By the time they had finished viewing the first floor, Christopher was sure Jennifer not only knew she wasn’t in Bremerley, she also had determined he wasn’t who he pretended to be. He felt her watching him whenever the little group entered a new room. Repeatedly he caught himself standing between the group and his most cherished possessions, as if unconsciously shielding them from clumsy hands. He was certain she added this mistake to her collection of clues.
At last she turned to him as they circled back toward the great hall. “Are the rooms on the upper floors open for viewing?”
He automatically stiffened at the thought of strangers plodding through his private chambers. “I, well…you see, the upper floors are all under renovation.” It was true, though he could have shown them, anyway. All but the turret; that was his alone.
Two of the women standing nearby sighed with disappointment.
“Well then, that’s it for this stop,” Jennifer announced. “Thank you, Christopher, for letting us in and playing host. We’ve enjoyed seeing the castle.”
“Anytime.” His own voice, so relaxed and affable, sounded strange to him. How long had it been since he’d felt this free of tension?
Before he could count off the months, Jennifer was herding her charges toward the towering doors, her voice echoing against the stone as she efficiently announced their itinerary for the afternoon.
Christopher followed at her heels, feeling just a little guilty for having strung her along. It didn’t matter that he would never see her again, he thought as he stood and watched her group pile into the van. He just didn’t like the idea of her going away, thinking he had intentionally tricked her when, really, his intention had been to help her out of a jam. And, of course, have a little innocent fun.
“Wait!” he shouted just as she started to slide into the driver’s seat. Reaching in he pulled her out and closed the door to give them some privacy. He spoke in a low voice. “You figured it out. How?”
“Caretakers, usually, are only superficially loyal to their employers,” she stated, her eyes turning unexpectedly sharp and serious. “No hired hand takes as much pride in his boss’s home as you obviously do. I was afraid you might throttle Mr. Pegorski when he touched that pistol.” She looked him accusingly in the eyes. “This isn’t Bremerley, none of the architectural details match my notes, and you aren’t anyone’s caretaker. So where am I and who are you?”
He gave her a stony stare appropriate for the lord of a trespassed manor. “This is Castle Donan. You took a wrong turn. I’m Christopher Smythe, earl of Winchester.”
Her gaze didn’t waver, and after a moment she nodded slowly. “I’ve heard of you, or seen your photo somewhere. A magazine, I think. One of those celebrity tabloids at a kiosk in London.”
He lifted one eyebrow, unsurprised. “Don’t believe everything you read.” The fact that she seemed neither impressed nor worried by his reputation intrigued him. He lifted her fingertips to his lips. Gently he brushed across her soft knuckles. She smelled like vanilla again. After a moment he reluctantly released her hand.
“The earl of Winchester,” she repeated thoughtfully.
“A relatively minor title. They hardly recognize me at court.”
She looked doubtfully up at him from beneath a pale fringe of lashes. Jade behind silk. “Right. You’re just an average Joe who fades into the woodwork…or stone, as the case may be.”
He shook his head and smiled—a real and full smile, for the first time in as long as he could remember. For some reason it pleased him that she considered him attractive. He had learned to ignore looks from female admirers, except for those remote instances when his body told him it was time. Time to satisfy the urges a man could never quite escape.
“You’re not a very good liar, you know,” she said. “And you don’t look at all like a servant. I suspect you couldn’t fool anyone for long.”
He liked her refreshing candor. “The inability to deceive can be a good trait. How long will you be in Scotland?” he asked, impulsively.
“One more day.”
“And then?”
“We’ll be in London two days, then I’ll send my charges back to the States. I’ve planned to stay on for an additional day before leaving myself.”
“So little time. A pity,” he murmured as she turned to open the van’s door. An unwelcome heat settled down low within his body.
He chose to ignore it. Clearly Jennifer Murphy was on this side of the Atlantic for only a brief time. Her home and future lay in the U.S. His place was in Great Britain and would remain so for many reasons he chose not to dwell on now.
“Well then,” he began, but had to clear a strange roughness from his throat before continuing, “goodbye, Jennifer of Baltimore.” He offered his hand, then helped her up into the driver’s seat before turning quickly in the direction of his stables. He needed a good hard ride. It wasn’t the physical activity of his choice, just now, but it would bloody well have to do.
Jennifer glanced up at the rearview mirror as she drove away from the wrong castle. For the few seconds it took the van to reach the first curve in the drive, she watched Christopher Smythe stride around the corner of the gray stone wall of his beloved Donan. Her palms felt moist on the steering wheel. Prickles teased the back of her neck. She could still feel the pressure of his lips against her fingertips. Damn the man.
Yes, he was arrogant. Yes, he was too good-looking and rich for his own good or the sanity of any woman who crossed his path. But thanks to him, no one in her party seemed to realize she’d gotten lost on her way from London to Edinburgh, and intruded on a real earl and his home. For that she was indebted to him.
How could it have happened? She never got lost! By the time she led a tour, she had done her homework—charted her routes in detail and double checked them, memorized her lectures on the art, architecture and history for each stop.
