Wanted: Ghost-Busting Bride

  As she checked her measurements and scribbled numbers on a notepad, he glanced at his watch. Then he scooted over next to her and tugged a stray curl hanging down on her neck. “Only thirty minutes remain before we must change for the picnic luncheon at the ruins.”

  Her head jerked up. “Do I have to wear another one of Crystal’s icky dresses?”

  “But of course.” He grinned at her pained expression.

  “In that case, sit here and hold this. Apparently, you’re rather experienced at handling laser light.” She jumped off the bench and thrust the laser into his hand. “Keep the light pointed at my feet and move it when I wave.”

  Her tone indicated she thought he’d find this chore boring, but he had no complaints. It gave him a good excuse to stare at her from all angles.

  Every time she reached to inspect the top of a hedge or a bush, her well-rounded breasts stretched enticingly against her tee shirt. When she bent over, he imagined sliding his hand over her sleek bottom.

  He’d made progress this morning. She hadn’t fought being in his arms or objected too violently to the light kiss. When he crowded in next to her on the bench, she hadn’t wiggled away. Nor had she slapped his hand away when he played with one of her silky blond curls. She was getting used to him.

  “Ready to concede there is no projector?”

  “No. How long will the stupid luncheon take?”

  He blinked and quickly calculated. “We should return to the castle by four. Why?”

  She plopped down next to him and snagged the laser measure out of his hand. “That means I’ll have three hours to explore what’s behind those slits in the base of the tower walls before having to dress for dinner.”

  “You actually want to go to the dungeon?” Lord, he didn’t know which was worse—soothing a feud between Kailyn and her relatives—or romancing her in the dungeon.

  Chapter 7

  What a rotten morning. Kailyn pawed through the trunk hunting for the costume labeled “picnic.” Markham’s sense of humor was the problem. How could she prove her ghost-busting theories with him laughing at her? If she didn’t come up with some evidence fast, she’d have to admit defeat. And that would leave her defenseless against Markham’s charm.

  Her stomach lurched at the sight of the hideous gown Crystal had sent for her to wear. She set her jaw. No way was she appearing in public dressed like a Cub Scout gone haywire. Snatching a pair of scissors from her tool kit, she massacred the miles of gold braid on the gown. Finished, she studied her hack job. Much better, even if tufts of gold braid still clung to the navy fabric at odd places.

  She ran downstairs to join the other women for their trip to the luncheon. Why in the world did she have to meet these stupid relatives? One look at her in this getup and they’d disown her.

  Hmmm. Not a bad thought.

  The bumpy carriage ride to the ruins didn’t perk up her mood. How could she back Markham off without losing the job? So caught up in finding the right plan, she failed to brace for a sharp turn and fell into Allison’s lap. Righting herself, she coughed. The horses’ hooves were kicking up dust that a breeze then blew into the carriage. But the discomfort of the trip jarred her brain into gear.

  Her arguments hadn’t dented Markham’s silly ghost tales. So she’d have to change tactics. She’d scare the seductive dimple off his cheek. The best way to frighten off a man was to give him everything he thought he wanted.

  As soon as the carriage door opened, she jumped out, ready to hunt Markham down. A waiter in a tux blocked her path. Shaking her head at the drink he offered, she stepped around him.

  She didn’t want wine or some fancy finger food. She wanted to terrorize the Earl of Ryne with sweetness. It took her two seconds to spot her target. Unfortunately, standing next to her relatives.

  Markham, as usual, wore a tailored jacket and snug pants tucked into boots highlighting his amazing body. As the only guests in suits—gray for the tall, dark-haired man and cream for the gaunt woman—her relatives stood out like sore thumbs..

  After a moment mentally picturing every clingy airhead she’d seen in the chick flicks, she inhaled deeply, flipped her hair in the breeze and imitated a ditzy blonde.

  This had better work.

  Smiling foolishly, she fluttered over to Markham and watched his eyes widen in surprise when she slipped her arm through his.

  “Spencer, darling.”

  Leaning over he whispered in her ear, “Good act, luv. Keep it up.”

