Old Secrets Read online

  The boy barely suppressed a shudder, and ran a self-conscious hand over his waist length hair confined in a tidy pony tail.

  Carol hugged him, enveloping him in a cloud of choking perfume.

  Ethan gagged, quickly extricated himself from her cloying embrace and turned to the next person. Relief shuddered through him. “Aunt Maura.”

  The petite woman opened her arms and he stepped into them. “Welcome home, my darling. How are you?”

  “Much better for seeing you.” Ethan held her tightly and buried his face in her hair for long moments, clinging to her like a rock in a storm.

  He held her away a little so he could look into her eyes. Laughter lines fanned out from clear blue eyes. Her vivid, lived-in face was surrounded by a nimbus of auburn curls, now liberally streaked with grey.

  “How come you’re more beautiful than ever?” he asked, his voice suspiciously husky.

  “Flatterer.”

  Her laugh and embrace warmed a cold place deep inside him. Tears dampened his eyes, and keeping one arm around her, he extended his other hand to the tall man at her side. “Ishmael.”

  “It’s been too bloody long.” His cousin’s grip was fierce as they shook hands and reconnected.

  More people pressed in and Maura went to move away.

  Ethan held her hand anchoring her by his side. He was loath to lose contact with the only person he did want to see.

  “Well hello stranger.”

  Ethan blinked and recognition kicked in.

  “Cassie Piper.” He swooped and pulled her into a bear hug before putting her away and looking into her strange sea-green eyes. “Still telling people their house is going to burn down?”

  She laughed and wiped away a tear before joshing his arm.

  “That one’s so old it’s growing whiskers, but you’re a sight for sore eyes, Ethan. I’ve missed you.” She lifted a hand and touched the winking diamond in his left ear. “What’s this, South American treasure?”

  Diamonds on her ring finger glittered in the sunlight. He caught her hand and held it tightly. “Who’s the lucky guy?”

  She turned to the tall grey eyed man who’d been watching their reunion with a lurking smile.

  “This is my husband, Grayson Pritchard.” Her smile flashed.

  “The lawyer?” Ethan looked at her, his eyebrows rose and he shook his head.

  She laughed. “Guilty as charged.”

  “You married a lawyer? Free spirited, spooky Cass? I don’t believe it.”

  “She’s still free spirited and still as spooky as hell.” Grayson chuckled and extended a hand and as they shook, he said, “To mimic Archie, there is a mountain of legal work to do.”

  Ethan suddenly connected the dots. “You’re old Archie’s partner, Dad’s lawyer?”

  “I am, for my sins.”

  “That bad?” Ethan grimaced and shrugged. Nothing his father did would ever surprise him again.

  Cassie touched his arm. “Ethan I need to tell you—” she hesitated, nibbling on her lower lip.

  “What?” His laughter faded into caution. This woman was known for her uncannily accurate insights.

  “I know your history with your father, but I need you to know that not all secrets are evil or necessarily bad.” Cassie laid a hand on his arm, her expression serious. “And if a problem does arise, take time to consider the source of the information.”

  He watched her, and frowned. “Am I meant to understand?”

  “I am only the messenger.” She shrugged and lifted her hands and let them fall. “This hasn’t changed.”

  Frowning, he watched her husband edge her away. Ethan looked at his aunt. ”Some things never change.”

  Maura put her hand on his arm. “Cassie’s a good woman.”

  “And Pritchard?” His expression hardened. “He is related to the Judge?”

  “His son.”

  “And Cassie married him?”

  “Grayson isn’t responsible for his father’s actions any more than you’re responsible for Austen’s.” Maura eyed him steadily, then she leaned close to his ear so she wasn’t overheard. “Are you going to the wake?”

  “Go to Stella’s house?” He rolled his eyes. “Not in this lifetime.”

  Maura stiffened, and at his questioning look, she whispered, “Here comes trouble.”

  Ethan mentally groaned as he turned his head and saw Bette Farrell push her way forward.

