His gaze dropped to the swell of her breasts. The shirt she wore clung to her curves and had him battling an overwhelming desire to draw her into his arms. Desire? That he wanted Meredith as he did must also set him apart from other ghosts.
These stirrings could only be memories of that sort of physical need, yet everything within him rebelled, screaming that what he felt for her was real. If their fantastical plan should come to fruition, could these stirrings be a sign that he and Meredith were meant to be together? Could he entice her to remain with him in his century?
If so, perhaps he’d eventually be able to persuade her to become his wife. Daniel knew exactly how long it took to fall in love. A single beat of his ghostly heart, his gaze connecting with hers, and he was smitten.
“Hi, Regan,” Meredith said. “Do you have a minute?”
To force his mind away from these stirrings he could do nothing about, he focused on the conversation taking place between the two sisters. Meredith told Regan his sad story and described his plan. He couldn’t hear Regan’s reply, and his mind soon drifted. He envisioned the life he might have with this amazing woman by his side.
He’d take Meredith home with him, reunite his family, and all would be as it was meant to be. Smiling, he stared off toward the horizon, dreaming of a bright future, a future that would take him back to Ireland in the mid-nineteenth century.
“Daniel.” Meredith snapped her fingers in front of his face.
His brow rose, and he blinked back to the present. “Hmm?”
“Where do all you ghosts go when you stare off into nothing like that? I said your name three times before snapping my fingers.”
She had her hands on her hips, and she looked annoyed. “I cannot speak for others, but I was imagining meeting you in the flesh. Had we both been alive at the same time—whether in your century or mine—I would’ve courted you relentlessly, Meredith MacCarthy, for I find you utterly enchanting.”
Her eyes widened and color rose to her cheeks. “Oh.”
The air around Meredith grew warmer, and he swore he could feel his body responding, becoming aroused. “Tell me what your sister said, lass.” Should he apologize for his impertinence? Nay, he meant what he’d said with his whole being.
She muttered something under her breath and raked her fingers through her hair. “Boann is with my twin sister in County Wicklow right now. Regan and her family are joining them at the inn for dinner in a few hours. Regan promised to talk to Boann about us, and she’ll get back to me tomorrow.”
About … us. Nothing would please him more than to be an us with Meredith MacCarthy.
He needed time to come to grips with everything he’d gone through since the day Meredith had entered his non-life. After decades of having nothing to consider, was he even up to the challenges she presented? Too overwhelmed to speak, he nodded, made himself invisible, and glided a short distance away.
“You’re welcome,” she called out, her tone a wee bit miffed.
He’d left her again without so much as a thank you or a farewell. His good manners must have atrophied after more than a century of disuse. Perhaps soon he’d be able to explain to her in person how her very presence shook him to the core. She brought him joy, awakened desire, and offered him the promise of the kind of love he’d always longed to experience. Sadly, on the flip side of that gold coin, she caused him unimaginable regret and sorrow.
Fate taunted and teased him with prospects he dared not hope for. Yet, how could he not do everything within his power to force fate’s hand? Daniel took one more look at Meredith, heaved a ghostly sigh, and thought himself to his mining camp. “Shite.”
“Well look who’s here, boys,” the leader of the gang of three hissed.
One of them floated closer. “Hey, Irish. Won’t be long now.” He drew a ghostly knife from his belt and ran his finger along the blade.
“Yeah, just a few days.” The tallest of the three—obviously the lackwit in the group—mimicked the throat slitting gesture.
“It’s grateful I am that I’ve no sense of smell.” Daniel arched a brow, going for sardonic. “What’s the point of these yearly charades, lads?”
The three went still, as if unable to parse the meaning of his question. For the first time since his murder,