  The man was impossible. Nothing shattered his confidence. She’d keep the bimbo act up, all right. Until he came to his senses about this ghostly nonsense.

  The scoundrel patted her hand then turned to the couple hovering eagerly in front of them. “Kailyn, these are your great-great-great-grandmother’s relatives—Basil Danforth, the Marquis of Wistern, and his wife Louise.”

  Looking like overdressed penguins, her relatives lunged forward to hug her. She tightened her hold on Markham. At least the pair made it easy to play the needy damsel in distress. They acted as if they wanted to swallow her whole. Little would they guess this morsel was not going to be impressed by a fake welcome.

  These two were way too pompous to be the ruthless kidnappers her family feared, but she didn’t trust them not to twist her arm to get their way.

  “May I call you Basil and Louise, or do I address you by your titles?”

  “Basil and Louise will be quite lovely.” The woman’s phony welcome warned Kailyn to be on her guard. “Claire was so wrong when she claimed Ryne could never charm you into marriage. You two make quite a fetching couple.”

  “You know my sister, Claire?”

  In her shock, she forgot to cling to Markham. When he slipped his arm around her waist and drew her closer, she jumped, wishing she’d never started this ruse.

  “Of course, Cousin Kailyn. Claire contacted me four months ago. She wanted to know if my doctors had come up with a way to reverse the Old Hag Syndrome afflicting all the women in our family. I told her there was no medical cure for Lady Anne’s curse.” The gaunt woman smiled dejectedly.

  Kailyn’s legs turned rubbery. It was a good thing Markham had his arm around her waist, or she’d have crumpled at her sister’s betrayal.

  When their great-grandfather had changed their family name, he’d insisted that—for the family’s safety—his descendents break all ties with their English relatives. By reestablishing contact, Claire had put Kailyn in a perilous situation.

  Sadness welled up. Old Hag’s Syndrome was causing Claire to grasp at any possibility for a cure. In the last six months, it had been impossible to talk to her about anything else. Not that she blamed Claire. With two daughters and a husband to worry about, her sister was desperate. But pinning her hopes on a ghost was simply nuts.

  Swallowing, Kailyn turned an all-too-real look of horror on Basil and Louise as she sagged against Markham then glanced up at him. “You mean Lady Anne will zap a whammy on me if I don’t marry you?”

  “Perhaps.” Markham squeezed her closer to his side. “However, Lady Anne chose you as my bride because our marriage will restore health to your sisters and all the Danforth women.”

  Ignoring her eavesdropping relatives, she didn’t have to pretend to look shocked when she turned to gape up at the Earl.

  The concern in his eyes was tinged with hopefulness. She didn’t doubt that he was desperate for her to believe him, but the rest? Did he really think she would—or could—want to marry him?

  Putting his long finger under her chin, he closed her mouth. “Our marriage could actually be an enjoyable way to atone for Elizabeth jilting my ancestor. Won’t you please agree?” He brushed his lips over her forehead.

  Delight shivered through her. It was getting harder and harder not to fantasize about a life with Markham. In spite of her vigilance, she liked him. But he didn’t really care for her. He was merely following a ghostly dictate.

  “I’ve only known you for two days. It’s too soon to make
any commitment.”

  “At least listen to what your family has to say.”

  She nearly groaned. Why didn’t he understand ghosts and curses weren’t logical?

  “You want me to believe that just because Elizabeth married Rupert Westbrook instead of the Earl, Lady Anne cursed my family? That it’s her fault the women turn into nothing but skin and bones at the age of forty?” She could barely spit the words out.

  “Precisely.”

  She’d never heard of a ghost having such extensive power. What was she missing? No medical tests could explain the fate of the women in her family. A fate she was destined to meet as well. Maybe it was time she listened to her English relatives and their paranormal theory. She rested her head on Markham’s shoulder. Since she was stuck in this dumb airhead persona, maybe she could use the flighty dim-bulb act to ask a lot of pointed questions.

  When she lifted her head, Markham grinned. Not a polite grin, but a fierce you’re-not-going-to-escape-me grin. She pounded, none too softly, on the shoulder she’d leaned against.