  God, I’m too tired and travel weary for this.

  “Ethan, it’s been a long time, but you’re still looking better than good,” she gushed as she pumped his hand and pressed in just a little too close. “I’m so, so sorry for your loss.”

  In a pig’s eye.

  “Thank you.” Acutely uncomfortable, he took a hasty step back to put more space between them. Good grief, is the woman coming on to me? Here?

  “It’s such a shame you never mended fences with Austen before he died.” She leaned closer, an avid gleam in her eye.

  At his side, Maura made an angry hissing sound.

  “How is my relationship with my father any of your business?”

  With an annoying titter, she ignored the snub. She glanced at Stella and Charlene, and asked, “And your relationship with Stella? Will you reconnect now your father has gone? Will we see you at their town house for the wake?”

  I do not need this.

  Ethan’s fist clenched and he sucked in a harsh breath. Maura caught his arm and held on, her grip tight.

  “Some things never change, cuz.” Ishmael stepped forward, caught Bette’s arm and steered her sideways leaving the woman little option but to follow.

  Ethan rubbed at the back of his neck. “I can’t believe that woman’s still here and still trawling for gossip.”

  Maura released him. “Don’t let her get to you.”

  The undertaker approached Stella and after a low-voiced conversation, he closed the tail gate of the hearse.

  Ethan stepped forward, Maura on one side, Ishmael, minus the Farrell woman, on the other. Tears pricked the back of Ethan’s eyes as the hearse carrying his father’s body drove away and headed for the crematorium at a slow, sober speed.

  Ethan freed his hand from Maura’s.

  He turned to Stella and put a supporting hand under her elbow. Despite the past, their bitter history, the woman was grieving and a newly-minted widow.

  “Let me help you to your car.” His voice was gruffly kind.

  “Thank you,” she whispered on a choked sob. “Will we see you at the house?”

  “No,” He relented and softened the abrupt refusal. “I’ve either been in airports or flying for the past seventy-two hours. I’m desperate for some sleep.”

  He closed the car door before opening the rear door for Charlene. She looked up at him, her simpering smile one he remembered far too well.

  Sickened and disheartened, Ethan slammed the Stetson on his head. He needed to escape. He turned on his heel and strode through the crowd to his truck, heedless of the shocked whispers that followed in his wake.

  Never again would he be caught in Stella’s web.

  As for her daughter—his lip curled.

  Chapter Three

  Twenty years of neglect had taken a heavy toll. Surveying the filthy, water damaged interior of his home, Ethan shook his head, and sighed.

  Drumullen was damned near a ruin.

  Maura had warned him, but he hadn’t really believed her.

  According to her, the day Ethan left; Austen Galloway had issued orders for the furniture in the main rooms to be covered with dust covers, then he locked the doors and walked away.

  To his aunt’s knowledge, no one had set foot inside the house since. She was vocal in her condemnation of Austen’s stubbornness.

  Bitter and disillusioned, Ethan made two vows the day he left.

  He would never return to New Zealand while his father drew breath. And he would never trust another woman.

  As stubborn as his father, Ethan kept his vows.

  This ruin was the result.

  Water had poured in through the broken glass; bird droppings and straw brought in by nesting birds littered the place. Mice and rats left unchecked had ruined most of the furniture.

  Surely, the least his father could have done was board up the windows broken by vandals. Ishmael had tried his best, but Austen had refused to let him or anyone else do temporary repairs. A refusal backed up by the threat to ruin Ishmael’s restoration business.

  Ethan’s flight home had been bedevilled by the prospect of the inevitable confrontation with Stella if he’d found her ensconced here, and he needed to evict her. It had not occurred to him he’d find the old place uninhabitable.

  Walking through the deserted rooms, he was sure he could hear his mother’s mournful sigh. But neglect aside, he was relieved Stella’s hand had not tainted this last precious link to his mother. It had taken Austen Galloway to do this.

  Ethan aimed a vicious kick at the banister rail.

