The Lord and the Banshee (Read by Candlelight #13) - Gillian St. Kevern Page 0,21

the first eligible gentleman to have crossed her path.”

The thought was absurd! “But they dislike each other so.”

Mrs O’Flaherty’s smile was pitying. “There speaks a confirmed bachelor! No, Lord Cross, as one of our Irish playwrights was wont to say, ‘the only thing fatal to love is indifference.’ Stella would not care so about Lord Connaught’s feelings if she did not have some regard for him as a man.” Her frown increased, and she glanced at the garden in the direction that Connaught had taken. “I do not know how to read his response, but I cannot imagine that a sheltered country maid has any appeal for so worldly a man. Then again, they do say opposites attract. But that’s my foolishness. As you have no doubt observed, I consider Connaught Castle my home and do not want to leave it.” She nodded to Cross. “Excuse me.”

Cross watched her climb the steps to the castle. She was an intelligent woman, with a deep connection to Connaught castle, and, in her daughter’s welfare, an excellent motive for scaring off Lord Connaught and potential tenants both. Not only that, her acting career gave her the knowledge to pull off a banshee. And yet, Cross felt inclined to believe her…

A testament to Mrs O’Flaherty’s acting skills. Cross climbed the steps, shaking his head at his folly. He had not forgotten the flicker of alarm in her eyes. Mrs O’Flaherty, for all her apparent openness, hid something.

11

Cross woke to a strange but not uncomfortable pressure on his chest. He cracked open an eye.

A large white wolf was curled on the bed beside him. His yellow eyes were open, resting on Cross.

“Off.” Cross heaved himself into a sitting position. “You know you’re not allowed on the furniture, Julian.”

The wolf stood, stretching with fluid grace. His yawn displayed vicious teeth and a powerful jaw.

Julian had no idea how disconcerting he was this early in the morning, and Cross had no intention of revealing the fact. “I thought you were guarding your father?”

The wolf leaped from the bed, padding into the adjoining wash room. The sound of cracking bone and twisting muscle followed.

Cross gritted his teeth. He pressed his hands flat against the bedcovers, resisting the urge to cover his ears. Pip and he had agreed to never let on to Julian how distressing they found the sound of his transformations. Their son faced challenges enough without shame for his lycanthropy being one of them. “Well?” he asked when the sounds had stopped.

Julian emerged from the bathroom, dressed in a light grey checked suit, and a vest of light gold that set off his hair. Cross had seen this ensemble before: devoted son. “You told father about your health, didn’t you?”

“I told him some.”

Julian huffed out an exasperated breath. “You’re as bad as he is.”

Cross ignored that unfilial remark. “Your father’s safety is our current priority. We need to concentrate our energies on either unmasking the banshee, or on countering the effects of her curse.” At some point in the morning, a servant had brought a tray of tea things. Steam rose from the tea pot. Cross reached for the tray. Hopefully Julian had the sense to make himself scarce when the servant appeared. The last thing they needed was the legend of the banshee being augmented by a phantom dog.

“Is that so.” Julian climbed onto the bed. He settled where he had so recently been curled, sitting cross-legged. “And this has nothing to do with not wanting to leave him alone?”

Cross jerked, almost dropping the tea pot. He set it down on the tray. “What do you mean by that?”

“You talk in your sleep.” Julian’s amber eyes watched him. “Who is Hubert?”

Cross choked on air. He flung out a hand, grasping for the headboard.

Julian removed the tray. He sat beside Cross, reaching in to undo the buttons of his nightshirt collar. “Can you breathe?”

Cross waved him away. “Water,” he rasped.

His mouth was dry, but swallowing the water felt unpleasant. His stomach felt bloated. “That’s better. Thank you, Julian.” He set the glass of water down. “Hubert.” The name tasted strange on his lips. “You have not mentioned this to anyone?”

“You mean have I told father? No.” Julian’s very stillness was a sign of how worried he was.

Cross sighed. “I have not spoken of him in—it would be decades. At least thirty years.”

Julian frowned. “Before you met father.”

“Well before. I was a young man. About your age. Hubert was a half year younger. We met at university.