The Earl's Secret. Kathryn Jensen
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don’t seem to match up with your rooms.”
Now he did laugh. A booming laugh to let her know he had no regret he’d been found out so soon. Clever, clever woman indeed.
He hurried to catch up with her.
Listening to her lecture in earnest now, he was surprised by how much she knew of the history of the Borders, the Scottish county whose southern edge touched England, where the battles between the two countries spanned hundreds of years and had been the fiercest. Castle Donan had been a crucial link in the line of defense. She had exchanged hands a dozen times at great cost to both sides. He was so enthralled by her discussion he didn’t at first notice one of the men moving apart from the group to investigate a pair of dueling pistols mounted on one wall.
Out of the corner of his eye, Christopher glimpsed a hand reaching up. A shout burst from his lips before he could stop it. “Don’t!”
Everyone turned to stare at him. Jennifer tipped her head to one side and observed him with a look of triumph sparkling in her eyes.
Taking three long steps across the room, Christopher moved the man’s raised hand away from the pistol. “The earl wouldn’t like you touching his things,” he said, trying to keep his voice level.
“Sorry, I wasn’t going to hurt it,” the tourist objected.
“That’s an excellent rule to follow anytime you’re in a museum or building of historic importance,” Jennifer suggested cheerfully. “Many items you’ll see are irreplaceable, and age has made them fragile. Let’s move along now.” She flashed him a wicked smile in passing. “I’m sure there are many more intriguing things to discover here.”
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