  “Weren’t my great-great-great-grandfather’s relatives invited to this luncheon?”

  “Yes. If you’ll cease your affectionate love pats, I’ll introduce them.” He snatched up her hand and kissed her knuckles before turning to Basil. “See that our plates are delivered to the table under the oak tree, Wistern. Kailyn and I will be along shortly.”

  The elegant couple sprang to obey Markham’s order. No wonder she couldn’t convince the stubborn Earl she wasn’t going to marry him. Everyone jumped at his merest utterance.

  “Don’t expect me to hop to when you give orders.”

  He chuckled and grabbed her hand. “The thought never crossed my mind. But now you’ve opened the subject, I believe it’s infinitely more dignified if we appear as a team.” He placed her fingers on his sleeve and strolled toward a stout, bald-headed man and his petite wife.

  “Yeah, with you as the team captain and me as chief gofer,” Kailyn muttered. “No thanks.”

  He stopped abruptly and swung her to face him, expression intense. “I’m not a bloody tyrant, and this isn’t a game. You may not believe in the ghost and her curses, but hundreds of people are dependent on us to do the right thing so they have a future.” He whirled back toward the pair, tugging her along.

  What just happened? She hurried to keep up, acutely aware of the gossip they were creating. Nothing else she’d said or done had fazed Markham, so why would he be angry at a snarky remark about his power? And why did she feel guilty?

  Flustered, she missed most of the introduction of her other relatives.

  But before she could ask Markham to repeat their names, the woman gushed, “Such a pleasure to meet you, Cousin Kailyn. Please call us Olivia and Jerome.”

  Her great-great-great-grandfather’s descendants didn’t look like vindictive killers. Still, she didn’t trust the glint in Olivia’s brown eyes. The woman was up to something.

  In an attempt to break the tension, Kailyn turned to Markham and batted her eyes. “Spencer, I’m starving. May we eat before the next ghost story?”

  “Your wish is my command.” Although his words were light, she could hear the frustration in his tone at her continued playacting.

  Well she was frustrated, too—about too much circumstantial evidence and no hard facts. How was she supposed to go against years of training and beliefs in two days?

  She made an elaborate show of placing her hand on Spencer’s arm and letting him steer her to the lone table under a huge oak tree.

  “I will do my best to keep an open mind about Lady Anne and her power,” she murmured for his ears only.

  She could hear relief in Markham’s voice when he leaned close after seating her and said, “Thank you. And I’ll try not to push.”

  As soon as her four relatives and Markham took their places, one of his staff delivered six plates of food. No hotdogs and chips on this picnic. Since she’d claimed to be hungry, she nibbled a thin cucumber sandwich. A small cluster of grapes and a wedge of cheese rounded out the lunch. When another waiter placed a glass of wine in front of her, she sipped the drink and waited for the tall tales to begin.

  Basil Danforth watched intently as Markham finished his wine.

  When the glass touched the table, he blurted out, “I know marriage to Ryne is a bit sudden, Miss Baker, but everyone must make sacrifices.” He waved his hand at Markham. “His lordship gave up a glamorous life in London, his architecture business and even his fiancée. He values the importance of duty to his family.”

  The news floored her. Markham must really believe in the ghost if he had willingly dumped a fiancée. Somehow the thought didn’t comfort her. At least she wouldn’t need to worry about hurting him when she refused to marry him and returned to Dallas. The man had no heart. He cared only for his castle.

  “You threw away your girlfriend because of a ghost?” The disbelief and disgust in her voice weren’t feigned.

  He simply lifted an eyebrow. “She wasn’t right for me.”

  “How did you know that?”

  “I invited her to the castle, and none of Lady Anne’s signs appeared.”

  “No one dumps a lover because she fails to attract the interest of a supposed paranormal entity.” She wanted to scream at him, shake him or knock some sense into his thick skull somehow.

  “Don’t be angry.” The scoundrel grinned at her. “You’re definitely worth the price. You’re sheer perfection. Absurdly pretty, highly intelligent and feisty enough to fight with Lady Anne.” He tweaked a clump of gold thread on her shoulder. “Then there is your delightfully unique sense of fashion. What more could I ask for in a countess?”

