Page 14

A n invitation to the Countess of Fenwick’s costume ball was a sure sign they had made a mark in London society. Or so Nell insisted, even as Macie massaged her temples against a sudden megrim.

“I do wish I shared your enthusiasm,” Macie said, gently pressing her fingertips to the spots that seemed to throb with her friend’s every word.

“You’ll have a grand time,” Nell assured her. “I have a fitting for my costume this afternoon. I trust you will come along to put the final touches on your ensemble.”

Macie shook her head. “I am taking my camera to the manor today.”

Nell looked shocked. “But your costume?”

“Madame Lorette sent word that the seamstress has completed her work. I expect she will deliver it within a day or so.”

“I suppose there’s not much to be done to a gown modeled after a medieval tunic.”

Macie grinned at the thought of arriving at the countess’s elite ball garbed as a female incarnation of Friar Tuck. Wouldn’t that have made the biddies’ tongues cluck? Pity she’d had a rather practical change of heart. “I’ve rethought my ensemble.”

Standing suddenly still by the parlor table, Mrs. Tuttle looked up as her feather duster stopped its energetic sweeps of a lamp’s stained glass shade. Macie bit back a smile. The housekeeper had certainly become adept at timing her tasks to coincide with a conversation she wished to hear.

The door chimes sounded, announcing a visitor. A soft mumble of annoyance escaped Mrs. Tuttle, followed by an unsubtle comment. “He’s back so soon?”

“Until you answer the door, we won’t be certain,” Macie said lightly. “If Mr. Caldwell has returned, please show him in.”

“Your brother should’ve employed a real bodyguard,” Mrs. Tuttle grumbled as the chimes rang out again. “Not that rogue.”

“I am quite sure Mr. Caldwell’s defensive skills will suffice.”

“It’s not the man’s defensive skills that worry me.” With that, Mrs. Tuttle hurried out of the room.

Nell’s gaze trailed the housekeeper’s path, then leaned closer and lowered her voice. “Has she always been so cross?”

“Mrs. Tuttle has a heart of gold, but she detests any disruption to her routine.”

“I don’t think that’s the problem, Macie. Not in this case.”

“You may be right,” she said as Finn’s voice drifted down the corridor. “She tends to be rather protective of me.”

“And with good cause.” Nell took another sip from the delicate cup. “So, what have you settled on for your costume? Please tell me you are not dressing as Robin Hood.”

“Nothing of the sort. I’ve decided to be a bit more, shall we say, conventional.”

“Thank heaven.” Nell appeared to let out a sigh of actual relief. “The very idea of you carrying a quiver of arrows—even if they aren’t real—gives me pause.”

Macie’s attention was drawn to the doorway as Mrs. Tuttle returned. The older woman’s expression brightened. “I must say, that’s a relief.”

“And what might that be?” Macie said, allowing a bit of teasing into her tone.

“You know what I’m talking about,” Mrs. Tuttle said. “After the incident with your sword last year, I shudder to think what nature of trouble you’d stir up with a bow and arrow within reach.”

“Sword?” Finn’s eyes crinkled with amusement as he strolled into the parlor. “Arrows? Good God, the very thought of those in your hands is enough to send a man running.”

Macie shrugged. “Isn’t that the idea?”

His brows rose. “Should I take cover?”

“Not yet.” She smiled. “I assure you, you will know if it’s necessary.”

Finn went to the burgundy velvet couch and leaned against its wooden-framed back. Casually attired in dark trousers, charcoal waistcoat, and an unadorned pale gray shirt open at the collar, his hair curled at the ends, still damp from what was obviously a recent bath. A light growth of new beard covered his jaw, intensifying the contours of his features.

My, he is a tempting one, isn’t he? And I suspect he knows it.

“Do ye intend to leave me in suspense?” He stretched his long legs out, crossed his ankles, and regarded her with a look of what seemed to be genuine curiosity. “The words incident and sword are not ones I would readily connect with a lady.”

Nell’s expression brightened. “Oh, Macie, can I tell him about Lord Rocks-for-brains?”

Macie shot her a look. “You would enjoy that, wouldn’t you?”

Setting her teacup on a doily, Nell perched on the edge of her seat. “I always relish an opportunity to regale a listener with tales of your adventures. Especially an adventure involving Henry VIII.”

