These Haunted Hearts: A Regency Ghost Story Page 7

  He laughed and she struggled to suppress the sensual awareness that rippled down her spine at that soft, deep sound. “Some things haven’t changed, I see. You’re still dishing out orders. And I’m still damned if I’ll play your lapdog.”

  “Can you see another solution?” she asked sweetly.

  “Yes,” he said with a snap of his straight white teeth. “I can leave you to freeze. Not that you’d notice. Your blood has always been colder than Satan’s icehouse.”

  Her pride insisted that she send him on his way with a flea in his ear. The weather—and what common sense remained under the urge to wound that always flared in Kinvarra’s vicinity—prompted her to sound more conciliatory.

  It was late. She and Harold hadn’t passed anyone on this country road. Bleak, snowy moors extended for miles around them. The grim truth was that if Kinvarra didn’t help, they were stranded until morning. And while she was dressed in good thick wool, she wasn’t prepared to endure a night in the open. The chill of the ground seeped through her fur-lined boots and she shifted again, trying to revive feeling in her frozen feet.

  “My lord…” During the year they’d lived together, she’d called him Sebastian. During their few meetings since, she’d clung to formality to keep him at a distance. “My lord, there’s no point in quarreling. Basic charity compels your assistance. I would consider myself in your debt if you fetch aid as quickly as possible.”

  He arched one black eyebrow in an imperious fashion that made her want to clout him. Not a new sensation. “Now that’s something I’d like to see.”

  “What?”

  “Gratitude.”

  He knew he had her at a disadvantage and he wasn’t likely to rise above that fact. She ground her teeth and battled to retain her manners. “It’s all I can offer.”

  The smile that curved his lips was pure devilry. A shiver with no connection to the cold ran through her.

  “Your imagination fails you, my dear countess.”

  Her throat closed with nerves—and that reluctant physical reaction she couldn’t ignore. He hadn’t shifted, yet suddenly she felt threatened. Which was ludicrous. During all their years apart, he’d given no indication he wanted anything from her except her absence. One chance meeting wasn’t likely to turn him into a robber baron ready to spirit her away to his lonely tower where he could have his way with her.

  Having his way with her was the last thing Kinvarra wanted, as she was humiliatingly aware.

  Nonetheless, she had to fight the urge to retreat. She knew from dispiriting experience that her only chance of handling Kinvarra was to feign control. “What do you want?”

  This time he did lean closer, until his great height overshadowed her. Close enough for her to think that if she stretched out one hand, she’d touch that powerful chest, those wide shoulders. “I want—”

  There was a piercing whinny and a sudden pounding of hooves on the snow. Appalled, disbelieving, Alicia turned to see Harold galloping off on one of the carriage horses, legs flailing as he struggled for purchase without stirrups.

  “Harold?”

  Her voice faded to nothing in the night. Her beau didn’t slow down. In fact, he kicked his mount’s sides to encourage greater speed. She’d been so engrossed in her battle with Kinvarra, she hadn’t even noticed that Harold had caught one of the stray horses.

  Kinvarra’s low laugh mocked her. “Oh, my dear. Commiserations. Your swain proves a sad disappointment. I wonder if he’s fleeing my temper or yours. You really have no luck in love, have you?”

  She was too astonished to be upset at Harold’s departure. Instead she focused on Kinvarra. Her voice turned hard. “No luck in husbands, at any rate.”

  ***

  Kinvarra suffered Alicia’s hate-filled regard and wondered what the hell he was going to do with his troublesome wife out in this frigid wilderness. The insolent baggage deserved to be left where she stood, but even he, who owed her repayment for countless slights over the years, wouldn’t do that to her.

  It seemed he had no choice but to help.

  Not that she’d thank him. He had no illusions that after she’d got what she wanted—a warm bed, a roof over her head and a decent meal—she’d forget any promises of gratitude.

  In spite of the punishing cold, heat flooded him as he briefly let himself imagine Alicia’s gratitude. She’d shed that heavy red cloak. She’d let down that mass of gold hair until it tumbled around her shoulders. Then she’d kiss him as if she didn’t hate him and she’d—

  From long habit, he stopped before the flaring images became too interesting. A thousand fantasies had sustained him the first year of their separation, but he’d learned for sanity’s sake to control them since. Now they only troubled him after his rare meetings with his wife.

