Wanted: One Ghost Read Free Page A

the radical Sons of Liberty who seemed to pop up everywhere in the colonies. With his yummy British accent, he played the part of a pre-Revolutionary War colonist to the hilt. Honestly, the man was wasted as a tour guide. He should be treading the boards as a Thespian.
    The fact he was easy on the eyes didn’t hurt either. His angular jaw with a light touch of shadowed scruff gave him a ruggedly handsome appeal. His black hair was tied back in a colonial style queue. A feminine urge to untie it and run her fingers through its length hit her with amazing force.
    While she fought to focus on his words and not the man himself, she soaked up the atmosphere surrounding them, inhaling the essence of the bygone era in the small reminders around her. Replicas of old gaslights illuminating the brick paved sidewalks, Georgian-style townhomes with carriage lights hanging at their door, and single artificial candles placed in multi-paned windows hinted at the cozy warmth of what America had been in its youth. Still, something toyed with her ability to sense the historical aura of the colonial town. What could it be?
    Her guide stopped in front of the house where she was staying. The brick colonial home, established in 1760, sat majestically on the street facing the backside of the courthouse. A plaque by the front door named the manor a Maryland Historical Site.
    Renovated many times over the years, the house still maintained the original décor. April loved the red brick exterior walls with the haze of white wash owners had applied over time. The black shutters, contrasting against the colonial paned windows, highlighted the glow of the candlelight. Even though it was nearly November, wooden rocking chairs and a small wicker table still resided on the front porch, hinting at summertime when folks sat on their porches and observed their neighbors parading by.
    “This house belonged to Henry Samuel, the first land commissioner to Kings Land,” her guide indicated with a condescending snort.
    “I know. This is my aunt’s house. Actually, she’s my great-aunt…on my mother’s side. I’m staying here while I’m working on my research,” she rambled.
    His brows arched and he tilted his head, looking her over, making her feel the intensity of his eyes from under the shadowed light of his tricorne. He appeared a bit perturbed.
    “Interesting. Are you a distant relation to Henry Samuel?”
    “No relation. After my uncle passed away six years ago, my aunt bought the house. She wanted to get away to the country after living in Baltimore most of her life.
    “I see.” He stared attentively at her, studying her again with those deep, dark eyes.
    Heat scorched along her neck and up to her cheeks under his intent scrutiny. She was a historian for God’s sake, not some tourist with a crush on a historical re-enactor. Perhaps her hormones were finally kicking in. God knows they hadn’t while she’d been focused on her studies!
    Whatever her sudden condition, every time she looked into this man’s eyes she lost her place in the conversation and began to perspire. She shivered, averting her glance from his intensity, and turned her attention on anything but her handsome guide.
    Perhaps it was her natural gift of psychometry kicking in. It had a tendency to appear when she was in places of historical importance. Her volunteer dig at Jamestown two summers ago nearly hospitalized her with the intensity. She suffered fevers, hallucinations, even allergy like symptoms, probably because of all the dirt and dust surrounding the artifacts and digging sites.
    She’d always known she was different, but it wasn’t until her professor, Dr. Moreland had noticed her gift that she learned to harness her ability and use it in her historical research. He had the ability, too. But it wasn’t as prominent as hers. At times, she had no control. Touching objects alone brought forth empathic images and emotions of previous owners, making her feel like she