Free Passions of the Ghost by Sara Mackenzie Page B

beloved; he could not expect it from her, when it came to the final battle.
     
     
    Ye Olde Medieval Feast was due to begin at two o’clock in the afternoon. That gave her long enough, Amy decided, for a well-deserved nap. But it didn’t turn out that way. Just as she closed the door to her room and kicked off her boots, the castle gave a shake, like a brief earth tremor, and the telephone rang. On the other end was a flustered voice, calling on Mr. Coster’s behalf. Could Amy come at once to the manager’s office on the ground floor?
    “Why?” Amy demanded, not in the mood to be accommodating.
    “Mr. Coster says that your, eh, actor friend is causing problems.”
    Wearily, Amy pulled on her boots—still wet from the snow—and went downstairs. It took her half an hour to settle things, promising Mr. Coster that Rey hadn’t meant to draw and quarter the Singing Santa, whose body had been found this morning behind a Christmas tree.
    “The creature swung its hips at me,” Rey said, in explanation.
    “Well you’ve put a stop to that, haven’t you?” Coster replied angrily. “That was top-of-the-line, that Santa. Not only was it voice-activated, it was able to move toward the sound on its motorized sleigh.”
    “I’m sure it was an accident,” Amy persisted, overcome with a terrible urge to laugh.
    In the end she persuaded Coster that Rey was just getting overenthusiastic about his upcoming role in Hollywood, and she would make certain he behaved from now on. “Add Singing Santa to my bill,” she said, hoping “top-of-the-line” didn’t mean it was imported by reindeer from the North Pole.
    “I won’t be able to get another one now before next year,” Coster complained, although he was less animated.
    “Another one!” Rey roared.
    Coster’s eyes narrowed, and his secretary cowered.
    Amy threw up her hands. “Why do I bother?”
    Cross and tired, Amy trudged back to her room, the journey made longer because Rey refused to use the elevator, and she dared not leave him alone in case he caused more mischief.
    “Why did you murder ‘Jingle Bells’ Santa, Rey?”
    “It crept up behind me. I thought it was an assassin,” he said, as if his explanation was perfectly logical.
    “I’ll have to remember never to creep up behind you then. Why did you tell Coster it was you who’d done it? You could have kept quiet about it.”
    “When I came back after the sword tournament, he was shouting, holding that creature in his arms. I thought it must be precious to him. When he asked who could have done such a thing, there were tears in his eyes.”
    “So you told him the truth? Of course you did!”
    “I could not lie, damsel.”
    “No, you leave the lying to me,” she muttered.
    Amy wondered when he had become her responsibility? She wasn’t his jailer, or his nurse, and yet she seemed to have ended up as both.
    “I am offended.”
    “ You’re offended!” Amy burst out, as she unlocked the door.
    “Aye. I am offended that my castle is being used for these mindless frivolities. That they are making fun of matters that should not be made fun of. This was not something to be mocked in my time.”
    “Rey, they’re not mocking you. They’re celebrating your life. There’s a big difference.”
    “They mock me!”
    Amy slammed the door behind them and pulled off her boots, aiming them at the corner of the room. “Insulting Mr. Coster won’t help. I had to use all my feminine wiles to stop him throwing you out. Again.”
    “You mean batting your eyelashes and simpering like a lackwit,” he rumbled.
    Amy sat down on the bed, feeling flushed and angry. “I saved your skin, your lordship. You should be thanking me, not insulting me.” The room felt hot, and she stripped off her sweater and threw it after the boots. She wasn’t the sort to lose her temper, but Rey was seriously testing it. Didn’t he realize that all those lies she was telling on his behalf could get her into trouble? Instead of