The Earl of Christmas Past (Goode Girls Romance #5) - Kerrigan Byrne Page 0,9

for a long time, and I could sense no light behind the eyes. They were cold and hollow as a hellmouth, I’m afraid.” She seemed to shake herself, her voice losing the dreamy huskiness and regaining some of the crisp starch his countrywomen were famous for. “But worry not, he’s possessed of an impeccable reputation and an obscene fortune, so you should be proud of your legacy, all things considered… When were you the Earl, my lord?”

“Please, call me John,” he requested. “I’ve technically no title now; I died during the Jacobite rebellion of seventeen forty-five. My brother, James, became the Earl after I perished at the battle of Culloden.”

“You had no heir?”

A bleak and familiar ache opened in his chest. A void that existed whenever he thought of the life he didn’t have the chance to live. “I had no wife.”

She made that noise again, one that made him wonder what she was thinking. That made him want to turn around to search her beautiful face. Her remarkability was evidenced in the description she’d made of his kinsman. Most people, when asked, would recount reputation and accomplishments, not impressions of one’s soul behind their eyes. Miss Vanessa Latimer observed the world in a different way than most.

“It remains strange to me,” she was saying, “that you are here. Culloden is miles and miles away.”

“Yes. Well. I’ve gathered from listening to locals that we English won. That Scotland is firmly beneath the rule of King and Crown.”

“Queen,” she corrected. “Queen Victoria.”

“Still?” he marveled. “Surely she’s dead by now.”

“She’s ruled for fifty-three years. Though, while we’re on the subject, I don’t know many Scotsmen who would deign to call themselves British, though we are technically united under one sovereign. It’s no longer a blood-soaked subject, but it’s still a complicated one, even after all this time.”

Of that, he had no doubt. “I always respected the Scots. I fought because it was my obligation. I was no great supporter of the Stewarts or the bloody King. The de Lohrs prosper regardless of what idiot ass sits on the throne, but we do our duty by our birthright, and sometimes that means going to war.”

“Why, then, do you think you’re stuck here haunting a small village inn some seventy miles from Culloden?”

He shrugged. “It’s been a mystery I’ve been grinding on for one hundred and fifty years.”

“Maybe I could help you,” she offered, her voice bright with optimism.

“How could you possibly?”

“I’m stuck here too now, aren’t I? At least until the storm blows over, and I love a good mystery. You’re obviously not going anywhere, so why not?” She emitted a short sigh one might after completing a task. “There. You can turn back around.”

The first thing he noticed when he did was that her damp undergarments were pinned to the fireplace mantle, drying in the heat.

Which meant beneath her clothing she wore… nothing but her corset. Somehow that knowledge was just as arousing as the idea of her completely naked.

Well. Almost.

He locked his jaw, glaring at her strange garments as if he could see through them. As if he’d never seen them before. The skirts of this decade were odd but ultimately flattering, spread tight and flat over the hips and flaring like a tulip toward her knees. A wide belt with an ornate buckle accentuated her impossibly small waist, and the bodice was made of some fabric other than silk. Something lighter that bloused out at the shoulders and bust.

Suddenly he wanted to know everything there was to know about this strange and extraordinary woman.

She peered up at him rather owlishly. “Goodness, I can see more of you now.”

And he could see less of her, he silently lamented.

“You have color,” she noted, as if to herself. “Your hair is as gold as your namesake’s. In fact, you rather look a great deal like him.”

Did he? And she’d called him handsome.

Sort of.

He did his best not to preen. “The fault of the solstice, it seems, and the strangeness of the Northern Lights at such a time of year. There’s maybe been five such occurrences in the past one hundred and fifty years, and if this is anything like those, I’ll become more corporeal as the night goes on.”

Her eyes flew wider. She opened her mouth, no doubt to ask a million questions, inquisitive minx that she was.

So, he headed her off at the pass. “What sort of weapon is a camera?” He said the word carefully, tasting the syllables, trying to dissect