“Good heavens,” Mrs. Tuttle said with a weary shake of her head. “The tales that bring you amusement.”

“Henry VIII?” Finn folded his arms as furrows marked his forehead. “He’d be a bit long in the tooth now, wouldn’t he?”

“We were attending a masquerade.” A smile pulled at Nell’s mouth. “But I suppose you already knew that.”

Finn’s eyes crinkled at the corners. “I had my suspicions.”

Macie pictured the outlandishly costumed noble in her mind. “I suspect Henry VIII might’ve been more pleasant than the so-called gentleman in question.”

“The man was wearing a codpiece, of all the ridiculous things,” Nell added matter-of-factly. “The sot deserved what happened to him that night.”

“Because he was wearing a codpiece?” Finn asked dryly.

“Goodness. Would the two of you stop saying that word?” Mrs. Tuttle sank into a chair, still clutching her feather duster. “It does not seem proper.”

“You must admit, there are few opportunities to use the word in this day and age,” Nell said as Finn chuckled his agreement.

“My, you are a cheeky miss,” Mrs. Tuttle said, massaging her temples.

“In any case, Lord Rocks-for-brains had come in costume as Henry VIII that night. It appeared he had imbibed a bit too much.”

Finn nodded his understanding. “And he wanted Macie to become wife number seven?”

“That about sums it up,” Nell replied. “But Macie taught him she is not one to be trifled with. The cad should count himself fortunate the sword at her hip was made of wood and not steel.”

Finn’s gaze settled on Macie. “Ye attended a fancy costume ball... clutching a sword?”

Macie flashed a grin. “What better accessory for Joan of Arc?”

“Good God,” Finn said. “The bloke evidently relished a challenge.”

“One might say that,” Nell said. “Fortunately for him, Lord Rocks-for-brains had padded his middle.”

“Definitely a stroke of luck there,” Finn observed.

“The man was not easily discouraged. I suspect he thought I was playing hard to get,” Macie said.

Nell nodded her agreement. “Until you rather conveniently managed to spill an entire goblet of wine onto his tunic.”

“The clod had the audacity to pursue me into the reception hall. I did not mean to collide with that elderly duke’s drink.” Macie’s words were not convincing, even to herself. She smiled to herself at the memory. “I can still picture the expressions on the guests’ faces as he stomped away. Covered in red wine as he was, he looked as if I had taken a real blade to him.”

“Impressive,” Finn said with a tone of surprising sincerity.

“I do believe you would’ve enjoyed that night.” Macie met Finn’s gaze. “I wasn’t expecting you until this evening. You have news?”

“I spoke with Inspector Bradley. The intruder has shown signs that he may regain consciousness. It may take hours. Or days. But it looks as though the old man’s fighting to stay alive.”

“That would certainly be good news.” Macie sent Mrs. Tuttle a speaking glance. “Once we hear from his own mouth that he meant no harm, the worrywarts can cease their fussing over me.”

“I will not stop worrying over you while you’re still gallivanting about London with that camera of yours,” Mrs. Tuttle said.

“Such a mother hen,” Macie said affectionately. “Speaking of my camera, the conditions for putting it to good use should be quite satisfactory this afternoon. Nell, I’ll have the cab deliver you to your fitting before I proceed to the house.”

Nell’s brow furrowed. “You think it wise to go on your own?”

“She will not be alone.” Finn said, a smile in his eyes as his gaze locked with Macie’s. “I will accompany ye.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Macie countered.

“I’d like to take a better look around the house. If I’m to offer an assessment of what needs to be done about the place, I’ll need more than a brief tour of the premises.”

His words were logical and sounded quite sincere. But the look in his eyes told Macie his motives had more to do with watching over her than with renovating the old house. “You’re quite certain you wish to take up your day in a stuffy old house?”

“There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.” A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.

Macie resisted the urge to chuckle at his blatant falsehood. “Has anyone ever told you you’re a poor liar?”

“Ah, ye’ve got me there. Honest to a fault, I am.”

Mrs. Tuttle’s cough seemed rather strategic. “A true choir boy if ever I’ve seen one.”

“Sadly, I cannot sing a note,” Finn replied smoothly. “I do possess an ulterior motive.”