  This was the longest time he and Alicia had spent together in years. It should remind him why he eschewed her company. Instead, it reminded him that she was the only woman who had ever challenged him, the only woman who had ever matched him in strength, the only woman he couldn’t forget, desperately as he’d tried.

  He smiled into her sulky, beautiful face. “Poor Alicia. It seems you’re stuck with me.”

  How that must smart. The long ride to his Yorkshire manor on this desolate night suddenly offered a myriad of pleasures, not least of which was the chance to knock a few chips off his wife’s monumental pride.

  She didn’t respond to his comment. Instead with an unreadable expression, she stared after her absconding lover. “We’re only about five miles from Harold’s hunting lodge.”

  The wench didn’t even try to lie about the assignation, blast her impudence. “If he manages to stay on that horse, Horace should make it.” Fenton showed no great skill as a bareback rider. Even as Kinvarra recognized the wish as unworthy, he hoped the blackguard ended up on his rump in a muddy hedgerow.

  “Harold,” she said absently, drawing her cloak tight around her slender throat. “You could take me there.”

  This time his laughter was unconstrained. She’d always had nerve, his wife, even when she’d been little more than an untried girl. “Be damned if you think I’m carting you off to cuckold me in comfort, madam.”

  She sent him a cool look. “I’m thinking purely in terms of shelter, my lord.”

  “I’m sure,” he said cynically.

  Still, in spite of his jaded view of the world and its inhabitants, he couldn’t completely stifle his rankling surprise that Alicia had at last chosen a lover. In spite of their lack of communication, he’d always known what she was up to. Since leaving him, she’d been remarkably chaste, which was one of the reasons he’d allowed the ridiculous separation to continue. Clearly living with him for a year had left her with no taste for bed sport. A bitter acknowledgement for a man to make, by God.

  Recent gossip had mentioned Lord Harold Fenton as a persistent suitor, but Kinvarra thought he knew enough of his wife to consider the second son of the Marquess of Granville poor competition. Bugger it, he should have listened to the gossip.

  By all that was holy, her taste had deteriorated since she’d abandoned her marriage. The man was a complete nonentity.

  Perhaps one day she’d thank her husband for saving her from a disastrous mistake.

  And the bleak and stony moor around them might suddenly sprout coconut palms.

  “No, my love, your fate is sealed.” He slapped his riding crop against his boot and tilted his hat more securely on his head with an arrogant gesture designed to irritate her. “Horatio travels north. I travel south. Unless you intend to ride the other carriage horse or pursue the clodpole on foot, your direction is mine.”

  “Does that mean you will help me?” This time, she didn’t bother correcting his deliberate misremembering of her suitor’s name.

  She was lucky he didn’t call the toad Habakkuk and skewer his kidneys with a rapier. Alicia was his. Kinvarra had known that from the first moment he saw her, slender, unsure, but full of a wild vitality that still beckoned
him, whatever else divided them. No other damned rapscallion was going to steal her away. Especially a rapscallion who lacked the spine to fight for her.

  Kinvarra strode across to his bay mare and snatched up the reins. “If you ask nicely.”

  To his surprise, Alicia laughed. “Devil take you, Kinvarra.”

  He swung into the saddle and urged the horse nearer to his wife. “Indubitably, my dear.”

  Her suddenly cavalier attitude made it easier to deal with her, but it puzzled him. Her lover’s desertion hadn’t cast her down. If she didn’t care for the fellow, why in Hades accept his advances? Yet again, Kinvarra realized how far he remained from understanding the complicated creature he’d wed with such high hopes eleven years ago.

  He extended one leather-gloved hand and noted her hesitation before she accepted his assistance. It was the first time he’d touched her since she’d left him and even through two layers of leather, he felt the burning shock of contact. She stiffened as though she too felt that unwelcome surge of response.

  He’d always wanted her. That was part of the problem, God help them. He’d often asked himself if time would erode the attraction.

  Just one touch of her hand on a snowy night and he received his unequivocal answer.

  She swung onto the horse behind him and paused again before looping her arms around his waist. He’d always been hellish aware of her reactions and he couldn’t help but note her reluctance to touch him.

  Good God, what was wrong with the woman? She’d been ready enough to do more than touch rabbit-hearted Fenton. Surely her long-suffering husband deserved a little friendliness after coming to her rescue. With damned little encouragement, too, he might add.

  Compared to the cold night, she felt warm and soft against his back. His lunatic heart dipped at her nearness, even as he told himself that the warmth and softness were lies. Alicia Sinclair was made of stone. Or at least she was when it came to her husband. If he forgot that, she’d drag his soul through the razor-sharp thorns of hell again.

