Darcy
Isat hunched overmy desk, surrounded by an ever-growing pile of books, each one more useless than the last. I was in the middle of scratching out yet another letter to my solicitor, hoping for something—anything—that would explain this madness.
The window creaked open behind me.
At first, I thought it was a draft. Maybe the hinges were loose. But then I caught the faint smell of whisky and wet earth.
“Ach, yer books whisperin’ sweet nothin’s to ye again?” came Ewan’s voice, far too close for comfort.
I whipped around, only to find Ewan—half through the window, his boots muddy, with a grin on his face like this was the most natural thing in the world. One leg was already inside, the other dangling outside as if he were just taking his sweet time.
“What are you doing?” I snapped. “You’ve got to be the most—”
“Comfortable, aye,” he finished for me, hauling himself fully inside. He dusted off his coat, though the mud on his boots remained annoyingly intact. How did a ghost… oh, blast, what was the point in wondering about it anymore?
“Thought I’d stretch me legs. House gets cramped, ye know?”
I didn’t know. At all.
I glared at him as he made himself right at home, strolling across the room with his usual swagger, wiping his muddy boots on my carpet as if it were a welcome mat.
“Get off that,” I growled, feeling my blood pressure rising.
He gave me an innocent look. “What? It’s no’ like ye use it for anythin’ other than collectin’ dust.”
I pinched the bridge of my nose. “You know, if you stopped distracting me with this... nonsense, maybe I’d actually make some progress figuring out why you’re still here.”
“Progress, eh?” Ewan said, plopping into the chair by the fire, boots still firmly planted in the middle of my rug. “Aye, ye look like yer gettin’ somewhere. Must be riveting stuff, lad.”
I wanted to throw something at him—preferably one of the heavier tomes.
“Why don’t you make yourself useful and actually tell me what happened at Culloden?”
He ignored me entirely, picking up one of the books on the desk and flipping through it lazily as though the subject of his unfinished business was the last thing on his mind. “So, this is how ye spend yer nights. I’d go mad.”
“Funny,” I muttered, “I thought I was already there.”
Ewan tossed the book aside, glancing out the window he’d just crawled through. “Ye ever think about somethin’ other than yer precious cravats an’ letters, lad? What about the bonny lass, eh? Ye’ve got eyes. Pretty thing like her, brown hair, a smile like she’sgot all yer secrets tucked away. Reminds me of—ach, never ye mind.”
“Miss Bennet?” I asked, more alarmed by how casual he was about it. “Why do you keep bringing her up?”
“Because she knocks ye right off yer pins. Ye think I’ve got better things tae do than watch ye blunder about like a calf findin' its legs? Well, I dinnae, so why shouldn’t I go on about the lass?”
I bit back a retort, mostly because my head was still reeling as dizzily as it had the evening we had danced. The fact that he was lingering on Elizabeth Bennet—on her—set my teeth on edge. “You stay away from her.”
He grinned, slow and mischievous.
“I’m serious, Ewan.”
“Aye, and so am I,” he said, stretching his legs and letting out a long sigh as if this conversation were nothing more than a pleasant diversion. “Ye should be thankin' me, lad. If I hadnae given ye a wee shove, ye’d still be sittin' there, glarin' at the lass. Or that redcoat. Maybe both.”
“If you hadn’t shoved me, I might have passed for sane, but all such hopes are now out the window!”
“Well, ye weren’t exactly takin’ the lead, lad. Took a wee bit of encouragement.”
“You... meddled in affairs that are not yours!”
“Meddled? Is that what ye call it? I prefer to say I was givin’ ye a wee push in the right direction.”
