“Reservations?” He snapped the paper from between her fingers and unfolded it.
It seemed to be some sort of confirmation letter, indicating that her party had arrangements to tour Bremerley Castle. He opened his mouth to inform her Bremerley was a good twenty kilometers to the north along the coast, nearly as far as Edinburgh. But he could see her customers were looking expectantly up at the castle walls, and behind her brave front those green eyes appeared worried.
The outer layers of his anger sloughed away: he felt his brow cool, the tense muscles of his shoulders settle. He didn’t have the heart to tell her in front of the others that she was as lost as a little mole out of its hole.
Besides, she looked adorable, standing there in front of him, running her tongue over her upper lip and gazing up at him with those lovely pale-green eyes. A sudden, inexplicable finger of lust poked at his insides.
“I’ll be happy to show you around,” he growled with as good a nature as any bear woken from hibernation.
Her expression immediately brightened. “Oh, good. You must be the caretaker. Is Lord MacKinney in residence this time of year?”
The unexpected chance of a game pleased him, almost to the point of bringing a smile to his lips. Why not pretend to be someone else for just a little while? And if it helped out this misplaced but lovely young American—so much the better. “Occasionally,” he said. “When he isn’t off playing polo or attending theater in London. He’s not here today.”
She winked at him conspiratorially. “You’re probably happy to have him out from underfoot.”
He bent down close to her ear and caught a whiff of vanilla-scented perfume. “Oh, he can be quite a handful, he can.”
“Well then, I’m glad he’s not around.” She turned to admire the soaring stone fortress, her eyes wide, sparkling and delightfully childlike. “Will you show us the rooms that are open to the public?”
The long curve of her throat drew his attention, summoning a momentary vision of his lips trailing down the delicate flesh, that lust finger poking him again. She was petite—a natural blonde, he guessed, though that wasn’t a sure thing these days. She stood only as high as his shoulder, even in her conservative heels. As she studied the structure that had belonged to his family for nearly three hundred years, her fingers played lightly with the tassels at the bottom of her tapestry purse. A momentary frown puckered her brow, and she looked with more concentration at the right wing, which remained in ruins.
Clever woman, he thought. Bremerley had been fully restored, and if she were a competent guide, she would know that. He wondered how long it would take her to figure out her mistake.
Meanwhile he took pleasure in her interest in his legacy. Usually, when tourists took a wrong turn off the A7 and ended up on his grounds, he or his groundskeeper brusquely sent them on their way. But she was so damn fascinating to watch.
“What is your name?” he asked, gesturing with one hand toward the steps.
She started walking, and her group of ten chattering travelers followed their shepherdess like docile lambs. “Jennifer Murphy, and you?”
“Christopher.”
“Christopher,” she repeated thoughtfully as she climbed the granite stairs, worn low and smooth in their centers by past generations. “Is that a Scottish name? I would have thought English. As in Christopher Robin.”
“I was born in Sussex. I grew up in that area, and in London.”
“How exciting!” Her eyes danced in the morning light.
“Sometimes,” he admitted. He certainly hadn’t fretted about where his next meal was coming from, and there had always been plenty of money with which to do anything he liked. His father, the earl of Sussex, had been grudging with his affection, but he’d placidly doled out cash to Christopher and his two brothers whenever required, as well as titles. They each could legitimately claim to be an earl—although of lesser importance than their father. The family held a collection of aristocratic nametags dating back centuries, gathered from various ancestors on their father’s side.
“What about you? You’re obviously an American. What part of the States are you from?”
“I grew up in Baltimore, and I’ve lived there all of my life. My mother and I own a travel agency. We specialize in European tours.”
“And you personally guide each tour?”
She smiled. “Not every one. Most, though, since my mother prefers to keep watch over the office. And since I majored in history in college, I have the background for the on-site lectures we offer.”
“Is that so?” Not only was she pretty, she was smart, too. He itched to find out more about her. But by now they were standing in the middle of the great hall, and her group was getting restless and starting to investigate.
He was about to ask her to warn her clients not to touch the paintings he’d just moved out of storage and propped against one stone wall to await hanging. But she was staring at his clothing, a frown softly rumpling her forehead. “Is something wrong?”
“I was just curious how much caretakers are paid these days.” She flicked a finger at the lapel of his favorite cashmere blazer.
She was catching on fast. Christopher nearly chuckled.
He had dressed to drive into Edinburgh for a meeting with his solicitor. That was the way he and his father communicated these days. The old earl disapproved of his youngest son’s lifestyle—as recorded in elaborate detail by the British paparazzi. His father considered him a playboy with a weakness for fast polo ponies and faster women. When Christopher had asked a year ago to be given Castle Donan as part of his inheritance, he had agreed in the hope Christopher would settle down in the North Country and find himself a bride. But he had been living at Donan for over nine months and that hadn’t happened.
In actuality, the young earl thought to himself, he had only one weakness—which would remain a secret until the moment he was released from his promise. He hoped with all his heart that day would come soon.
Christopher forced a smile for the young woman’s benefit. “The jacket is a gift from my employer.”
Jennifer studied him for a moment longer through narrowed eyes, paling almost to buttercup-yellow. He wished he could tell what she was thinking. Suddenly she spun around and, with a quick clap of her hands above her head, summoned her group and began talking about the architecture of the Middle Ages. He listened to her, enthralled more by the sound of her words than by their meaning. Her voice was gentle and sweet, reminding him of a time in his distant past when a nanny, whose name he couldn’t recall, had read him to sleep with stories of a time when honor meant everything.
He tried to imagine how Jennifer might look dressed in the garb of a fifteenth-century noble-woman. Today she wore a simple denim skirt and a pink cotton top. Back then it would have been a sweeping gown of Flemish damask, ribbons and jewels woven through her long, flaxen hair. Back then a man could legally shut away his woman behind stone walls, safe from the wandering eyes and lustful urges of other men.
Politically incorrect for the modern world, true…but the male fantasy intrigued him nonetheless. He envisioned himself alone with the Lady Jennifer, free to touch her where he desired. His body responded to the intriguing images playing across his mind. He tried to remember how furious he had been when she’d parked in front of his door, but it was no good.
“Are you coming?”
Startled, Christopher focused on Jennifer’s voice, which suddenly seemed distant. He turned to find her moving briskly through the doorway that led into his library. “We need