But Elizabeth Bennet—the look on her face was enough to make me want to sink into the floor. She wasn’t fooled. Not by Miss Bingley’s flattery or my forced composure.
I cleared my throat and gave a stiff nod. “As Miss Bingley says... just thinking.”
She stared at me for a moment, her eyes narrowing slightly as if trying to decipherwhat,exactly, I was thinking. No doubt, she already thought me strange after our encounter in the library. Now, this only added to her growing suspicions. She didn’t buy a word of what I was saying, and frankly, I couldn’t blame her. I wouldn’t trust me right now, either.
Ewan, though, was still staring at her, and my frustration only grew. “She cannae even see me,” he said, grinning. “It’s a right laugh, eh? Admirin’ her, an’ she’s nane the wiser.”
“Getawayfrom her!” I whispered again, my temper barely in check.
“Relax, lad,” he said with a wink. “She’s nae yer problem—more’s the pity.”
“Mr. Darcy?” Elizabeth interrupted again. “What are you doing?”
I realized too late that I’d been glaring daggers at Ewan, who was standing beside her, and she had caught me mid-glare.
“Ye might want tae stop starin’ at her like that,” Ewan chuckled. “Yer Sassenach charm’s no’ exactly doin’ ye any favors.”
I cleared my throat, forcing my expression into something resembling calm. “Just... thinking. Deep thoughts. About... Scottish myths, and the fools who believe them.”
She didn’t look remotely convinced. In fact, she looked ready to bolt at the slightest provocation.
Meanwhile, Ewan leaned in closer, still smirking. “Ye’d best watch yersel’, lad. A lass like that doesnae come around often. Ye might want tae keep an eye on her.”
I could only stare back at him, my frustration mounting. “Get. Out,” I whispered one final time.
He chuckled, stepping away as though he’d won some battle only he was fighting. “Aye, I’ll leave ye tae it. But mind what I told ye, eh?”
With that, he vanished, leaving me standing there, gripping my book as though it were the only thing keeping me tethered to reality. I stole a glance at Elizabeth Bennet, who was still watching me like I might burst into flames at any moment.
It took everything in me to force a smile and return to my book. But I knew—Iknew—my sanity was hanging by a thread.
Nine
Darcy
“Where’s the blasted answer?”I growled, shoving my chair back as I rifled through the old pages ofA Tour in Scotland. The book thudded against the desk as I tossed it open, my finger tracing the lines, desperately searching for something—anything—that might help.
“Ye ken, that’s nae gonna work, aye?” Ewan’s voice echoed from the corner, but I didn’t look up.
I ignored him, teeth grinding, hoping Thomas Pennant, a man who’d traveled Scotland in the 1770s, might have written down some foolproof way to send a Highland ghost packing. There had to be something in here about how to rid myself of this curse.
“Ye’re wastin’ yer time, lad,” Ewan drawled. “Pennant’s a Sassenach. What does he know aboot the likes o’ me?”
“Let’s see,” I muttered, ignoring him as I skimmed the index for any mention of ghosts, spirits, or anything remotely useful. “Superstitions of the Highlands...” I turned to the relevant page and began reading.
It didn’t take long before I hit a passage on the “Second Sight”—the peculiar Scottish belief that certain individuals could foresee the future, often predicting death or misfortune. There were mentions of ghostly visitations, particularly those of men who had died in battle, and spirits lingering over unfinished business.
Of course. There was always unfinished business.
I sighed, running a hand through my hair. “Spirits of the deceased are said to linger until their souls find rest,” I muttered aloud, reading Pennant’s rather clinical explanation. “They haunt those connected to their past, often appearing to demand retribution or to seek justice for a wrong unavenged...”
“Aye, that’s me, right enough.” Ewan was no longer across the room. He had suddenly materialized on the other side of the desk, peering down at the book as though it were some quaint novelty. “I always said ye English like yer books more than yer women.”
I glared at him but kept my focus on the page. “Do you mind?” I asked sharply. “I’m trying to figure out how to get rid of you.”
Ewan snorted. ”Ye think some Sassenach writin’ about Highland ghosts has the answer, dae ye? Ha! Bet he never set foot in a proper Scottish hoose. Likely had a few too many ales in Edinburgh an’ started ramblin’ aboot the ‘mystical’ hills.”
I scanned further down the page. “‘Highland ghosts often appear tied to objects of personal significance—belongings of the deceased, which they seek to reclaim in order to sever the spiritual bond.’”
