she said. “At other times, I wonder if I have the courage.”
“Yet, you still seek them out. Why?”
She turned, gripping her skirts as she walked to a window. If it were daylight, she’d see the approach to the castle. The long expanse of lawn was perfectly manicured. How could it be anything else? This was Ballindair, the jewel of the Highlands.
“Must you know the answer to everything?” she heard herself say.
Of course, why try to salvage her position after this ruinous day? He already thought her a foolish girl, given to rash and reckless behavior, and now a dolt, to believe in ghosts.
“Is my question intrusive?”
Yes, because it surprised her. Yes, because she hadn’t thought him the type of man to be interested in anyone other than himself. Yes, because she didn’t know how to answer him, the second time he’d confounded her in a few minutes.
He didn’t say anything, the moments stretching between them.
“I look for ghosts because it gives me something to be interested in other than my own life,” she said.
There, in reparation for her rudeness, she’d given him the truth.
“An admirable feat, if indeed it does that. Escaping from one’s life would be pleasant from time to time.”
Was there no end to surprises from the earl this night?
She turned her head, wishing he would step into the moonlight, but he remained in the shadows. Perhaps she’d found a ghost and he was the Earl of Denbleigh, conjured up from confusion, interest, and a little loneliness. Perhaps he wasn’t there at all, but only a shadow who talked to her as if they were equals.
“How does one go about this ghost seeking of yours?” he asked.
She fisted her hands in her skirts.
“One remains very quiet,” she said softly. “And waits.”
“Why here?”
Did she dare give him the truth again?
“Because hardly anyone comes here at night,” she said. “I reasoned if anyone inhabited the Long Gallery, it would be a ghost.”
“Would you like me to leave?”
She smiled. How very gentlemanly he was behaving, and how foolish as well. She was his maid.
She turned and walked back to the door.
“Where are you going?”
She tossed a remark over her shoulder. “You’re the Earl of Denbleigh, the MacCraig. It’s not for you to leave.”
“Perhaps it was the ghost who left, because we weren’t quiet enough.”
She turned and faced him, startled to see he’d emerged from the shadows and was standing in a pool of moonlight. His white shirt glowed, his black trousers merging with the night. His face was pale and unsmiling. He might well have truly been a ghost at that moment, one whose face was carefully expressionless.
Why did the Earl of Denbleigh guard his emotions?
She was foolish to stand there, without her petticoat and corset. But she hadn’t thought to talk to him like this. Or share confidences of a ghostly nature. She should be abed, but the temptation to learn more about the Earl of Denbleigh was so great she remained where she was.
A moment later she moved to sit on a bench in the middle of the room.
“What ghosts were you hoping to find here?” he asked.
Should she tell him about the French Nun? Did he know his family’s history? Instead of responding, she asked a question. “When you were a little boy, did you ever go hunting for ghosts?”
His chuckle was warm, surprisingly rendering him human and approachable.
“As a matter of fact,” he said, “I did. But my activities were reserved for the West Tower.”
Where all the weapons from the past were stored. All the knives, swords, and cudgels the Murderous MacCraigs had accumulated over the years.
“And you never saw a ghost there? Not even the Herald?” The Herald was renowned for his ability to warn the MacCraigs of momentous events.
“Not even the Herald,” he said.
“Do you think they see us?” she asked. “Ghosts? Do you think the reason we don’t see them all that much is because they don’t wish it?”
He turned
“Yet, you still seek them out. Why?”
She turned, gripping her skirts as she walked to a window. If it were daylight, she’d see the approach to the castle. The long expanse of lawn was perfectly manicured. How could it be anything else? This was Ballindair, the jewel of the Highlands.
“Must you know the answer to everything?” she heard herself say.
Of course, why try to salvage her position after this ruinous day? He already thought her a foolish girl, given to rash and reckless behavior, and now a dolt, to believe in ghosts.
“Is my question intrusive?”
Yes, because it surprised her. Yes, because she hadn’t thought him the type of man to be interested in anyone other than himself. Yes, because she didn’t know how to answer him, the second time he’d confounded her in a few minutes.
He didn’t say anything, the moments stretching between them.
“I look for ghosts because it gives me something to be interested in other than my own life,” she said.
There, in reparation for her rudeness, she’d given him the truth.
“An admirable feat, if indeed it does that. Escaping from one’s life would be pleasant from time to time.”
Was there no end to surprises from the earl this night?
She turned her head, wishing he would step into the moonlight, but he remained in the shadows. Perhaps she’d found a ghost and he was the Earl of Denbleigh, conjured up from confusion, interest, and a little loneliness. Perhaps he wasn’t there at all, but only a shadow who talked to her as if they were equals.
“How does one go about this ghost seeking of yours?” he asked.
She fisted her hands in her skirts.
“One remains very quiet,” she said softly. “And waits.”
“Why here?”
Did she dare give him the truth again?
“Because hardly anyone comes here at night,” she said. “I reasoned if anyone inhabited the Long Gallery, it would be a ghost.”
“Would you like me to leave?”
She smiled. How very gentlemanly he was behaving, and how foolish as well. She was his maid.
She turned and walked back to the door.
“Where are you going?”
She tossed a remark over her shoulder. “You’re the Earl of Denbleigh, the MacCraig. It’s not for you to leave.”
“Perhaps it was the ghost who left, because we weren’t quiet enough.”
She turned and faced him, startled to see he’d emerged from the shadows and was standing in a pool of moonlight. His white shirt glowed, his black trousers merging with the night. His face was pale and unsmiling. He might well have truly been a ghost at that moment, one whose face was carefully expressionless.
Why did the Earl of Denbleigh guard his emotions?
She was foolish to stand there, without her petticoat and corset. But she hadn’t thought to talk to him like this. Or share confidences of a ghostly nature. She should be abed, but the temptation to learn more about the Earl of Denbleigh was so great she remained where she was.
A moment later she moved to sit on a bench in the middle of the room.
“What ghosts were you hoping to find here?” he asked.
Should she tell him about the French Nun? Did he know his family’s history? Instead of responding, she asked a question. “When you were a little boy, did you ever go hunting for ghosts?”
His chuckle was warm, surprisingly rendering him human and approachable.
“As a matter of fact,” he said, “I did. But my activities were reserved for the West Tower.”
Where all the weapons from the past were stored. All the knives, swords, and cudgels the Murderous MacCraigs had accumulated over the years.
“And you never saw a ghost there? Not even the Herald?” The Herald was renowned for his ability to warn the MacCraigs of momentous events.
“Not even the Herald,” he said.
“Do you think they see us?” she asked. “Ghosts? Do you think the reason we don’t see them all that much is because they don’t wish it?”
He turned
Similar Books
