Page 5 of Moonstone Landing
She nodded.
“Good. You still haven’t answered my question. Why are you living alone in my cottage?” He unfolded his arms and took a step toward her. “And kindly spare me the ‘men are arses and woman are clever’ lecture because my mother happened to be one of the smartest people I have ever met. If you knew anything about me—which you obviously do not, you would understand that I judge people on their merits, not their sex. Although, if I were not dead, I would surely be trying to have sex with you right now. So, answer my question. Why are you here alone?”
She attempted to slap his cheek, but her hand went through his face. “How dare you!”
He knew he should not have thrown in that last little bit about having sex with her, for she was a lady, and no one ought ever speak to her this way.
Nor would he have if he were still alive.
But he wasn’t, and he found this most frustrating. She stirred something in him, a deep longing. No, stronger. Perhaps a craving. “Don’t get your feathers in a ruffle, Hen.”
She took a deep breath, filling her lungs, but he continued before she had the chance to let it out. “My point is, you are beautiful. You must have had at least a dozen men dropping to their knees to propose to you during your London season. How many seasons have you had? One? Two? You do not appear to be more than one and twenty years of age. Hardly twenty, if truth be told. Yet you must be old enough to acquire property on your own.”
She released her breath in a soft exhale. “Oh, you think I am beautiful?”
He cast her a soft smile, surprised she did not realize just how exquisite she was. “Yes.”
She blushed. “Thank you.”
His expression softened. “I apologize if I was too brash with you. I am used to dealing with more…worldly women. I usually try to avoid virgins.”
“Captain Arundel! Do you always say whatever pops into your head? Must you be so shockingly descriptive with your words?”
“Hen, if you are brave enough to live on your own…and I still have not received an answer to my question about it…then I think you have the mettle to withstand a little blunt speech. Or have I misread you? Are your sensibilities that delicate? Do you fall into a swoon at the slightest impropriety?”
She stared at her hands. “No. And why I am here is none of your business. I own the cottage now. I belong here. You do not.”
He shook his head and sighed. “Now, that is where you are wrong. I am bound to this cottage far more strongly than you are. Need I remind you, I am dead. And yet, I have not moved on. Do you not wonder why? Most souls move on, do they not? So why haven’t I?”
She began to nibble that sweet lower lip of hers. “That is actually an interesting question. Obviously, you’ve given it some thought. What do you think is the reason?”
He shrugged. “If I knew, I would do something about it.”
She took a step closer, seeming to forget he had offended her with his blunt language only moments ago. She also seemed to forget she had just tried to slap him or that he still had not donned his shirt. “If you tell me what happened, perhaps I can help you figure it out.”
Her eyes were that beautiful, dark color and looked quite extraordinary now, lit up like twinkling stars. “I’ll think about it,” he said, realizing he would quite enjoy haunting Hen. Well, not so much haunt her but appreciate her company.
His lack of enthusiasm to her suggestion must have surprised her, for her mouth gaped open. “You’ll think about it?” She took a deep breath, ready to cluck at him again. “Oh, I see. You are happy to remain a misplaced soul, your spirit walking the earth, no one to see you, touch you…care about you.”
“You can see me.”
She cleared her throat. “You are missing my point. Why do you wish to be chained to this cottage for eternity? Does it not pain you to watch time march on, to see your loved ones die and move on, yet you remain stuck here?”
“I only died a year ago, to be precise.”
Hen sank back in the plump chair by the hearth, his favorite chair with a matching ottoman that allowed him to put up his feet and relax as he sat by the fire, a book in one hand and a brandy in the other.
He had purchased the chair and ottoman in Constantinople on one of his seafaring journeys. The cottage was filled with things he had picked up in his travels around the world. Apparently, his solicitor had not bothered packing them up or selling them off, just dumped the problem of disposing of them on Hen.
In truth, he did not mind that his house had been left as a sort of shrine to him. Besides, it was quite comfortable returning night after night to a familiar spot.
“How did you die, Captain Arundel?”
Since she was now in the chair with her feet curled under her bottom, that left the ottoman free for him. He sat down on it and looked at her. “I drowned at sea. In a storm, as I mentioned earlier.”
“Yes, how tragic. I am truly sorry.” She reached out to touch his arm, then realized it would only slip through the air and drew it away.
“Thank you, Hen.” He nodded to acknowledge her words. “Do you mind if I put on my shirt?”
