These Haunted Hearts: A Regency Ghost Story (10 page)

She didn’t respond to his comment. Instead with an
unreadable expression, she stared after her absconding lover.
“We’re only about five miles from Harold’s hunting lodge.”

The wench didn’t even try to lie about the
assignation, blast her impudence. “If he manages to stay on that
horse, Horace should make it.” Fenton showed no great skill as a
bareback rider. Even as Kinvarra recognized the wish as unworthy,
he hoped the blackguard ended up on his rump in a muddy
hedgerow.

“Harold,” she said absently, drawing her cloak tight
around her slender throat. “You could take me there.”

This time his laughter was unconstrained. She’d
always had nerve, his wife, even when she’d been little more than
an untried girl. “Be damned if you think I’m carting you off to
cuckold me in comfort, madam.”

She sent him a cool look. “I’m thinking purely in
terms of shelter, my lord.”

“I’m sure,” he said cynically.

Still, in spite of his jaded view of the world and
its inhabitants, he couldn’t completely stifle his rankling
surprise that Alicia had at last chosen a lover. In spite of their
lack of communication, he’d always known what she was up to. Since
leaving him, she’d been remarkably chaste, which was one of the
reasons he’d allowed the ridiculous separation to continue. Clearly
living with him for a year had left her with no taste for bed
sport. A bitter acknowledgement for a man to make, by God.

Recent gossip had mentioned Lord Harold Fenton as a
persistent suitor, but Kinvarra thought he knew enough of his wife
to consider the second son of the Marquess of Granville poor
competition. Bugger it, he should have listened to the gossip.

By all that was holy, her taste had deteriorated
since she’d abandoned her marriage. The man was a complete
nonentity.

Perhaps one day she’d thank her husband for saving
her from a disastrous mistake.

And the bleak and stony moor around them might
suddenly sprout coconut palms.

“No, my love, your fate is sealed.” He slapped his
riding crop against his boot and tilted his hat more securely on
his head with an arrogant gesture designed to irritate her.
“Horatio travels north. I travel south. Unless you intend to ride
the other carriage horse or pursue the clodpole on foot, your
direction is mine.”

“Does that mean you will help me?” This time, she
didn’t bother correcting his deliberate misremembering of her
suitor’s name.

She was lucky he didn’t call the toad Habakkuk and
skewer his kidneys with a rapier. Alicia was his. Kinvarra had
known that from the first moment he saw her, slender, unsure, but
full of a wild vitality that still beckoned him, whatever else
divided them. No other damned rapscallion was going to steal her
away. Especially a rapscallion who lacked the spine to fight for
her.

Kinvarra strode across to his bay mare and snatched
up the reins. “If you ask nicely.”

To his surprise, Alicia laughed. “Devil take you,
Kinvarra.”

He swung into the saddle and urged the horse nearer
to his wife. “Indubitably, my dear.”

Her suddenly cavalier attitude made it easier to deal
with her, but it puzzled him. Her lover’s desertion hadn’t cast her
down. If she didn’t care for the fellow, why in Hades accept his
advances? Yet again, Kinvarra realized how far he remained from
understanding the complicated creature he’d wed with such high
hopes eleven years ago.

He extended one leather-gloved hand and noted her
hesitation before she accepted his assistance. It was the first
time he’d touched her since she’d left him and even through two
layers of leather, he felt the burning shock of contact. She
stiffened as though she too felt that unwelcome surge of
response.

He’d always wanted her. That was part of the problem,
God help them. He’d often asked himself if time would erode the
attraction.

Just one touch of her hand on a snowy night and he
received his unequivocal answer.

She swung onto the horse behind him and paused again
before looping her arms around his waist. He’d always been hellish
aware of her reactions and he couldn’t help but note her reluctance
to touch him.

Good God, what was wrong with the woman? She’d been
ready enough to do more than touch rabbit-hearted Fenton. Surely
her long-suffering husband deserved a little friendliness after
coming to her rescue. With damned little encouragement, too, he
might add.

Compared to the cold night, she felt warm and soft
against his back. His lunatic heart dipped at her nearness, even as
he told himself that the warmth and softness were lies. Alicia
Sinclair was made of stone. Or at least she was when it came to her
husband. If he forgot that, she’d drag his soul through the
razor-sharp thorns of hell again.

But the warning fell on deaf ears. When she touched
him, he could think of little else but how long it was since he’d
held her in his arms and shown her how strongly she inflamed his
unruly passions.

The mare curveted under the double weight, but
Kinvarra settled her with a curt word. He never had trouble with
horses. It was his wife he couldn’t control.