  Who the hell is Elise Lucinda Devereau? And why had Austen Galloway seen fit to bequeath her a half share in this house and its surrounding acreage?

  Is she yet another of my father’s women?

  The lush acres of Coromandel farmland surrounding the old house were now his, but in leaving a half share of the family home to this stranger, Austen had broken a trust spanning generations.

  Is this my father’s way of punishing me?

  Pritchard was as much in the dark as Ethan.

  The woman and her connection to Austen Galloway was a complete mystery. All the lawyer could confirm was that this change to Austen’s will was recent, like two months recent, but still legal none-the-less.

  Austen refused to give the attorney any further information; there was no letter, no explanation. Just a bequest to a woman no one knew existed.

  His father’s final legacy—one big, fat-arsed mystery.

  Not all secrets are evil or necessarily bad. Cassie’s comment at Austen’s funeral surfaced.

  Ethan snorted. To him, this secret smelled putrid.

  He shook his head.

  Cassie Piper never changed. She was still as spooky as ever. How she knew the things she did, Ethan didn’t know. And he didn’t have the time to speculate. He had to decide how best to go about the clean-up this house needed so he could move in.

  The low hum of a car engine penetrated his bleak thoughts.

  Who the hell was violating his privacy now?

  He had turned down Ishmael’s and Maura’s separate offers to accompany him on this first visit.

  He needed to do this alone.

  Had they decided he needed company and come anyway?

  Scowling, he walked to the window.

  A bright yellow car crept up the driveway and parked beneath the huge privet growing in what was once a pristine circular drive. From his vantage point, he could see the driver emerge, a slender dark haired woman. She carried a slim purse and a flat brown-paper wrapped parcel and with delicate steps, she picked her way across the rough and broken paving. She mounted the steps to the front door and momentarily disappeared from sight.

  Who was she?

  He wracked his memory, but came up blank.

  With perverse curiosity, he watched as the front door was pushed wide and without hesitation, the stranger stepped inside.

  Anger curdled his already frayed temper.

  Neglected it may be, but this house was still his home. And this woman, a stranger, dared to enter uninvited. Was she a determined thief?

  He stepped back into an alcove, his gaze never leaving the intruder. From here he could monitor her progress.

  The flat parcel she carried whetted his curiosity, and judging by the determined way she crossed the foyer and approached the staircase; she had a destination in mind.

  At the foot of the stairs, she hesitated and looked upwards.

  From this angle her delicate features were far easier to read, a mix of anxiety and curiosity.

  About her, there was a bewitchingly innocent air. An impression amplified by her retroussé nose and blunt haircut that gave her an elfin, otherworldly air.

  And I am delusional.

  Lush lips, eminently kissable, complimented a peaches and cream complexion that had never experienced an antipodean summer, or he missed his guess.

  Unbidden, lust cascaded through him in a fiery demanding rush to pool, hot and heavy, in his groin.

  “Down, boy,” he muttered.

  The admonition was futile, and he shifted to ease the discomfort in his jeans. Dismayed by the instinctive, earthy reaction, Ethan knew it was a damn long time since a woman had stirred him in such a primitive fashion.

  Before he got his brain working again, she was almost at the top of the stairs and the sound of ripping paper jerked him to attention.

  She tore open the parcel she carried, the sound masking his much heavier breathing. By now he was more curious than angry, and he resisted the urge to make his presence known.

  She stepped onto the landing and finally he could see that the package she’d brought with her held a portrait identical to the one hanging on the wall. The hairs on the back of his neck stood out like brush bristles.

  What the hell?

  The breath backed up in his throat. Ethan couldn’t have spoken had his life depended on it.

  This stranger had the portrait of Aiden Galloway? A portrait missing from Drumullen for more than eighty years.

  Ethan’s great-grandfather, William had had a twin brother, Aiden.

  Their portraits, painted by Gottfried Lindauer, were treasured family heirlooms, and the disappearance of Aiden’s portrait an enduring family mystery. According to family legend, it was hanging there on the wall the day Aiden was killed. Sometime between his death and his burial, the portrait vanished.