She was vexed with herself, so much so that she didn’t blame him for tricking her. Admittedly he had taken advantage of her mistake and flirted with her outrageously, but he had also provided a way for her to save face. She really ought to do something nice for him in return. Maybe send a thank-you note…or rip up at least one copy of that horrid tabloid that had written embarrassing things about him.
Throughout the afternoon in Edinburgh, Jennifer thought about Christopher, even though she tried her very best not to. His dizzying blue eyes flashed repeatedly in her mind; his expressive mouth and sexy British accent whispered to her as they toured the ruins of Hollyrood Abbey and the adjoining park. She remembered how his dark hair had fallen in a boyish wave across one corner of his forehead, and how his eyes twinkled, sharing the joke with her when he realized she had found him out.
Then there was that fingertip-kissing business. Had the seductive tingles racing up her arm been unintended? Probably. Christopher was a man accustomed to—and obviously very good at—arousing such feelings in women. But he no doubt had gone through the motions automatically. She could picture him bussing the plump hand of an octogenarian duchess, then turning unconcernedly away as she swooned. All in a day’s work for a handsome earl, what?
Although Jennifer’s head told her the feelings he’d left her to sort out meant nothing, her heart wouldn’t cooperate. Now is the worst time to complicate your life, she told herself.
She had to protect her own and her mother’s financial security. That was her first priority, and it meant working long hours to pay off the last of the debts her father had dumped on them before her mother finally divorced the rogue. It would be nice to have a man in her life, yes. But none she’d ever met could guarantee her the security she needed. And she’d be damned if she let one come between her and the financial well-being she needed!
Jennifer thought about her father, then about Christopher. The only type of male worse than a womanizer with a penchant for gambling was a playboy who threw money away on extravagant clothes, cars and parties for his friends. And he lived on another continent! Imag
ine the weeks of separation, wondering if he was spending his last pound or sleeping with another woman while they were apart. Even if he was faithful to her, imagine the money wasted on long-distance calls and airfare.
Getting hung up on someone as sexy and charming as the earl of Winchester—who lived in an honest-to-goodness castle, raced the length of polo fields astride wild-eyed ponies and made women weak-kneed at the touch of his lips…that would be the worst mistake of her life.
Stop it! Jennifer ordered herself as she shakily gripped the iron rail outside the bleak stone walls of Hollyrood. Why on earth was she thinking like this? She had spent exactly ninety minutes in the company of Christopher Smythe. She knew next to nothing about the man, and here she was daydreaming an already-doomed relationship with him! She must be losing her mind.
At the end of the day, Jennifer made sure that everyone in her charge was well fed and settled into their respective rooms at the stately Caledonia on Princes Street. Bringing her maps and brochures with her, she took the lift down to the hotel pub and found a seat in a quiet corner. There would be no more mistakes made on this trip! With a determined little cough, she unfolded the city street map of Edinburgh.
“Good idea,” a deep voice stated from nearby.
Jennifer looked up, startled. “What are you doing here?” She grinned at Christopher, her insides quivering with pleasure at seeing him again, even as an inner voice whispered, Don’t you dare get all wobbly inside!
“Business,” he said quickly. “Need a second opinion on those maps?”
She laughed. “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt, although we’ll be walking most of the time tomorrow. I don’t know what happened today. I never get lost, honest. If my mother ever found out she’d have a fit.”
“Then we won’t tell.” He winked at her and pulled out the chair beside hers. Leaning over the table, he scrutinized another of her maps, the one showing Scotland’s highways, one of which she’d highlighted in bright orange.
“Is Donan the real name of your castle?” she asked. She had noticed earlier that he pronounced it as a Scot would: Dun-in. “I couldn’t find it on the Historic Registry.”
“It’s taken from the Gaelic, the name of an ancient clan. I haven’t yet been able to qualify for the registry, because of its condition.” He pointed with one long finger at a symbol on the map. “Here was today’s problem. You should have waited for the next exit off the A7, just after the loch. Then you would have been fine.”
“I know, I figured that out when we stopped for lunch. I really do feel foolish. By the way, I owe you for covering for me. Although most of the folks in my little crew are very nice, I have one problem couple.” The rest of the group was easy.
She had four couples, three of which were married and seniors. The other couple was in their thirties and evidently had been dating for several years. The remaining two clients were a single man in his forties, who was tracing his genealogy, and a fiftyish woman who seemed to enjoy the security of traveling with a group.
He frowned. “What kind of problem?”
“They’re never satisfied with anything, or at least they pretend to be upset. I have a feeling they’re building up to ask for their money back. We guarantee satisfaction with all our excursions.”
“Surely just one little slip like getting lost for an hour shouldn’t cost the entire holiday.”
Jennifer shrugged. “You’d be surprised. Some people sign up for trips knowing they can get at least half their fees refunded if they complain loudly enough. It’s a scam of course. But sometimes it doesn’t pay to let them drive away new business, especially if you’re a small company like us. You just have to take the loss.”
Christopher shook his head.
She studied him. The irises of his eyes were a darker, more intense blue here in the pub. She sensed a serious side to him that hadn’t been as evident at Donan. He had a habit of locking his jaw when he was displeased with something—like the unfairness of con-artist travelers and thoughtless guests who dared touch his treasures.