Macie hiked a brow. “And what might that be?”

He regarded her with a solemn expression she suspected was an act. “The place is haunted, is it not?”

“Rumor has it that my ancestor roams the halls.”

“So I’ve heard.” Finn plowed his long fingers through his hair. “With any luck, we’ll come upon one of the legendary ghosts of Bennington Manor. But if a man who still lives and breathes is lurking in those halls, he will regret it.”

*

In his nearly thirty years of life, Finn believed he knew what beauty was. A pretty face with a come-hither expression in her eyes, a lush figure strategically enhanced with a corset to draw attention to all the right places, and a glimpse of a shapely ankle were undeniably attractive. Undeniably appealing. That was, until he stood at the base of the staircase in the entry hall of Bennington Manor, leaning casually against a carved oak post, unwilling to look away as he watched Macie with her camera.

He’d seen his fair share—if not more—of lovely women. Lasses in taverns from Inverness to Glasgow had drawn him in with their pretty faces and comely figures, while the diamonds of London’s ballrooms draped themselves in finery of silk and velvet. Lush waves of hair framed perfect faces, the corsets cinching their waists accentuated their assets, and eyes flashing with desire would lure his gaze. He was, after all, merely a man. With a man’s hungers. A man’s desires. A man’s appreciation of an inviting smile.

But until that moment, he had never encountered the true beauty of a woman engaged not in drawing his gaze, but in an intense pursuit of her creative passion.

He’d seen through the plain facade Macie had often employed to camouflage her beauty. She simply could not hide it. No matter how severely she wore her hair or how unattractive her dress, she could not conceal her natural loveliness.

On this afternoon, Macie wore a plain white blouse and dark wool skirt, her hair piled in casual curls upon her head. Sunlight streaming in through a high window danced over her reddish-brown hair and her cheekbones. As he concentrated on the task at hand, she pursed her lips. The intelligence and keen focus on her features intrigued him. His gaze pulled to her, and he did not want to look away.

As Finn leaned casually against the polished banister, he observed Macie’s skilled, confident motions as she set up her camera and prepared to capture the character of this old house. Watching her, he felt something unfamiliar. Something quite new. He couldn’t quite name it. Interest. Perhaps even fascination. And something more. Something magnetic.

As if he’d spotted his true north.

Macie glanced up from adjusting the tripod. “Is anything wrong?”

Bloody hell. Had he been so obvious that he’d given away the path of his thoughts?

He shook his head, a quick, perfunctory gesture, adding the first reasonably rational string of words that came to mind. “Will the light be sufficient?”

“Quite so.” She met his gaze with a smile. “The shadows are rather perfect, really.”

“If ye do not require my assistance, I’ll take a look around. I need to examine the staircases for signs they require reinforcement.”

“Thank you,” she said. “I’m hopeful Papa will approve of the repairs. Your recommendations will go a long way toward convincing him to move forward with the restoration.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” he said with a lightness he did not feel. Bringing the grand old house back to its true glory would be a significant undertaking. And a costly one as well. He knew damned well that Macie’s father had the money to do it. But could he be convinced to part with his hard-earned funds?

“Wait just a moment,” she said, fiddling with her tripod again. “I’d like to show you something.”

“One of the ghosts of Bennington Manor?”

“If only we were lucky enough to have one come out of hiding,” she said in a tone that may or may not have been serious. “It’s rather curious, really. I don’t know how my mother or my grandfather could have been descended from anyone with the slightest case of shyness.”

Macie joined him at the base of the stairs. “Come with me,” she said, bustling up the steps. She stopped at the first landing, standing directly before an oil portrait of an imposing man, silver streaks marking his full head of dark hair and beard. Every inch the tycoon, he sat in a tapestried chair that resembled a throne, the beautiful, chestnut-haired woman at his side displaying an impish smile that seemed rather at odds with the regal atmosphere the painter had obviously attempted to create. At her feet, a large, sedate dog gazed adoringly up at the woman.

“She is your grandmother,” he said, turning to Macie.

Macie nodded. “How did you know?”

“Ye’re the very image of her,” he said truthfully.

“Thank you,” she said, nibbling her lower lip. “I do hope so. That is how I remember her. She always had a touch of mischief in her expression.”

“As does yer mum.”