  Its disappearance added fuel to the myth of the Drumullen curse.

  A curse supposed to cause misfortune to befall every male heir who lived in this house.

  Who is this woman, and where the blazes did she get that portrait?

  Ethan intended to find out and stepped forward.

  “Who are you?” She looked from the portrait she held to its twin on the wall.

  The hot rush of lust her precise English voice provoked, annoyed him, and he frowned. Damn it, I’m the one due the answers.

  “More to the point, who are you?” His question, far harsher than he intended, was startling in the silent house.

  Whirling around; eyes distended with shock, she opened her mouth and screamed. The shrill high-pitched sound shredded his nerves and threatened to burst his eardrums.

  Ethan lifted his hands in a belated effort at reassurance, and she went bat-shit crazy.

  Dropping the portrait, she bolted towards the head of the staircase.

  Did the stupid woman have a death wish?

  “No! Stop! For God’s sake, woman! Stop!” His hoarse, frantic cries mingled with her blood-curdling screams. Desperate to halt her flight and certain disaster, Ethan leaped between her and the stairwell.

  She swerved and dodged his outstretched hands, still screaming fit to wake the dead.

  On the second step she lost her footing.

  Like a formless puppet, she bounced from step to step, night dark hair alternately obscuring and revealing ashen features, her terrified cries mingling with his hoarse shouts.

  He took the stairs two at a time in a futile attempt to halt her fall, but with stomach-churning fear, he heard the resounding thud as her head hit the newel post.

  Her screams were cut off with vicious crudeness.

  Sick with guilt, shock and fear, Ethan cursed beneath his breath.

  He knelt beside her inert form, his hand shaking as he pushed aside a swathe of dark hair and felt for a pulse in her neck. It beat strong and steady beneath his fingertips.

  “Thank God,” he whispered, his voice hoarse and strained.

  He swiped a trembling hand across his forehead and sank back on his haunches. He’d thought for sure she’d break her neck.

  Who is she? What is she doing here? Where did she come from? And where the hell did she get that portrait?

  Ethan shoved aside the rampaging questions.

  Kneeling beside her, he ran experienced hands down her limbs to check for injuries. Her left leg was bent at an unnatural angle above her knee, and obviously broken. Her right upper arm also had a distinct break. He felt her scalp and winced when his fingers encountered the knot where her head had slammed into the newel post.

  Afraid of spinal injuries, he made no attempt to move her.

  Ensuring her breathing was unhindered; he unclipped his cell-phone and called emergency services without taking his gaze from her inert form.

  Who the hell is she?

  He gave the emergency operator directions, then ran up the stairs and picked up the handbag she’d dropped in her mad flight. He hunkered down beside her, opened the bag and extracted a passport.

  He expelled a hissing, disbelieving breath, and swore, luridly and with great feeling.

  Reaching for his cell-phone, he called the emergency operator again. “You’d better get the police out here too.”

  Ethan sat back on his haunches, fingers pressed to the pulse beneath her ear. With a trembling hand, he smoothed a lock of night dark hair back from a cheek paler than alabaster, fighting down nausea.

  Thank God. She’s still alive.

  Anger, betrayal and shock roiled in an unholy mix in his gut, but through all these emotions snaked the icy chill of fear.

  How can I explain this accident?

  This elusive woman had occupied too many of his thoughts for far too many days. Who will ever believe that her fall was an accident?

  Chapter Four

  Hunched forward in the straight-backed chair, Ethan sat in the hospital waiting room, clasped hands hanging limply between his knees, oblivious to the activity around him.

  The Drumullen curse had struck once more.

  He hated waiting, hated this sense of being suspended in limbo, hated being prey to his tortured thoughts, and hated being weighed down by a shit load of guilt.

  Why the hell didn’t I make my presence known?

  Had he done so, would Elise Lucinda Devereau have reacted so badly?