Authors: Cassandra Gannon
Grace
stared at him, as if she understood the shadows passing over his face. As if
she’d seen the darkness, too.
Jamie
cleared his throat and glanced away from her. It was a crying shame that he
couldn’t have some of that merlot. …Even if it was a shockingly inferior
vintage. “The hardest part of being a ghost is not being able to touch
anything.” He said abruptly. “You’re powerless to change or interact with a
single bloody thing around you.”
“Well,
you’re sitting on that sofa.”
Jamie
looked down at the floral cushion. It appeared to be one of the few items in
her home that hadn’t been rescued from a dumpster or purchased at a yard sale.
The woman was clearly on a mission to save everyone else’s broken-down, forgotten,
and/or homely castoffs.
The
soft, flowery upholstery suited her, though. Grace Rivera struck him as a very
feminine creature. The kind of lady who would’ve never consorted with Jamie,
back when he was alive. In his day, she would’ve carried a dainty lace
parasol, and poured tea for well-bred gentlemen callers and worn cream-colored
pearls.
…And
crossed the street to avoid pirates.
In
this age, she was stuck in a cramped apartment with no one to challenge that
wanker Robert for treating her badly. Sometimes he wondered how people like Grace
endured the modern world. The meek were undefended here. Left to flounder
alone, as others sped past at impossible speeds. The strong and selfish
survived, while weak-spirted girls collected chipped pottery and remained nearly
as forsaken as Jamie.
“I’m
not sitting on this sofa.” He assured her. “I’m just… hovering. Like a
mist. I can’t actually touch things or interact with anyone.”
Although,
when Grace had walked though him at Robert’s house, Jamie had experienced
something
.
Some electrical jolt that zinged through him like nothing else ever had.
He’d
felt
her.
Grace
arched a brow, like she was reading his mind. “Then how do you explain what’s
happening between us?”
“I
can’t explain it and donea even want to.” Jamie wasn’t one to look a gift
horse in the mouth. He had somebody, now. Another person in this world was
talking to him. Seeing him. Calling them an “us.” That was enough. “For
whatever reason, you’re the one, Grace Rivera.”
“The
one for what? I’m
never
the one. Why is this happening to me?”
“I
donea know. There must be something special about you.”
“There’s
not.”
“To
me, you are the most special person in this world.” Jamie assured her. “I
need you to help me clear my name.”
This
uptight woman was his only hope. For over two hundred years, he’d been branded
a murderer. More than even dying, he hated that everyone, everywhere thought
he was a killer. That, throughout history, he was disparaged and reviled.
This was his one shot to prove his innocence.
Grace
stared at him for a long moment. “You’re out of your invisible mind.”
Of
course she couldn’t make this easy.
Frustrated,
Jamie got to his feet and restlessly moved to look at the books on her
cluttered shelves. Not one romance or fairytale. Just dry historical tomes,
guaranteed to bore the hell out of anyone with an ounce of passion in her soul.
“Do you not own a paperback, love?”
“I’m
a stable and practical person,” she shot back, “except when I’m being haunted
by condescending jerks.” She shifted on the sofa, so she could glower at him.
“Don’t try to change the subject. How do you expect me to clear your name?”
“Does
that mean you’re drunk enough to listen to all I have to say?” Hopefully so,
because Jamie was eager to fix his unlife. He had no doubt it would take some
convincing to get such a timid lass to lend a hand, so he’d like to get started.
Luckily,
there was quite a bit to appreciate about Grace while he waited for her to
acquiesce.
His
gaze flicked to the long length of her legs. The fuzzy robe had slid up to her
knees when she turned, so the view was suddenly spectacular. Of the many
things he admired about this century, women’s fashions were high on the list.
Whoever it was who’d convinced them to do away with long skirts and petticoats
was a bloody genius.
“Drunk
or not, I’m not sure I
want
to listen to you.” Grace muttered, still not
noticing his distraction. It was as if the woman didn’t even consider her own
appeal. “If you’re not a brain tumor…”
“I’m
not a brain tumor.” He was bloody sick of repeating that fact.
“…then
you’re James MacCleef Riordan.”
Finally,
she was getting it. “Yes!” He moved to stand in front of her. “I’m Jamie
Riordan.”
“Captain
of the
Sea Serpent
…”
“Yes!”
“…Patriot…”
“Yes!”
“…
and notorious serial killer.” Grace watched him with a brooding expression. “Did
you hurt those girls?”
“
No.
”
He crouched down, his eyes locked on hers. “I’ve never hurt a woman, Grace. I
give you my word of honor.”
She
didn’t look convinced. Hell, he didn’t blame her. Even when he was alive his
word of honor hadn’t meant much. The girl was right to be skeptical of a cad
like him.
“Gregory
Maxwell, the hero of Yorktown, wrote a whole book about your crimes and his poor
murdered sister.” She said with an obstinate expression on her face. “
Horror
in Harrisonburg
. My aunt has an original copy.”
“Gregory
Maxwell was the biggest moron alive, outside Parliament. I doubt he could
write his own name, let alone an actual book. And he
certainly
wasn’t a
hero at Yorktown. He ran at the first sign of battle. Believe me, I was
there.”
“I’ve
read that book at least a dozen times.” Grace insisted. “It lays out all the
evidence against you in a very convincing way.”
“If
it was even halfway comprehensible, then someone ghostwrote the damn thing for
him.” Jamie sighed and got to his feet, again. “No pun intended.” What could
he say to persuade her to help? Nothing brilliant popped to mind, so he went
with the truth. “Look, whoever killed those girls put a great deal of effort into
the crimes and it netted him nothing but blood. I am not a fellow who puts a great
deal of effort into my crimes, unless I’m going to gain a great deal of
coin
.”
