Samantha James (4 page)

Keeping her mother in the very best institution—faith, but she refused to call it an asylum for she loathed that word!—was expensive. But this opportunity, coupled with the moderate proceeds from the sale of the house—assured that she could keep her mother in comfort for some time to come.

Until the time when Mama was well once more, she told herself firmly.

Gathering her manuscript in hand, Fionna tapped the sheets on the desk top and gathered her thoughts as well. It was taking a little longer than usual to settle in tonight after her walk, for she was still a trifle nervous. Her gaze was drawn to the window—her glance through the frosted pane lingered.

Yet tonight had been different. Tonight had
stepped forth a man named Aidan McBride. And it certainly didn’t appear as if
he
had been trying to hide either his identity or his presence. Fionna fancied herself a fair judge of character and details—it helped immeasurably in her work.

Aidan McBride’s image danced before her eyes—her vivid recall was most irritating. His mouth was set in a stern line, yet there was something about his manner that warned he could be quite the rogue if he wanted.

And if ever there was a bold, aggressive man who was sure of himself and all within his world, it was Aidan McBride.

Damn the man anyway!
Why did he persist in cropping up?

Squaring her shoulders, Fionna drew up her chair a bit closer to her desk, then picked up her quill. There was, after all, she reminded herself pointedly, the need for gainful employment. She twirled the quill between her fingertips, her eyes narrowed in thought.

An instant later, the tip of the quill dipped into the pot. She began to write:

I knew
,
of course
,
that Rowan…

The tinkling little bell at Every Book and Cranny gave a cheery little sound as the door opened and closed. A floorboard creaked beneath Aidan’s weight as he stepped inside and glanced around curiously. The shop was long and narrow, with floor-to-ceiling shelves that formed the
perimeter of the room on all sides. Another three paralleled the length of the building, with several aisles in between.

Aidan began to leisurely browse the shelves, for neither the proprietor nor any clerk had yet to appear.

From the rear of the building, he heard brisk footsteps. A figure emerged from the back room, briskly dusting off her hands.

“Hello!” came a cheery greeting. “Feel free to have a look, and should you need—”

The lady regarded him with narrowed eyes. “You’re back!” Her tone was no longer so cheery. Indeed, she looked—and sounded—damned displeased.

Aidan was down on his haunches. He held up a novel. “What!” he said lightly. “Did you think I’d come to see you?”

In all honesty, Fionna
had
thought he’d come to see her. Her lips tightened. How silly, she decided, chiding herself for her foolishness. Why ever should she think he’d come to see
her
?

She didn’t dare back down at his bold, unrelenting regard—for oh, there was no question, he
was
bold and quite the man of self-assurance. Despite the fact that he remained where he was on his haunches, despite his tone—despite her position above him, there was no question that here was a man who might easily have put many
another
man to quivering in his boots with only a word or a look.

His hair was cropped so that a dark lock fell over his forehead. His brows were just as dark and one remained quirked high. Fionna ran her tongue over her lips. She felt the fool, surely looked the fool. But by God, she would not
be
a fool.

Had
she
been any less assured, that air of authority that surrounded him might have set her aback. She could well imagine some silly young maid fanning herself feverishly—at either his approval, or his
dis
approval.

He rose to his feet; his height was staggering. Fionna sucked in a breath. She wasn’t quite so confident as she appeared. He seemed even taller than he had last night when he wore his top hat, now tucked under an arm. Perhaps her own short stature made him seem so. And she was surely losing her mind, for in all honesty, the man was quite splendid-looking—though in a rugged sort of way, not a
perfect
sort of way. Her breath was lost as she took in the width of his shoulders; they seemed to fill the entire gap between the shelves. Every part of him, every inch of him was so blatantly masculine it nearly set
her
heart to fluttering.

His face was deeply tanned, leaving her a trifle puzzled given that it was the middle of winter. His eyes were several shades deeper than turquoise, like blue ink, set off even further by the bronzed hue of his skin.

It wasn’t just his features either. He wore no
greatcoat but a warm navy wool frock coat and shiny black boots. His posture was every inch as straight as she recalled. Of course she’d heard the phrase—
he cut a fine figure of a man.
But for the first time Fionna was truly aware of its meaning—why one would use it and precisely when one would use it—and it was all she could do not to stare.

In shock. In…oh, but she was surely losing her wits!…in admiration.

“Perhaps I can help you. Is there a book in particular that you’re looking for? An author, perhaps?” It wasn’t like her to babble, and she prayed she wasn’t.

