The Earl's Secret Read Free

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.
    â€œWait!” 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?”
    â€œCaretakers, 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.
    â€œThe earl of Winchester,” she repeated thoughtfully.
    â€œA 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.
    â€œYou’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.
    â€œOne more day.”
    â€œAnd then?”
    â€œWe’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.”
    â€œSo 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.
    â€œWell 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.
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    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