  “Love comes to mind,” she said sweetly, ignoring the heat racing up her cheeks. This bimbo act was hard to maintain.

  “What did I tell you, Louise?” Olivia’s tittering whisper reached Kailyn’s ears. “Things will turn out splendidly.”

  She smiled coolly at her relative. “My decision hasn’t been made.”

  “Oh, but we’re counting on you,” Jerome Westbrook’s deep voice countered. “You can protect Louise, your sisters and yourself from the family curse. The Danforths have waited one hundred seventy years for an eligible descendent to make things right with Lady Anne, but we Westbrooks have waited over five hundred years. You can’t let us down.”

  Certain she didn’t want to hear the tale but seeing no escape, she asked, “What did Lady Anne do to the Westbrooks, and why?”

  Jerome returned her steady gaze. “The relationship between the Westbrooks and the earls has been strained for centuries. A Westbrook brought the traitor who killed Lady Anne to her eldest son’s wedding.”

  A large lump formed in Kailyn’s throat. This curse stuff was sounding all too real. A family vendetta would explain the Westbrooks’ desperation to stop Elizabeth’s marriage to Rupert. But how could she verify that Lady Anne had placed a curse on the descendants of two families? She swallowed hard before asking, “What’s the rest of this tale?”

  “Every Westbrook male for the last five hundred years has died in a violent accident just before his fortieth birthday,” Jerome said solemnly.

  His statement hit her with a punch of reality. Her father, grandfather and great grandfather had all died in freak accidents just weeks before their fortieth birthdays. She hated coincidences she couldn’t explain.

  Markham’s absurd ghost tales weren’t fun anymore.

  Unable to maintain her silly airhead act, she stood up. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to walk to the ruins for a little meditation time.”

  Immediately Markham rose. “I’d be delighted to escort you.”

  Waving her hand, she quickly stopped his advance. “I need time alone to think about my choices.” Picking up her skirts, she fled up the path to the ruins.

  She’d long blamed bad genetics, poor eating habits and poor cooking skills in her family for the women’s scarecrow look. However, Claire—a TV weather girl—had tr
ied every exercise, diet supplement and beauty aid in the world. Nothing had helped her maintain her healthy looks. Now it seemed the English branch of the family had the same problem. That wasn’t a coincidence Kailyn could ignore.

  Lost in thought, she stepped over a fallen log. She wanted to leave her doubts behind, but the facts couldn’t be denied. For five hundred years, Westbrook males had died from violent accidents before the age of forty. No family line could have that much bad luck.

  The curse was real.

  What was she going to do about it? Was it possible for her to have a normal life? a family? Would a marriage with Markham restore Claire’s health? Safeguard her own? Could she marry just for the purpose of saving her sister and these English relatives she hardly knew? She still needed time to understand and accept her role in this drama. One thing was sure—she wasn’t ready to let Markham know she believed in Lady Anne and her curses.

  Footsteps crunched on the gravel as she stepped through the gaping hole in the abbey wall. At a flicker of movement to her left, she looked up to see Helena holding a boulder over her head ready to strike. She jumped sideways, tumbling back throwing up her hands to ward off the crushing blow.

  A green flash and a whoosh of cold air rushed by her cheek. She twisted to peer over her shoulder and sucked in her breath, not believing her eyes.

  A green cloud surrounded the rock, still in Helena Seaton’s extended hands.

  “Noooo. Release me,” Helena snarled in a deep, raspy voice, even though her lips didn’t move. “She must die.”

  “Who are you talking to, Helena?”

  Kailyn backed away from the wild-eyed blonde and spun to scan the abbey’s dusky interior for an accomplice. Only she, Helena and the green cloud were in the ruins.

  Mutely, Helena unsuccessfully struggled to lower her arms. The green haze imprisoned the large boulder and totally engulfed the blonde. Then in a burst of red and green sparks, Kailyn’s would-be attacker was caught in a whirlwind and twirled like a top. Red rays shot out of Helena’s spinning form and streaked through the hole in the abbey’s wall. Still holding the rock, Helena, crumpled to the ground.