Inheritance (The Lost Bride Trilogy, #1)

by Nora Roberts

I will dance with my husband. I will embrace his family as my own, for so they are. As the pipers play, I will celebrate this first day of the long and happy life we will make together. Or so I believed. I turn to greet her as she comes into the room. I think she looks familiar, but before I can speak, she rushes toward me. I see the knife

again, again. I stagger back, unable to scream, unable to speak when she tosses the knife at my feet. “You will never have him,” she says. “Die a bride, and know he’ll come to me. He will come to me, or by your blood on my tongue, bride after bride will join you in death.”

I feel his tears on my face, and see the fear and the grief in those deep green eyes. “Astrid, my love. Astrid. Don’t leave me. Don’t leave me.” As it all fades away, I speak my last words, give him my promise with my last breath. “I never will.”

Since they hadn’t bothered to shut the bedroom door, she stepped over the discarded dress, kicked the man’s shirt and trousers out of the way. Who knew, she thought, that love could snuff out like a candle in a stiff breeze? And leave no trace. None at all.

“Erosion happens gradually.” Winter rubbed Sonya’s shoulders. “A rock’s strong, but it doesn’t notice how the water’s wearing it away.”

“I’m going to hug you back.” He gave her a long, hard squeeze. “I shouldn’t say this, but I’m going to. He won’t last here. He’s talented, and he’s savvy, but he’s shown himself to be dishonest, petty, and damn it, vindictive. He won’t last with us.”

Did she miss the camaraderie of coworkers? Sometimes. Then again, she liked working solo, answering only to herself. And wearing whatever the hell she wanted.

“You have the wrong information, Mr. Doyle. My father didn’t have a brother.” “I believe he was unaware he had a brother. His twin. Your father was Andrew MacTavish, born March 2, 1965.” “Yes, but—” “He was adopted, as an infant, by Marsha and John MacTavish.”

You have the same deep green eyes, from the Poole side of the family.” Family seemed wrong. Family seemed impossible. “Let me take your coat.”

“Some loves are forever.” They sat on the floor, each with a pile of sketchbooks. As she paged through, Sonya understood the full meaning of poignant. It hurt, and it warmed, it brushed the dust off old sorrows even as it lifted new joy.

There rose the big weeper, its curving branches glittering with ice. The house had the forest at its back, like a wall of green. Smoke rose in lazy curls from the chimneys, and someone had shoveled paved walkways. One led to the wide, covered portico at the entrance. And Sonya fell in love.

Then she saw it, over the fireplace. The manor in the magical glow of a full moon. Moody and brilliant, the subtle light, the deep shadows, the gleam against glass in the turrets. “That’s my father’s work.” Her voice felt tight in her throat as she moved closer. “Are you sure? I don’t see how—” “I know my father’s work. This is his signature. MacT—that’s how he signed his work. Bottom left corner. It’s right there.”

“I didn’t know about your father either, or you, until Collin died. But I have to think he kept that painting in here—his private space—because it mattered. He wanted you to have this, because it mattered.” As simple and true as that, she thought, and nodded.

“So much like Dad. Really, I think you were a lot alike. And I think … I think you’d have enjoyed each other. You should’ve had the chance to find out.” On her tablet below, the music stopped, then started again with what she recognized as The Byrds’ “Turn! Turn! Turn! (To Everything There Is a Season)” because her father had often played it and, to her, other ancient records on his old turntable in his studio. “I guess that suits the moment,” she muttered.

She paused outside the office. “Trey said the painting’s your father’s work.” “It is.” “I’ve always loved it. I’m so sorry Collin and your father never had a chance to be brothers.” “So am I. I was just thinking they’d have liked each other. They had a lot in common, I’m finding out. My friend calls it twin synergy. I think I saw tea in here.”

My father, the younger of twins by seven minutes, inherited the manor and his brother’s share of the Poole family business when, in the autumn of 1806, my uncle died by his own hand soon after the tragic death—by murder—of his bride of only hours. My dear parents, already betrothed at the time, married the following spring. I was born ten months thereafter.

see a woman at the seawall, beckoning to me. When I reach her, I see a stranger who looks at me with mad eyes. She grips my hand, so hard, and I feel then the bitter bite of cold that has seeped into my flesh, into my bones.

She speaks. “He chose death rather than me. He chose death to stay with her. Be damned to them, and now to you. Walk with them, Catherine Poole. Forever a bride.”

“I’ll let you browse. Just call on me or Diana if you need anything.” The woman with a two-story library ended up leaving with three books, two bookmarks, and a pretty bag to carry them in.

“I like it very much, but it’s just me.” He winked at her. “It’s never just you in Lost Bride Manor.” “Ace.” And just grinned at his son. “Hell, ghosts are just people who aren’t ready or able to move on or recycle. You can bet I’m going to haunt this place after my time comes.” He pointed at Sadie. “Get used to it.” “You already haunt this place.”

“Good. I’ll let you get back to work.” “Dad,” Trey said as his father rose. “She strikes me as a capable, self-reliant woman.” “Yes. And she’ll need to be.”

“I didn’t do that. I know damn well I didn’t do that.” Because the mug shook in her hand, she set it down. “I wasn’t groggy. I can’t be that forgetful. Can I be that forgetful?” What were the choices? She had a bed-making intruder, she’d done it on autopilot, or the place was haunted. With bed-making ghosts.