“Ah, you’ve noticed.” Macie seemed pleased. “My grandfather always said I was my grandmother’s miniature.”

“Ye inherited her smile.”

And the lively spark in her eyes .

“I think so, too,” she said. “My grandfather had seemed so very serious, the shrewd man of industry. He spent his youth making his fortune, just as my father did. Most regarded him as a fierce businessman, but I knew he had a soft heart. Especially for me.”

“He was a lucky man.”

“Sadly, my grandfather would not have agreed... not after he lost her.” A note of lingering grief infused her words. “Grandmama took ill not long after the portrait was completed. He brought in the most knowledgeable physicians. But they could not save her.” She let out a soft sigh. “Grandpapa was never the same.”

Finn pressed a gentle hand to her shoulder. “Such a loss can crush a man.”

“Indeed.” She turned to him, seeming to study him. “I was just a girl when she died. If my mother had not been a devoted daughter, I don’t know that Grandpapa would’ve made it through his sadness. Mum explained he was so very angry at the world. He’d worked so very hard for years to make a fortune. But it couldn’t buy him what he truly wanted most.” Macie blinked back a sheen of tears. “Eventually, he clawed through the pain. In those years, he channeled his energy into his passion for antiquities. He studied with professors of archaeology, becoming something of an expert in his own right.”

“I understand he funded acquisitions destined for museums.”

She nodded, the faintest of smiles curving her mouth. “Several collections throughout England and the British Isles benefitted from his donations. At first, he worried Mum would be concerned that he was giving away so much of his fortune—a fortune she was to inherit. But my mother’s only concern was his happiness and his legacy.”

“Yer mum is a special lady.” Finn spoke the truth. She had always treated him with hospitality, kindness, and a radiant smile. When he’d been at his lowest point, her wise words helped lift him from the hole of his own grief.

“Well, enough of this. My grandfather would not want me to feel sadness while I was in this house. He knew I cherished what lies within these walls.”

“It makes sense that he entrusted it to ye.”

Her eyes beamed at his words. “I’m so glad you understand. And that is a rare thing.”

“His rationale was perfectly sound. Who better to take care of the place?”

“Who better, indeed.” She sighed. “I do wish Jon agreed.”

“He’ll come around,” Finn said. With any luck, he was not being overly optimistic.

“I hope so.” She flashed a faint smile. “Oh, I did want to show you something. Follow me.”

Macie hurried up the stairs, nimbly navigating the steps despite her long skirts. He followed her, heading along the corridor to the elegant, shelf-lined room that had been her grandfather’s study.

“I wanted you to see this.”

She cut a direct path to an exceedingly small wing chair. Bloody hell, the piece looked to be a perfect child-sized replica of a Chippendale.

“Have ye a notion to pretend ye’re Goldilocks and test it out?”

Her mouth curved into a playful frown. “You know better than that, Finn Caldwell. This chair fit me—quite nicely, as I recall—when Grandpapa had it made for me. I was about seven at the time. We’d come into this room, and he would tell me tales about those who had come before in our family. His grandfather, a wily old buccaneer, actually came to live in this house. He passed away long before I was born, but Grandpapa boasted he still roamed the halls day and night, watching over his kin.”

Finn regarded her with a deliberately bland expression. “Why doesn’t it surprise me that yer ancestor was a pirate?”

“It seems to fit, doesn’t it?” She tapped her fingertip to her chin. “Perhaps I should embellish the story a bit. A fierce pirate watching over me might run off a baron or two.”

“I don’t know about a baron, or a duke, for that matter. But the notion of yer ghostly pirate ancestor pursuing me down the hall might send me bolting from this place.”

“I thought you wanted to see the ghost of Bennington Manor for yourself.”

“That was before I knew he was a bloodthirsty scalawag,” Finn said.

“Oh really? The man was not bloodthirsty. At least, I don’t think he was.” She pursed her lips. By thunder, did she realize how tempting her mouth was when she looked at him like that? “Phineas Caldwell, surely you, of all the rogues in London, are not afraid of a phantom.”

“I haven’t decided yet.” He shrugged. “It would depend on the ghost.”

“You can’t fool me. It would take more than a grouchy spirit to send you running.”

