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“Now you’re catching on, and no,” he retorted sharply. “I do not. You are a nuisance and a fiend and I wish you would leave at once.”
“I won’t hurt anything,” she said, slowly closing his journal. Her index finger rested between the open pages, marking her place. “I promise. I rented this place for a while.”
“Grand,” he muttered.
“I’m a writer,” she offered. She climbed down the ladder and set his journal on the desk. “I’ll stay out of your way if you stay out of mine.”
“Hard to do when you’re messing with my things.”
The sunlight faded and with it, the little strength he’d been able to muster to bump into the ladder. A cloud pulled over the sea and he thought it was apt—being a ghost was depressing.
“My name is Avery.”
God, she was still speaking.
“Well, Avery. Thank you for intruding in my study and moving my things around. Help yourself to my journals and innermost thoughts, why don’t you? I’m not real anymore.” He threw himself down on the couch, one arm draped across his brow.
When no movement or sound came again, he heard her sigh.
“I’m losing my mind,” she mumbled.
“You’re not,” he said drolly. “I’m right here.”
She settled in at his desk and picked up his journal once more. He tried to recall that period of his life. It was right before the famine took place. Times were lean, crops were few and far between, and all of Ireland was on the cusp of something horrific. He’d spent long days on the docks, hauling in fish with the dock crews until his hands bled. His brother was newly married, off somewhere in Europe on their honeymoon. His mother had passed and his father was getting older, spine hunched under the weight of so many years.
It was a trying time.
One he preferred not to think about.
“Oh.”
The surprise in her voice had him sitting up. She held up a small portrait, paper thin enough he could see the brush strokes.
How had that gotten in there?
He crossed to Avery’s side, one hand braced on the desk by her arm. He stared down at the painting of himself with a mix of anger and defeat. The artist was one from Bracken Bay, a local girl who blushed every time she looked at him. He’d enjoyed it. Watching her squirm while she tried to get his colors right. She’d done a fine job, really. She captured the unruly nature of his hair, light brown strands almost always perpetually caught in the wind. He stared into his own eyes, a mix of brown, red, and gold. They were unnerving to behold, if he were honest. More wolf than man.
Avery traced his smile, the crescent moon dimples on either side of his mouth. The freckles that dotted his jaw and skipped down his neck. The white linen shirt casually open at the collar, dark trousers and leather boots.
He remembered this day.
An early spring. The scent of bread in the ovens, the sharp bite of freshly brewed tea, and always the sting of salt air. He’d sat in this very room, back to the world.
“You’re handsome,” Avery breathed. “I’m sure you broke more than your fair share of hearts.”
“Was a bit busy trying to keep people alive for that,” he answered crisply. “But maybe.” He studied her. He’d never seen hazel eyes so pale before—ice blue waters speckled with brown. “And you? How many hearts have you broken with eyes like that?”
She didn’t answer him. Instead, she reverently laid his picture down on the desk and lifted her head.
She stared at him and through him, just like everyone else.
Chapter 4
I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the portrait that had slipped from the journal.
Whoever painted it was either incredibly talented, or he was the most attractive man I’d ever seen in my life. Strong jaw, broad shoulders, ruffled hair, dancing eyes, a mouth made for kissing. He was gorgeous. He sat like all the world was waiting for him and he was more than fine keeping them in suspense.
R.J. Wolfe was scribbled in the corner by a soft hand and I wondered for the thousandth time who this man was. The Wolfe family still owned Kilmorran Castle, but who was R.J.? When had he lived? Died?