“You’re not just in this hotel by coincidence, are you?” she asked intuitively.
He looked up from his glass of whisky. It was half-gone, and she suddenly suspected that, whether or not business had brought him to Edinburgh, he had been waiting here for her. The thought sent a warm, liquid shiver through her body.
“How did you find me?” she asked.
“It wasn’t difficult. When you climbed in your van to leave, a brochure from the Caledonia lay on the passenger seat. I figured the odds were good you’d be staying here tonight. If I hadn’t found you in here, I would have called up to your room.”
A pleasantly nervous chill rippled up her spine. “And did you have any particular reason for tracking me down?”
He studied her, his lips firmly closed, his expression verging on severe, brooding. It took him a long time to answer. “I guess I just wasn’t ready for the tour to end.”
“You were the one who said the other rooms in the castle were off-limits.”
Slowly his mouth relaxed into a wicked smile. “Not that tour.”
She could feel the heat filling her cheeks like the diluted pink wash from a watercolorist’s brush when touched to paper. The way Christopher was looking at her felt dangerous, in a delicious sort of way. She told herself that her reaction was because she was so far from home, on foreign territory…alone. And she wasn’t accustomed to receiving propositions, if that was what this was, from castle-owning aristocrats. How many women were?
Jennifer looked down to find Christopher’s hand pressed warmly over hers on the tabletop. Desperately she tried to force her brain to function, tried to come up with something witty and sophisticated enough to impress an earl. Her mind was a maddening blank. A second later, it kicked into gear, only to deliver a troubling question. Does he have a girlfriend? She had seen his photo with a long-legged, spa-polished woman in that London tabloid. Had his companion been more to him than a simple date?
“Does this sudden silence mean the tour has ended?” he asked at last.
She smiled brightly and aimed for a politic line. “If you ever visit Maryland, be sure to drop in on us in Baltimore. I’ll show you the sights.”
“Those aren’t the sights I’m most interested in seeing.” His eyes. His eyes were impossible to escape. They drew her in. She tried to pull her hand away, but his fingers closed tightly around hers. Her pulse throbbed in her throat.
“Let’s try this again, luv.” The last word, which sounded more Liverpuddlian-Beatles than upper-crust British, took her by surprise. Christopher leaned across the table and looked into her startled eyes. “No more beating around the bush. How about going out to dinner with me tonight?”
“I’ve already eaten.” The words tumbled out of her mouth before she had a chance to consider whether or not she wanted to fib herself into a second meal.
“We could go somewhere for dessert and coffee,” he suggested.
Jennifer stared down at their clasped hands. She was beginning to be able to read him, which was a little scary after knowing him for so short a time. What she understood from his voice and body language was that Christopher Smythe wasn’t going to take no for an answer. And if he refused to listen to the word, where food was concerned, what did that tell her about his willingness to understand and honor her wishes when more was at stake than overeating? Her only countermeasure was to seek neutral ground, fast.
She looked around at the dark wood paneling, bronze sconces casting their golden light, the beautifully aged leather banquets, the other guests conversing in hushed tones—a classically masculine setting, very British, very earlish. Ver-r-r-y Christopher. But all that mattered to her was that it seemed safe here.
“I have an early morning tomorrow,” she said. “Why don’t we just stay here and talk.”
He appeared neither pleased nor disappointed. “Fine. What will you have to drink?”
“A white zinfandel, please.”
> His hand barely raised above the level of the table before the steward appeared beside him. Moments later a glass of pale pink wine was set before her. Jennifer took a few cautious sips, and mellow warmth enfolded her.
Christopher settled back in his chair and observed her over the amber liquid in his own glass. “Why Baltimore? Why do you live there when you’ve obviously seen so many exciting cities?”
“I live in Baltimore because it’s my home,” she said simply, then came back at him. “Why do you live in Scotland when you’re English?”
He seemed startled by her question, and the muscles in his jaw visibly tightened. “I live in Scotland because I like it,” he responded brusquely.
Not satisfied, she set her wineglass on the table between them. “That’s no answer. Everyone chooses to do things because, for one reason or another, they find them appealing.”
“Not always. Sometimes we act in a certain way because we have no choice.”
“Everyone has choices.”
“Not always,” he snapped. Then, as if he thought he might have spoken too harshly, Christopher reached out for her hand again and rubbed his thumb soothingly over the back of it, creating a warm spot. “Life sometimes surprises you,” he said enigmatically.
Jennifer decided the level of tension in the air dictated a change of subject. She asked the first question that came to mind. “What are your favorite London restaurants?”
He seemed to welcome the new direction of their conversation. As he spoke, his voice grew less tense. She watched his thumb trace hot little circles over the back of her hand, entranced by the motion as much as by his touch.
At one point she caught a glimpse of him in the mirror beside them, and she thought to herself—though it didn’t seem logical at the time—this is a tormented man. But how could that be when a man had so much money, so many friends, so many opportunities in life? She dismissed the thought as overly romantic, far too Jane Austen: the lord, the castle, the dark moods.
The Earl's Secret (Elbia Series Book 3) Page 2