“Don’t be so sure. I’ve never had to fend off a ghost, let alone an ill-tempered one.”

“You don’t have to chase it off. You simply have to acknowledge it and go about your day. Or night, for that matter.”

She flashed a little grin. The woman had no right to be so appealing. Much less when she knew there wasn’t a damned thing he could do about it. Not if he wanted to see this infernal deal with the devil through to the end.

“So, ye’re an authority on the matter, are ye?” Finn cocked a brow, attempting to distract himself from her lips with thoughts of her pirate ancestor.

“Perhaps,” she said, her tone teasing.

“Ye’ve seen him roaming about, have ye?”

“I’m sure that I have. When I was a girl.” Her teeth grazed her bottom lip, drawing his eye once again. “Though Jon believed I had an overly active imagination.” She motioned him to the large mahogany desk near the fireplace. She handed him a silver-framed image that had been displayed by a neatly arranged pile of books. “My grandfather looked at this photograph every time he sat at this desk.”

Finn gazed at the decades-old memory preserved by a camera’s lens. The woman he recognized as Macie’s grandmother had been rosy-cheeked and vibrant, dressed in a prim white gown trimmed in lace. Her smile gleamed in her eyes despite the softly curved set of her mouth. Macie’s grandfather stood at her side, tall and lean, looking to be barely in his twenties. Decked out in what must have been his best suit of clothing, he looked rather nervous as he posed for the photograph. Perhaps that had something to do with the tall, imposing man who stood to the side of the young couple, his expression far less joyful than that of the lovely woman he’d wager had been Macie’s great-grandmother. An equally tall and somber man, a generation older than the others but still boasting a full head of silver hair, stood near the groom.

“This portrait was made on the day of my grandparents’ wedding. Grandpapa said he treasured it above all the others he’d commissioned over the years.”

“Yer grandmother was a beauty,” Finn said, taking in Macie’s keen resemblance to the young bride. He pointed to the stone-faced man and the joyful redhead. “Those are yer great-grandparents?”

She nodded. “My grandmother’s father was not pleased with the choice she’d made. His expression made that quite clear. But Grandmama was ahead of her time. Just as my mother did, she spurned a match to a man with a fortune to marry the man she loved. That may have been why Grandpapa was driven to make his own fortune, if only to justify her faith in him.”

“She was strong willed. Like ye.”

“I like to think so.” She tapped her fingertip to the glass covering the photograph. “That’s him,” she said, pointing out the man with his gray mane. “My ancestor, the pirate. Quite a dignified fellow, as you can see.”

“He looks like a man of grit and determination,” Finn observed. “And not a hook or peg leg in sight.”

“You do realize that all pirates did not resemble Blackbeard.”

“I cannot say I’ve ever given it much thought.”

“He did have a small scar from a dagger on his cheek. Or so I was told. You can scarcely make it out in the photograph.”

Finn spotted the curved mark near the man’s jaw. Reflexively, his hand went to his own face, touching the scar he’d borne for nearly two decades.

Macie’s gaze followed his movement. Her eyes narrowed, her expression growing curious. “Were you and Jon up to some mischief when you were boys? It left its mark.”

“Something like that,” he said, the lie tasting bitter on his tongue.

Her brow furrowed. “I’m sorry. I did not mean to pry.”

Blast it, the last thing he wanted to talk about was that small, fading mark on his skin. He had never given a damn about the flaw. But the memory of the night he’d received that scar cut deeper than the blade of the bastard who had inflicted it.

“No need to regret yer question. There’s not much to say about it, is all,” he said, softening his tone. “Now, tell me more about the fierce ghost of yer ancestor.”

“Whether or not he was a pirate, he was a seafaring man, bold and brave. My grandfather remembered he was quite formidable in protecting what was his.”

He placed the photograph back in its place. “If the man has come back as a spirit, I suspect he would watch over ye.”

“Yes, I imagine he would.” She flashed a grin. “So I suggest you continue to be a gentleman while you are in this house.”

“A gentleman, eh?”

“Most definitely.” She reached up, drawing the pad of her thumb over the contour of his jaw. Bloody hell, was she trying to drive him mad?

He pulled in a low breath. “That would be wise.”

“Unfortunately, I must agree.” Her plump mouth curved at the corners. “We would not want to shock the ghosts, now would we?”

