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“That’s where you’re wrong.” She whirled around and disappeared into the room. Given she’d thrown nothing at him, he followed.

The state of the study frightened him more than any ghoul she could conjure. He could taste the dust on his tongue, and stale cigar smoke assaulted his nostrils. Aside from the cluttered desk, which was forgivable, the chair and a velvet stool sagged under the weight of books and loose papers. The rug was invisible beneath semicircles of hand-written journals. Towering shelves lined every available inch of the walls, spilling over with books and papers, trinkets and crystals, corked bottles and—good lord, was that a human skull?

She must have tracked his gaze, because she shrugged. “That’s Barbara,” she said nonchalantly. He opened his mouth, but she raised a stilling hand. “I’m not answering questions about Barbara.”

He had a million questions, not the least of which was Have you forgiven me for whatever I did to offend you in the cellar⁠—

“I haven’t forgiven you, to be clear.” She flipped through another book and tossed it onto the floor. It landed in a puff of dust. “I still want you gone from here.”

The hope lurking deep in his chest extinguished like his candle had. “I’d leave if I could. The bridge is out.”

She whipped around to face him. “What did you say?”

He dragged his hand through his still-damp hair. “Half the bridge is in the river and likely will be gone entirely by morning. No one is crossing tonight.”

“You’re lying.”

“I wish I were, I assure you.”

She exhaled in a rush, finally meeting his gaze. “So… you’re staying.”

“It seems neither of us has a choice in the matter.”

He expected her to rage, to throw another barbed comment or dry remark to set him back, to shove more distance between them as though it would remedy the mistake they’d made.

He didn’t expect her to nod decisively or say: “Good.”

“Good?” He hadn’t expected that.

“Yes. I need you.”

CHAPTER 15

As a young girl newly arrived at Ashveil Manor, Bridget’s grandmother attempted to teach her how to be a proper lady. Somewhere in the woman’s mind, she must have imagined her granddaughter marrying a wealthy lord, managing an ancient estate, and entertaining the likes of royalty.

However, the efforts quickly proved futile. Young Bridget refused to wear shoes, shunned hairpins and corsetry, climbed trees and rescued birds instead of memorizing poetry, and was far more interested in seances than tea services.

One afternoon, when Bridget had been discovered hiding in the cellar to avoid dancing lessons, she argued passionately against her training to be a society wife. “When will I ever be in the company of a lord?” she whined in the precise tone of surly adolescents the world over. “I don’t need to be taught how to behave!”

“You never know what your future holds,” her grandmother had replied, her retort less mystical than irritated.

Years later, she was ordering an earl around, barefoot and in her nightdress in the middle of the night. It seemed her grandmother was prescient after all.

“I need you,” she repeated, and winced when his eyes widened. “Not—not like that.”

Though her core still throbbed, her thoughts were all too eager to return to the cellar, his seeking hands and clever mouth. He had no right to look so appealing, with his crisp shirt unbuttoned to his navel, revealing a trail of coarse dark hair leading towards his trousers. She wanted to explore his chest, trace her fingers down to see how far the trail led⁠—

“I thought you wanted me gone.” He glanced around the crowded study, his eyes widening as he took in one unusual item after another.

“I do.” She crossed her arms tightly over her chest. Her nipples were uncomfortably tight and damnably distracting. “But I’ve figured out why all this—” she gestured in a circular motion around them with one hand, “—is happening.”

He shifted as if he wanted to move closer, or perhaps retreat. Either way, the mess she’d made surrounded him, and he mirrored her posture. His biceps strained the linen of his sleeves.

She barreled on. “The first night, I believe I summoned your late wife’s spirit from her necklace. And I suspect she… dislikes me.”

His head tilted. “Christina dislikes you.”

“Her spirit,” she clarified, entirely unnecessarily.