ve all but come back from the dead yourself. What have you to fear?”

Archie licked his lips, for a moment wishing his friend did not know him so well. “Right.” He was only being silly. He slipped out from under the coverlet and picked up his own trousers, wet still but warmer when he put them on. “Your clothes.” He started determinately across the room toward the hall. “There is no Mary Margaret and –“

His feet gave way, and he flailed for a moment attempting to grip the doorframe in order to regain his balance. The wet floor would not allow it. He slipped to one knee, a sharp pang shooting through his arm. Archie fingered the sleeve of his shirt, torn just enough to reveal a small gash on his forearm.

“Archie . . .” Horatio called from behind him. “Archie, come here. Let me see.”

“It’s just . . .” Archie pushed the cloth down, applying just enough pressure to stop the few drops of blood leaking onto his skin. “It’s a scratch.” He wished his voice had not shook, but a mad thought tumbled through his mind.

The cut on Horatio’s face and now his own arm, and what he had said before he had fallen. What if she did scratch her victims to death, little by little? Or had not another cousin claimed that she did not kill you at all, but drove you mad instead? Good God. Archie no longer cared to rationalize the possibility; he wanted to run from this place, childish or no.

“I’ve heard that one before.” Horatio’s eyes were still on him, intense even from the other room.

“Well it is.” Archie brushed his sleeve again and stood up. He did not want to argue, only to leave. “Now I’ll get –“

His knees locked when he reached the bedroom doorway, his heart beating fast. It was absurd but Archie could not make himself go in there. He wet his lips and felt Horatio’s eyes on him. Not wanting to look like a fool, he forced himself forward. Damn it, he had boarded ships and survived prison, and he was too old to be frightened by any silly ghost story.

The room lay as he had left it, save for the shattered mirror on the floor. Yet there was something Archie had not noticed before – a pair of candles on the dresser. The girls had always used candles in summoning their ghosts. A shiver rattled down his spine, and snatching up the pile of wet clothes Archie all but darted from the room.

Horatio had managed to get to his feet on his own, though how he had done so without screaming Archie did not know. “Archie, hurry up,” he complained, standing with his long arms wrapped over his bare chest, shivering. Archie nodded, eager to oblige and grateful that Horatio had not noticed his little fright in the bedroom. Another moment here and he would go mad.

Dropping the pile of garments on the ground, he snatched up the shirt and tugged it down over Horatio’s head, not bothering to pay attention to whether he buttoned it straight or not. His hands did not feel steady enough for that. He managed the waistcoat and cloak and then got Horatio into his trousers and boots one leg at a time before scrambling into his own clothes and banking down the fire in a rush.

The place appeared even eerier without the orange glow from the hearth, swept in dark shadows under the constant drip, drip from the roof. Even Horatio searched those shadows suspiciously with his big eyes, his body tense when Archie slipped a steadying arm around him, helping him through the door. He closed it behind them – it seemed safer that way.

Getting Horatio into the saddle proved as difficult a feat as Archie had ever undertaken, his stomach turning to see the pain writ clear upon Horatio’s face. He climbed up in front of Horatio and took the reins, his friend’s arms wrapping tight around his chest.

The rain beat down on them all the while, the wind wailing eerily through the trees. Archie dreaded to imagine how wet and cold they would be when they reached the castle. A part of him wondered if they would even make it home at all, with the sky so foreboding and the house looming so sinister behind them. Archie swallowed, but could not shake the uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach.

He looked to the river at his left – he did not know why. The gray water rippled and rushed and surely would flood if the rain did not stop. What had once appeared serene now seemed angry and threatening.

Still, something caught his eye in the water and he froze. It was just for a moment – the body of a woman floating by, her hair long and her face pale. Archie’s throat dried, seeing every detail so vividly. There were marks on her face. He swallowed hard and blinked, and then she was gone.