A slight pause. “Frank…Crow? Wren? No, that’s not right either.” Another pause. “F.J. something or other, I believe.” He shook his head. “Damn, I can’t remember.”

But Aidan hadn’t come to buy a damned novel by the man, or anyone else, for that matter. He’d come to see
her.
Fionna Hawkes. In the flesh again. In the light. Without the bundling of cumbersome winter clothing.

He thought of Alec’s advice last night—that he find a woman.
Lose yourself in her eyes. Lose yourself in her arms.
He found himself unwittingly amused. Somehow he didn’t think Miss Fionna Hawkes was quite what Alec had in mind.

But Aidan liked what he saw, heaven above, he did. She wasn’t a silly debutante out to snare a husband—she was too old for that. Not that she
was
old.
He guessed her age to be—oh, somewhere in her midtwenties, perhaps.

He also liked the fact that she possessed no vanity about her appearance—there was too much that gave it away. Her eyes were a shade between amber and brown. Her face was scrubbed clean, void of any of the creams that some women favored to add color to their lips and cheeks. She had made no effort to hide the smattering of freckles on her nose, as some women were wont to do. He felt something inside him tighten. Oh, but she was a beauty, a sweet, natural beauty—not perfection. And it was that very unadorned quality that made her more beautiful still.

Little tendrils of hair, the color of chestnuts turning in the sunlight, trailed from her nape and her temples. And there, in front of her ears. It was as if she’d wound her hair in a loose topknot and hadn’t given it another thought. He wondered if she was the absentminded sort.

“Do you know the author I mean?”

“Possibly,” she said slowly.

He snapped his fingers. “Wait! The author’s name is some species of bird…Sparrow! That’s it, F.J. Sparrow! Have you any of his works? I understand he’s quite the storyteller.”

Oh, now what was she to say to
that
? Fionna resisted the urge to laugh.

It was her father who had encouraged her to write whatever she wished. Oh, how they had
laughed, that no one else knew that
she
was F.J. Sparrow. Considering the dark nature of her work, she didn’t want the villagers all agog, so she’d chosen a pen name, knowing people would assume the writer was male.

Success followed, and who could argue with success?

“Are you acquainted with his works?”

“Intimately,” she said rather demurely. “Is there any title in particular you’re after?”

His brow furrowed in consternation. “I fear I cannot remember,” he muttered. “
Spectres in the Night? Satan’s Tale?
”

Fionna smothered a laugh. She wasn’t sure if he meant
Satan’s Tale
or
Satan’s Tail.

“Well,” she said lightly, “there is a novel called
Satan’s Path.
”

He was still in the throes of concentration, rubbing his chin now. Suddenly he snapped his fingers. “No, that’s not it. Wait…There’s more. Now I recall. The novel he wrote…There’s a woman named Raven, a man named Reginald.”

Fionna nearly clamped a hand over her mouth to hold back her mirth. It was amusing; no, more than amusing. Of course there were occasions when it was irritating, but how very like a man—and the rest of Britain—to assume that the author was a man. As if women had no minds or imagination and were unable to think of anything but household affairs and children. But mostly it was
just absurdly amusing to keep such a secret, with no one but Mama the wiser.

If Mama even remembered.

She willed away the bitter pain that crept around her heart.

It was all she could do to get out, “I believe you mean Raven and Rowan. And there are several novels by F.J. Sparrow that feature the pair.
The Devil’s Way
was the first. Unfortunately, it’s become rather difficult to come by.”

“Damn. That’s the very one my brother Alec covets.”

Fionna thought of the ten copies she had in her apartments upstairs. She was loath to part with them, not until there were more copies available.

Fionna hesitated. “I’ve heard rumors,” she allowed slowly, “that it may be reprinted.”

“Soon?”

“Well, of course there’s no way I can be certain. But I’ve heard rumors.”

“Excellent. Perhaps then you’ll be able to conjure one up for both of us.”

Conjure up?
She could conjure up ghouls and monsters, phantoms and wraiths. Fionna found herself possessed of the strangest urge to giggle. Giggle?
Her?
Oh, heaven help her, it was so unlike herself that she gave in and smiled.

He ran a finger along the line of her jaw. “Are you familiar with
The Giaour
by Lord Byron?”

She nodded, rather stunned by his bold, unexpected touch.

Fionna blinked, still pondering the reason for his quote, the mention of Byron’s poem.

The corners of his mouth turned up ever so slightly. “Well, my lady of midnight, I am pleased to see you smile, for I’d begun to fear last night that perhaps I’d encountered a vampire.”

As if he feared anything!