  But the warning fell on deaf ears. When she touched him, he could think of little else but how long it was since he’d held her in his arms and shown her how strongly she inflamed his unruly passions.

  The mare curveted under the double weight, but Kinvarra settled her with a curt word. He never had trouble with horses. It was his wife he couldn’t control.

  “What about my belongings?” she asked, calm as you please. The lady should demonstrate proper shame at being caught with a lover. But of course, that wasn’t Alicia. She held her head high whatever destiny threw at her.

  It was one of the things he loved about her.

  He quashed the unwelcome insight. “There’s an inn a few miles ahead. I’ll get them to send someone for your baggage.”

  He clicked his tongue to the horse and cantered in the opposite direction to the one Fenton had taken. Which was lucky for the weasel. If Kinvarra caught up with Fenton now, he’d be inclined to reach for his horsewhip. What right had that bastard to interfere with other men’s wives then scuttle away leaving the lady stranded?

  Alicia settled herself more comfortably, pressing her lovely, lush body into his back. She hadn’t been this close to him in years. He was scoundrel enough to enjoy the contact, however reluctantly she granted it.

  Maybe after all, he should be grateful to old Harold. He might even send the poltroon a case of port and a note of appreciation.

  Well, that might go too far.

  “Is that where we’re heading?” She tightened her arms. He wished it was because she wanted to touch him and not just because she sought a more secure seat. He also wished that when she said “we”, his belly didn’t cramp with longing for the word to be true.

  Damn Alicia. She’d always held magic for him and she always would. Ten long years without her had taught him that grim lesson.

  The reminder of the dance she’d led him made him respond in a clipped tone. “No, we’re going to Heseltine Hall near Whitby.”

  “But you can leave me at the inn, can’t you?”

  “It’s a poor place. I couldn’t abandon a woman there without protection.” He tried, he really did, to keep the satisfaction from his voice, but he must have failed. He felt her tense against his back, although she couldn’t pull too far away without risking a fall.

  “And who’s going to protect me from you?” she muttered, almost as if to herself.

  “I mean you no harm.” For all their difficult interactions, he’d only ever wished her well. “You didn’t come all the way from London in that spindly carriage, did you?”

  “It’s inappropriate to discuss my arrangement with Lord Harold,” she said coldly.

  He laughed again, against all sense, enchanted with her spirit. “Humor me.”

  She sighed. “We traveled up separately to York.” Her voice melted into sincerity and he tried not to respond to the husky sweetness. “I truly didn’t set out to cause a scandal. You and I parted in rancor, but I have no ambition to damage you or your name.”

  “Whatever your attempts at discretion, you still meant to give yourself to that puppy,” Kinvarra bit out, all amusement abruptly fled.

  Alicia didn’t answer.

  The Winter Wife: A Christmas Novella

  Praise for Anna Campbell and her Historical Romances:

  Anna Campbell’s SEVEN NIGHTS IN A ROGUE’S BED is at once elegant and wildly sensual: its sweep of dark passion reminded me of early historical romances written by Judith McNaught, fortified with a touch of the gothic. Eloisa James, New York Times bestselling author

  Different and intriguing. Stephanie Laurens, New York Times bestselling author

  SEVEN NIGHTS IN A ROGUE’S BED is a lush, sensuous treat. I was enthralled from the first page to the last and still wanted more. Laura Lee Guhrke, New York Times bestselling author

  No one does lovely, dark romance or lovely, dark heroes like Anna Campbell. I love her books, Sarah MacLean. New York Times

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  author. Australian Women’s Weekly

  ANNA CAMPBELL has written seven multi award-winning historical romances and her work is published in eleven languages. Anna has won numerous awards for her Regency-set romances including Romantic Times Reviewers Choice, the Booksellers Best, the Golden Quill (three times), the Heart of Excellence (twice), the Aspen Gold (twice) and the Australian Romance Readers Association’s favorite historical romance (four times). She has three times been voted favorite Australian romance author by the Australian Romance Readers Association (2009, 2010, 2011). Her next full-length release is A Rake’s Midnight Kiss, book 2 in the Sons of Sin series. Anna lives on the beautiful Sunshine Coast in Australia and loves to travel and listen to music.

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  Anna Campbell, These Haunted Hearts: A Regency Ghost Story

 

 

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