Whipping around he stared at Horatio over his shoulder. “I saw something – a woman – in the river. She’d cut her face. She was young, Horatio, and dead.”

No sign of alarm shone in Horatio’s eyes, only pain. He must not have seen it. “Archie, you’re . . .” he started to protest, but Archie cut him off in a sudden surge of conviction.

“I know what happened in that house, Horatio.” He remembered the candles on the dresser, the crooked mirror, and the blood. “She must have played my sisters’ game and grew terrified and flung herself in the water.”

“Dear God . . “ Horatio did not even protest this time. The prospect was equally terrible, ghost or no. He glanced at the swelling water and frowned. “There’s nothing we can do, Archie.”

“I know, but . . . .” Archie’s fingers shook on the reins. He hated the idea of leaving a drowned woman in the water, but he did not want to stay here another moment. “Don’t let go, Horatio.”

Horatio’s arms tightened around him, and Archie dug his heel into Achilles’ flank, spurring him on as fast as he could carry them.

*

A week later, Archie stretched out on the chaise in his bedchamber with a worn copy of Macbeth in his hands. It was high time for bed, almost midnight, but he was not yet ready to crawl under the blankets. In fact, he had not been sleeping well these past few days; the incident by the river still gnawed at his mind.

A pair of hands settled on his shoulders, and despite himself Archie gave a start. A soft laugh echoed in his ear and then those hands began rubbing gently, soothing him. “Afraid to put the light out, Archie?” Horatio asked with a hint of dry amusement, as if he too had not been frightened in that house.

Turning around, Archie frowned up at his lover, and then saw that he had left the door open. He was getting lazy, to be caught unawares. “It isn’t that,” he finally said. He was not superstitious – not usually anyway.

Horatio nodded, seeming to understand. “No word of anyone missing?”

“None.” Archie had asked around, but no one seemed to know anything about that house by the river, except that a solitary woman had lived there at one time.

“Hmm,” Horatio frowned. Then he peered down at him with his penetrating eyes and asked, “Do you think you imagined it?”

Heat crept into Archie’s cheeks, though he was not a man who blushed easily. Horatio must think him mad, fretting over a body in the river that only he had seen. Well, Archie supposed it was not the first time Horatio had seen him panic over illusory danger. “I hope so,” he answered after a minute. He certainly did not wish to entertain the more tangible possibility that the woman he had seen had been murdered either. “I’ll keep asking.”

Content to let that suffice, Horatio went back and secured the door, and then came closer again. The doctor had determined his ribs had only taken a bruising, and he was fully up and about now, not complaining of any pain. He leaned down, sliding his arms around Archie’s body. Archie relaxed into his embrace with a sigh, smiling as Horatio’s mouth moved seductively down one side of his neck.

“The others are away for the night, Archie,” Horatio said softly, pulling back to look into his eyes. “I thought we might . . .”

Archie cut him off, twisting his arms around Horatio’s neck and kissing him full on the mouth. It was true, Fiona and the others had gone to visit a cousin, and the castle servants might not remark if he and Horatio remained cloistered for only a little while. Excited by the prospect, he pushed his tongue between Horatio’s lips and rose up to his knees, eagerly pressing their bodies together.

“Well don’t tease me,” Horatio murmured against Archie’s mouth. “It’s been too long.”

Chuckling, Archie let Horatio draw him to his feet and lead him to bed, pulling him down on top of Horatio’s warm, lean body. They scrambled halfway out of their clothes and produced a sorely neglected vial of oil, and then fell to kissing again, rubbing exposed patches of skin. Archie was so hungry to be inside him after all these weeks that he had no patience for teasing either, his body pounding urgently as he smeared the oil between them.

He did not even think to be unnerved when Horatio sat up suddenly and put out the light.

**

AN2: I’m positive they had some variant of the game back in 1802. I would have used Pearlin Jean but I believe she haunts a particular place in Scotland and doesn’t have a threatening element, as I understand it.