Fionna led the way to a special display near the back counter; her privilege as the author, she had decided. “Perhaps if you’re not familiar with F.J. Sparrow’s work, you’d like to begin with his first,
Satan’s Path.
Or the second novel featuring Raven and Rowan,
Howls at Midnight.”

“I shall take one of each,” he declared.

Plucking a copy of each off the shelf, she handed them to him.

“Will you let me know if and when
The Devil’s Way
becomes available?”

“Certainly. You may stop in anytime.”

“I look forward to it. A pity, though, that the first edition is not available. As I mentioned, my brother is quite the devoted admirer of F.J. Sparrow. I vow, surely his most dedicated fan, if you could listen to his praises.”

Fionna hesitated. “I can make no promises that it will be printed again. But I am acquainted with
another bookseller, who knows another, and there is a chance—the very, very slightest chance, mind you—that I might be able to locate one before that.”

“Wonderful!” He went on rather thoughtfully, “Alec tells me this fellow F.J. Sparrow is quite mysterious. Indeed, I believe he said that no one really knows who he is.”

“Yes, I’ve heard that as well.” They were getting into dangerous territory here, Fionna decided.

It appeared Aidan wasn’t yet ready to leave the subject behind. “I vow Alec would be over the moon to have a signed copy. My brother-in-law Simon is a collector of rare volumes, and I fear he’s turned Alec into yet another.” He shrugged. “I daresay, in my mind, F.J. Sparrow is quite the freakish fellow, given the subject matter of the novels he writes.”

Fionna very nearly snatched back the copies of
Satan’s Path
and
Howls at Midnight
he held at his side.

Her smile had frozen. Freakish?
Freakish?
A tad eccentric, she might have called herself. But what the blazes would he know about it? she nearly snapped. “Perhaps F.J. Sparrow merely values he—” Ye gads, she caught herself just in time! She’d almost said
her.
Oh, but she must watch herself with him. Many a customer had come into Every Book and Cranny seeking F.J. Sparrow’s novels. But this man rattled her to the bone.

Striving for the decorum that had so eluded her an instant earlier, she tried again. “Perhaps,” she finished icily, “he values his privacy.”

“So it would appear.”

Those deep blue eyes flickered keenly over her—drat, a little too keenly for Fionna’s peace of mind.

“
Miss
Hawkes. We settled that last night, I believe?”

Oh, the rogue! He didn’t ask, he stated, which set her to sizzling again. “It is.”
Bedamned,
she thought. She’d let him wrest her name from her last night. If she wasn’t careful, the next thing she knew, he’d be standing in her parlor! And why the blazes hadn’t she allowed him to believe she was wed!

“And yours, sir?” Her tone was decidedly tart. “I fear I’ve forgotten it.” She hadn’t, of course.

“Then I’m happy to oblige once more.” He swept her a bow. “Aidan McBride.”

Aidan McBride.
It had seemed almost familiar last night, only she hadn’t been able to place it…but now, all at once she did. By the time he’d straightened to his full, impressive height, Fionna was never quite certain how she stopped her jaw from dropping in either amazement or horror.

Aidan McBride
. Why hadn’t she realized it last night? He’d said he’d just recently moved here. He was
Lord
Aidan McBride. Mrs. Chalmers, directly across the street, had been going on and
on all week about the gentleman who had just moved into the town house next to her.

And of course, Mrs. Chalmers eagerly informed everyone she encountered that her new neighbor, Lord Aidan McBride, had recently returned from India. And most importantly—that he was brother to a Scottish duke—the duke of Gleneden.

“Ah, yes. You are the talk of all the neighbors, Lord Aidan—”

“Please,” he interrupted. “It’s Aidan. Just Aidan. The formality is not necessary. After all, we’ve been in each other’s company in the dark before.”

Fionna gasped.

“Miss Hawkes, you surprise me. I didn’t think you were a woman easily shocked.”

The merest light flared in his eyes. Fionna’s narrowed. “I think you meant to shock me.”

One corner of his mouth turned up. “I do believe I did.”

For a fraction of an instant, his gaze met hers with that boldness she found so disconcerting. Then, to her further shock, his eyes trickled down her features, settling on her mouth. Something sparked in those incredible blue eyes, vanishing by the time she recognized it. Yet that very spark of something set her further on guard…and further on edge.

Fionna wet her lips. If he could be bold, then so could she. Her chin tipped. “I should like to know what you’re thinking, my lord.”

His smile was slow-growing. “I’m not so sure you would, Miss Hawkes.”

“I believe I know my own mind.” Fionna was adamant.

“Very well then. I was thinking that I am a most fortunate man.”