“What about my belongings?” she asked, calm as you
please. The lady should demonstrate proper shame at being caught
with a lover. But of course, that wasn’t Alicia. She held her head
high whatever destiny threw at her.

It was one of the things he loved about her.

He quashed the unwelcome insight. “There’s an inn a
few miles ahead. I’ll get them to send someone for your
baggage.”

He clicked his tongue to the horse and cantered in
the opposite direction to the one Fenton had taken. Which was lucky
for the weasel. If Kinvarra caught up with Fenton now, he’d be
inclined to reach for his horsewhip. What right had that bastard to
interfere with other men’s wives then scuttle away leaving the lady
stranded?

Alicia settled herself more comfortably, pressing her
lovely, lush body into his back. She hadn’t been this close to him
in years. He was scoundrel enough to enjoy the contact, however
reluctantly she granted it.

Maybe after all, he should be grateful to old Harold.
He might even send the poltroon a case of port and a note of
appreciation.

Well, that might go too far.

“Is that where we’re heading?” She tightened her
arms. He wished it was because she wanted to touch him and not just
because she sought a more secure seat. He also wished that when she
said “we”, his belly didn’t cramp with longing for the word to be
true.

Damn Alicia. She’d always held magic for him and she
always would. Ten long years without her had taught him that grim
lesson.

The reminder of the dance she’d led him made him
respond in a clipped tone. “No, we’re going to Heseltine Hall near
Whitby.”

“But you can leave me at the inn, can’t you?”

“It’s a poor place. I couldn’t abandon a woman there
without protection.” He tried, he really did, to keep the
satisfaction from his voice, but he must have failed. He felt her
tense against his back, although she couldn’t pull too far away
without risking a fall.

“And who’s going to protect me from you?” she
muttered, almost as if to herself.

“I mean you no harm.” For all their difficult
interactions, he’d only ever wished her well. “You didn’t come all
the way from London in that spindly carriage, did you?”

“It’s inappropriate to discuss my arrangement with
Lord Harold,” she said coldly.

He laughed again, against all sense, enchanted with
her spirit. “Humor me.”

She sighed. “We traveled up separately to York.” Her
voice melted into sincerity and he tried not to respond to the
husky sweetness. “I truly didn’t set out to cause a scandal. You
and I parted in rancor, but I have no ambition to damage you or
your name.”

“Whatever your attempts at discretion, you still
meant to give yourself to that puppy,” Kinvarra bit out, all
amusement abruptly fled.

Alicia didn’t answer.

The Winter Wife: A
Christmas Novella

Praise for Anna Campbell and her Historical
Romances:

Anna Campbell’s
SEVEN NIGHTS IN A ROGUE’S
BED
is at once elegant and wildly sensual: its sweep of dark
passion reminded me of early historical romances written by Judith
McNaught, fortified with a touch of the gothic. Eloisa James,
New York Times
bestselling author

Different and intriguing. Stephanie Laurens,
New York Times
bestselling author

SEVEN NIGHTS IN A ROGUE’S BED
is a
lush, sensuous treat. I was enthralled from the first page to the
last and still wanted more. Laura Lee Guhrke,
New York Times
bestselling author

No one does lovely, dark romance or lovely,
dark heroes like Anna Campbell. I love her books, Sarah MacLean.
New York Times

bestselling author

Anna Campbell is an amazing, daring new voice
in romance. Lorraine Heath,
New York Times
bestselling
author

Luscious love scenes.
Publishers
Weekly

Unforgettable, powerhouse romance.
RT Book
Reviews

No one writes big, bold, gutsy historical
romance like this Australian

author.
Australian Women’s Weekly

ANNA CAMPBELL has written seven multi
award-winning historical romances and her work is published in
eleven languages. Anna has won numerous awards for her Regency-set
romances including
Romantic
Times
Reviewers Choice,
the Booksellers Best, the Golden Quill (three times), the Heart of
Excellence (twice), the Aspen Gold (twice) and the Australian
Romance Readers Association’s favorite historical romance (four
times). She has three times been voted favorite Australian romance
author by the Australian Romance Readers Association (2009, 2010,
2011). Her next full-length release is
A Rake’s Midnight
Kiss
, book 2 in the Sons of Sin series. Anna lives on the
beautiful Sunshine Coast in Australia and loves to travel and
listen to music.

You can learn more at:

www.annacampbell.info

Twitter @AnnaCampbellOz

Facebook:
https://www.facebook.com/AnnaCampbellFans