The Lord and the Banshee (Read by Candlelight #13) - Gillian St. Kevern Page 0,45

offended him, snapping at him? Cross tugged at his beard. He was sorry if he had. Mereweather had always struck him as having a sound mind—though he was unreasonably stubborn. No, he wouldn’t give the matter another thought.

And yet… Cross’s fingers stilled. Something was off. He had argued with many men, but he did not usually scrap with his medical man…

Pip and Julian must have been waiting. They entered minutes after Mereweather’s departure, Pip dropping onto the sofa beside Cross. “How did the examination go?”

Cross harrumphed, redoing his jacket buttons up. “A waste of time. Mereweather is flummoxed, but won’t admit it.”

A frown passed between Pip and Julian, leaning over the back of the sofa.

Cross felt a throb of impatience pulse in his temple. “I don’t want to hear another word on the subject of my health. I’m sick of being worried over it.”

“All the same, it’s very strange,” Pip murmured. “I don’t like that the banshee appeared to you. I can’t get past their association with death.”

Cross looked up with a frown. “I thought you’d established that Una Malone was a ghost?”

Pip shook his head, his mouth pressed together firmly. “A ghost should not have affected you like she did. Two collapses—“

“Three,” Julian interjected.

“Enough!” Cross slammed his hand down on the arm of the sofa. “You collapsed after your interaction with the ghost of Joseph Leighton.”

“That was very different,” Pip countered immediately. “I had hypothermia, or at least symptoms matching those of hypothermia. This—this is different.”

“Enough. It’s time we had a change of subject.” Cross tugged his beard. “What time is the earliest train tomorrow?”

Pip stood. “To London?”

“Foxwood,” Cross said. “I don’t see any reason to prolong our journey further.”

“I shall find out.” Pip marched out the hotel door, evidently going in search of the Adelphi’s doorman.

Cross heaved a sigh of relief—only to catch movement in his peripheral vision.

“What are you playing at?” Julian straightened, staring down at Cross from behind the sofa.

Cross found it hard to meet his eyes. He huffed, picking up a newspaper Pip had abandoned earlier. “I don’t know what you mean.”

Julian narrowed his eyes. “You’re hiding something—and whatever it is, it has something to do with your health and the banshee—and something else.” Julian frowned. “You smell of leaves and spice. I know this scent. But where…?”

Just what exactly did Julian’s nose tell him? “You’re jumping to conclusions.”

Julian’s eyes flashed. “I don’t think I am. You’re up to something and whatever it is, I am telling you now—I won’t let you hurt father.”

“Dash it all!” Cross was on his feet as soon as Julian’s words registered. “Can’t you see that I’m doing this not to hurt him!”

“It’s not working.” Julian’s jaw tightened. “You’re withdrawn. Keeping secrets. It’s obvious even to Mereweather. How much more obvious is it to father?”

Cross felt a tremor in his chest. He pressed a hand to his throat, his skin clammy. “I—“ His brain stalled, unable to pass the appalling possibility Julian had presented. Did Pip think he had lost Cross’s trust? “He must know I would never do anything to hurt him.”

“Are you sure? Because you’re doing a very good job of worrying him now.” Julian’s fingers were locked onto the back of the sofa, his shoulders tightened. “Can you not see how worried he is? It’s practically making him sick too. Is what you’re hiding going to hurt him more than you lying to him now?”

Cross reeled backwards. He caught himself, tightening his hands into fist. “What utter gall! Who are you to question me like this?”

Julian’s nose flared, but his answer was clipped tight. “Your son, in case you’d forgotten. And since you seem to be having problems with your memory, can I remind you that there is no secret you could keep that would change how father feels about you. So the sooner you stop this nonsense and start acting like yourself again, the better!”

Cross pressed a hand to his temples. He swallowed back the automatic response, checking his rage. His hand trembled, his body filled with rage. At Julian?

This wasn’t right. Julian was often frustrating or baffling, but he’d never reacted to his son with such blinding anger. Cross pinched his nose, the pain jarring his thoughts out of his fight response. “You said—start acting like myself?”

Julian hesitated. Finally, he nodded. “It’s not just how you act with father. I heard you snap at Mereweather. This—you don’t even smell like you.” His tone was puzzled.

What did it mean? Another confounded mystery—why couldn’t Julian just leave