The Firstborn

“You didn’t exactly make a good first impression,” Hayley pointed out. She tucked several strands of wayward hair behind her ears. “I’d better go up and grab a shower, too.”

“I put fresh linens in your room,” said a dour voice from the doorway.

Hayley spun to gape at a tall, middle-aged woman dressed in a flower-print shirt and baggy slacks. The clothes hung limply on her bony frame. Her stringy blond-and-silver hair was piled in an untidy mat on top of her head. Bony fingers pushed at the wispy strands trying to escape. Her long, seamed face was pinched and sallow and set in a permanent frown. She held a duster in one hand. A pail of cleaning supplies sat at her feet.

“No one’s supposed to be in here. That’s what they told me. Don’t go in the front parlor, they said.”

Once again Hayley was reminded of an old horror film. Didn’t those housekeepers always appear out of nowhere? “Mrs. Norwhich?” she asked tentatively.

Beady eyes hardened. “She’s in the kitchen.” The woman turned and glided silently down the hall, her back stiffly erect.

“Now I know why Jacob said to wait until we met the maid,” Bram whispered near her ear.

“She moves like a ghost.”

“Sort of looks like one, too,” he agreed. “Very skeletal. Want me to walk you upstairs?”

“I remember the way.”

He was suddenly standing much too close. She felt totally unprepared for the emotions he seemed to evoke in her.

“Then I’d better get back to work,” he told her.

His soft, deep voice slid over her, sending all sorts of inappropriate impulses to her nerve endings.

“Thank you. For last night, I mean.”

He lowered his head. Her heart thudded crazily in anticipation. He was going to kiss her.

With one knuckle, he gently raised her chin. His gaze held her captive more surely than any shackles.

“My pleasure.”

While her lips readied for his, Bram brushed a kiss over the tip of her nose, released her and strode to the front door without looking back.

Hayley could barely climb the stairs to her bedroom. Her legs were weak and her heart was racing as if she’d been running a marathon. For crying out loud. If she reacted like this to a peck on the nose, what would she do if he really kissed her?