A good day, Sonya thought. In spite of a stuck door, a good day. As she put her foot on the coffee table, her tablet played Michael Bublé’s “Home.” “Fine. Whatever.”

Now there were so many more. “Dad would have loved this,” she murmured. Engrossed, she didn’t notice when her tablet played “We Are Family.” So many births, she mused, with twins running through them. So many deaths. She turned the page.

Again and again, over and over, year by year, and bride by bride. Find the seven rings. Break the curse. Like the woman in black, she was gone. The music, the soft and sad, the lively and quick, went with her.

“Progress. Settling in.” She studied the portrait as she took off her boots. “I read about you last night. About you and your Collin, and the crazy bitch who stabbed you. Hester Dobbs. Killed him, too, when you think about it, since he hanged himself, apparently because he couldn’t live without you.” As she went to hang up her coat, Taylor Swift’s “Lover” played in the library. “I’m getting used to that.”

It seemed Hester Dobbs escaped from her cell shortly before she was to be hanged for Astrid Poole’s murder, only to leap to her death from the seawall at the manor after Collin Poole’s suicide. Various tools of witchcraft were found in her cabin. “That’s cheerful.”

All houses wherein men have lived and died are haunted houses. —Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, “Haunted Houses”

So odd, she thought, to have never known him, and see clearly they’d had things in common. A love and talent for art, a love of stories—books, movies. An appreciation for rambling old houses steeped in history and character. Would the brothers, if they’d had the chance, have bonded? Would there have been shared holidays? Family jokes?

felt yes. They’d have become family, even if they’d met as grown men.

Had there been a warm bed at night, a full belly, decent pay? Would someone have been pleased to work here, or had it been sheer drudgery? As she started to the third floor, the bell, far below, marked the Gold Room rang. But she’d walked into another storage area, and didn’t hear.

They should go to a museum, she thought. She needed to have someone who knew fashion and eras come in, go through them. “Maybe keep a few,” she considered. “This would kill at a costume party. And if the manor isn’t the spot for a killer costume party, where is?” Sitting back on her heels, she realized it hadn’t taken three months. It hadn’t taken three weeks. She’d already decided to stay.

A museum, she thought again. Or if they weren’t worthy, at least a vintage shop. “My great-great-whatevers wore all this stuff. They need to be seen, admired, worn again.” She stood up, looked around.

She trailed a finger over the brushes in one of the brush easels. Brushes for oils, for acrylics, for watercolors. Color shapers, spatcher blades. Palette knives on a rack of their own. Sketchbooks, pencils, charcoal. Her father had had nearly the same setup.

Sonya spent the beginning of the week with her head down, her blinders on, and her mind on the work. If doors creaked open or slammed shut, she ignored them. When her iPad greeted her with a song, she shrugged it off.

Owen watched Trey watch her walk away. He took a sip of his beer. “She might not know your poker face, but I do. There wasn’t a painting in that closet, was there?” “Not as of a few weeks ago, and I’d remember if there’d been a wedding portrait of Johanna Poole in the inventory.” “Well, somebody wants her to have it.” “Apparently.”

Idly sipping his beer, Owen watched her leave with her takeout bag. “Do you figure she’ll last up there for the three years?” “I wouldn’t bet against her.” “She’s your type.” Surprised, amused, Trey swiveled back. “Since when do I have a type?” “Since she walked in.” “Huh. Maybe. Still need to keep it light.” “Because?”

She hauled in the last, shut the door. The tablet she’d left on the desk upstairs started up with Ariana Grande’s “Thinking Bout You.” “Maybe you shouldn’t,” she muttered. And when she walked into the kitchen, all the cupboard doors stood open.

“Fine! I surrender. The place is haunted. Happy now?” After yanking off her coat, she tossed it on a stool. Pulled off her hat, tossed that, then dragged her hands through her hair.

“I’ll deal with it.” She snagged the flowers, marched in. “I’m not going anywhere, so you deal with that.” After choosing vases, she focused on arranging flowers. She’d live her life, she told herself. Her normal, productive, reasonably sane life. In the big haunted manor.

Sonya pressed her fingers to her eyes. “Are you always this calm?” “Mostly he is,” Owen told her. “But if you push the wrong button, step back.”

“I screwed up before.” “Bree, no, you didn’t. You got out of a bad relationship because you’re not an idiot.” “My ex-husband turned out to be a scumbag who cheated on me with my sous chef.” “I caught my ex-fiancé banging my cousin in our bed a couple months before the wedding.” “Okay, you win. I like Manny. I’ve always liked Manny. I don’t want to mess him up.”

“Myself, I wouldn’t mind an invisible maid. But,” Corrine added, “it must be disconcerting.” “A time and energy saver, and yeah, disconcerting’s one word for it. I have, by my current count, the maid, a house disc jockey, a firewood hauler, the door slammer, the piano player. At least one of them likes dogs because they taught Yoda to shake. I need to write all that down, too.”

In the confusion, Hester Dobbs pulled the wedding ring from Agatha’s finger and slid it on her own. “With my blade I took the first, then by my blood this house was cursed. One by one they wed, they die, because they seek to take what’s mine. And with their rings of gold, my spell will hold and hold.”

“I’m sure of it.” Her mind in the past, Corrine turned her teacup in its saucer. “She was smart, funny, very, very independent, and more than opinionated on certain issues. Women’s rights, physical and emotional safety for children at the forefront. She and Collin fell in love gradually, a slow dance, and both of them were content to stay single. Deuce and I, it was bang, there you are, let’s get started.”