“I’d wager they’ve seen their share of ungentlemanly scenes.”

“I suspect you’re right.” She shrugged. “If they are so rude as to spy on us, perhaps we should give them something to talk about.”

“Ye do enjoy a scandal, don’t ye, lass?”

“At times. Pity you do not share my interest.”

“I have no interest in stirring the gossips to talk, much less those who no longer walk among the living.”

He met her vibrant eyes. Macie was playing with fire. Ah, he had an interest. But it didn’t have a bloody thing to do with scandal or ghosts or staging a well-timed scene. No, it had everything to do with the woman who stood temptingly within reach. If he wasn’t careful, a man could lose himself in her emerald gaze.

“I’ve found creating a minor stir to be rather amusing,” she went on, her expression turning pensive. “Dabbing a bit of tarnish onto my good name has been a matter of self-preservation.”

“Self-preservation, eh?”

Her teeth grazed her lower lip. “I do not expect you to understand.”

For a long moment, he considered her words. “Macie, I know more than ye think.”

“Do you?” She lowered her gaze, then met his eyes again. “Since my debut, I’ve been viewed as a prize to be taken. Valued not for myself. Not for my talent. Not for my wit. But only as a means to an end.”

As a means to her father’s fortune. The unspoken words hung in the air.

“So ye’ve chased the blighters away, using whatever tool is at yer disposal.”

“Much to my father’s consternation.” She veiled her eyes with her lashes. “Well, then, enough of this. I didn’t come here today to blather on about noble nobs and my oh-so-tragic plight. We both have far better things to do.”

“Ye’re not blathering, Macie.” Gently, he brushed a rebellious curl behind her ear, his fingertip lingering over her silky cheek. “Ye’re right to drive away the hare-brained dolts. They don’t deserve a woman like ye.”

She studied him for a long moment. “You do surprise me, Finn Caldwell. Every time I think I have puzzled you out, I realize I cannot.”

“I am not an enigma, Macie.” He shrugged. “I am just a man.”

A man who can see the true beauty of the woman who is standing before him. A man who wants to hold her. To touch her. To kiss her senseless.

The faintest of smiles curved her mouth. Gazing down at her, he drank her in. She was so bloody tempting. As he watched her, she pulled in a breath, as if to steady herself. Had she sensed the hunger in him? Did it please her? Or did it threaten to tear the fragile bond they’d managed to forge?

Blast it . He was a fool to think he could stand so close to her and not want to kiss her. Not want to touch her. Not want to hear his name on her lips, breathless with need.

Releasing her from his light touch, he turned away and went to the window. None too gently, he shoved the curtains aside. “The light is fading. Ye’d best be finishing up whatever it was ye’d planned for today.”

Macie followed him. “There’s still time.” She reached for him, brushing her fingers against the edge of his jaw. “You’re not like the others. Somehow, I’ve always known that much is true.”

Gently, he caught her hand in his, stilling her. He had given his word he would protect her. Even from himself. He bloody well had to remember that simple fact.

Fool that he was, he wanted to kiss her. Now, it was his turn to play with fire.

With one finger, he softly tipped up her chin. He drew the pad of his thumb over her mouth, over her plump lower lip. If she responded to his caress—if she wanted him—could he force himself to turn away?

Macie met his gaze, the slight curve of her smile betraying a hint of pleasure at his touch. Her forest green eyes searched his face for a truth he could not allow her to see.

Unexpectedly, the sound of the door chimes cut through the thick silence. She blinked, as if jarred out of a haze.

“That must be Nell,” she said, taking a step back as his hands fell away. “Her fitting must not have taken as long as we’d expected.” Was that a note of disappointment in her voice?”

“I’ll let her in.” Finn turned to the door, giving silent thanks for the interruption.

Macie’s hand brushed his, stopping him in his tracks. “Before you do, I have one question.”

He met her gaze, seeing an unfamiliar hesitation. “What is it, Macie?” His voice sounded gruff to his own ears.

“Is it so very hard to see, Finn?” Her voice was slightly husky and flavored with emotion. “The truth of who I am... the woman. Not the heiress.”

“Ye are an original, Macie. One of a bloody kind. Any man who doesn’t want ye for who ye are... he’s a blasted fool.”