Jamie arched a brow. “I was
business man
. I cared about money and all
the nice things it bought me.”
He
cared about having enough that no one would even hold him prisoner, again. For
thirteen years, he’d been a hostage to his father’s hatred and the memories of
it still shook him to the core. Ian Riordan had been a righteous and
God-fearing pastor, with a dark hatred for his only child. Jamie’s twinkle of
knowing had damned him forever in his father’s eyes. He was an odd-duck, when
Ian wanted a swan. Nothing could have convinced him than Jamie wasn’t the
devil, so “spare the rod” hadn’t even been an option. He’d been determined to
beat the magic right out of him, the way he had with Jamie’s mother.
Fiona
Riordan had been a shell of a woman by the time Jamie came along. Once she’d
been pretty and lighthearted and saw fairies dancing in the hills, but those
parts of her died in Ian’s captivity. For so long, Jamie had been angry at his
mother. With no way to support herself or her son, she’d squandered her life
on that sadistic bastard. She’d stayed with Ian until she finally escaped into
death. Maybe his mother was just afraid to leave her comfortable house and
servants. Or maybe she’d made the right choice and saved them from dying on
the streets. Either way, money had killed her. The lack of it, anyway.
Jamie
had left Scotland the day she died, determined that he would somehow acquire
enough gold to keep himself free forever. And he
had
… for all the good
it did him. Damn treasure was lost, now. Buried with no map to find it,
again. Stuck in the darkness.
Just
like Jamie.
“You
were a pirate.” Grace corrected. “Not a businessman.”
True
enough, but he’d rather she not focus on that part of his biography. It
wouldn’t help to convince her he wasn’t a criminal, if she knew he stole for a
living. “I prefer the term ‘privateer.’”
“Except
you
weren’t
a privateer. You were a pirate. Granted, you missed the
Golden Age of Piracy by about fifty years, but you made up for that in the
sheer amount of stuff you stole. You got rich by robbing merchants up and down
the Eastern seaboard. And the rest of Harrisonburg thought you were guilty of
far worse.”
Lord,
she could be a stern little thing. “They also burned a few midwives at
witches. Harrisonburg’s justice system wasn’t exactly foolproof.”
One
black eyebrow arched. “No one was burned as a witch in Virginia.”
He
made a face, because she was technically right. “Well, it wasn’t for lack of
trying, I assure you. The people of this town would’ve convicted a melon of a
crime, if it came from the wrong family. All they cared about was having a respectable
name.”
Grace
rolled her eyes. “Tell me about it.” She muttered. “Still,
Horror in
Harrisonburg
points out there was overwhelming evidence against you.”
“So
you said in that slanderous Ghost Walk you gave. But the evidence was
wrong
.”
She
kept talking. “You romanced all three of the victims, and you couldn’t give an
alibi for any of the disappearances, and you had a temper…”
Jamie
cut her off. “I’m Scottish. Of
course
, I have a bloody temper! But,
I
didn’t hurt those
girls
.” He carefully spaced out the words. “Those
‘reports’ of yours were given by the very fools who hanged me. You think
they’d admit that
they
were the actual murderers? I did
nothing
and the wankers killed me in the street!”
“The
victims…”
He
cut her off. “I danced with them at the Summer Ball, but I had no reason to
harm any of them. I danced with quite a few girls, that night. Not all of
them died!”
“Maybe
these
girls spurned you.”
Jamie
snorted. “Lucinda Wentworth was the only one I spoke to for more than a few
moments. And I assure you, she didn’t spurn me at that ball. Or later that
night.”
Grace
blinked owlishly. “You slept with Lucinda Wentworth?”
Despite
himself, he smiled at her shocked tone. “My time was not so puritanical as your
time would like to believe. Miss Wentworth fancied bold men and wasn’t shy
about revealing her predilections.” He paused, recalling Lucinda with a wry
grin. “She wasn’t shy about revealing
anything
, actually. Once she
even…” He trailed off, because, deep down, he struggled with lamentably
honorable impulses. He tried to ignore them, but they were always whispering
in his head, telling him
not
to be a jackass. “Well, Lucinda was a
lovely girl.”
For
once, Grace actually looked interested in something he had to say. Her pretty
face lit up. “I’ve seen all the layers women dressed in back then. How did
she get in and out of her clothes? Did she take
everything
off when you
two met for your dates? It seems like a colossal bother to deal with all the
petticoats and stays. How did it work?”
Jamie
stared at her for a beat. “Do you really wish to hear what Lucinda wore to our
assignations?
That’s
what you want to be discussing?”
“No.”
She reluctantly murmured, even though she clearly wanted to discuss just that.
“We can talk about something else.” She paused. “I just… I mean… Did you love
her?”
His
lips curved at that innocent question. Perhaps there was a bit of whimsy in
the girl’s soul, after all. “No. T’was never a romance between us, just a bit
of sport.” Lucinda had never been his and he’d never been hers. They were
both waiting for other people. “We were friends, though. I liked her and I
have no desire to gossip about her undergarments.”
Grace’s
head tilted. “Okay.” She said with far less hostility than she’d been showing
him thus far. “I respect the fact you’re a gentleman.”
Jamie
frowned. “I’m
not
a gentleman.” God, he’d nearly rather be called a
serial killer again. “I just never harmed a hair on Lucinda’s head. Or Anabel’s
or Clara’s.
That’s
what I’m saying.”
“You’re
so touchy. I was giving you a
compliment
.” She paused. “And they
didn’t
have
hair on their heads. That’s some kind of evasion thing,
right? All of you wore wigs back then. Even the women. Shaved heads and wigs
all tallowed into place.” She wrinkled her nose in a way that was quite
delightful. “The smell must have been God-awful.”
The
Good Lord save him from this daft woman. “Can you focus on what actually
matters here? We need to clear my name.”