But there was a connection here that he wasn’t making. A connection she feared hemightmake, solely given what little evidence he had.Think logically, Bothwick.Miss Stanton knew Red well enough to know his given name. She knew Timothy well enough to cop one of his pet phrases as her own. Both men had presumably been killed before her arrival. Which meant...
“You never met either of them, and you’ve just been playacting?”
She let out a frustrated breath. “I met them after theydied.”
“You what?” he asked incredulously, not for a moment believing her words. He had no better hypothesis, but her explanation was absurd. What kind of fool did she take him for?
Her eyes widened with the same two emotions as before. Wariness. And guilt.
“Nothing. Forget it.”
Uneasiness coated his stomach. “How would that be possible?”
“I don’t know,” she snapped. “I didn’t plan it.”
Evan laughed. He couldn’t help it. “You expect me to believe you can seespirits?”
“Apparently not all of them,” she muttered.
Not all of them? He leaned back and looked her in the eyes. She truly believed he’d swallow this cockamamie tale. He’d play along, try to gauge whether she believed it herself. “Which ghost are you missing?”
Mute again. Defiant. Frightened.
“You met Timothy,” he started over, careful to keep the skepticism from his voice, “after he was dead.”
She hesitated, then nodded once.
Liar. Evan shook with repressed rage. At her, for dragging his brother into her Banbury tales. At poor misguided Timothy, for being such a lackluster jack-tar that he’d been killed by a rogue pirate. At said soulless blackguard for being cowardly enough to shoot an unarmed seaman. At whoever had stolen Timothy’s body, robbing him of both a proper burial and the chance for his loved ones to say good-bye.
What he wouldn’t give to speak to Timothy himself, to apologize for not being there, to tell his brother how much he missed him. But he would never have that chance. Evan didn’t believe in spirits. Much less that his brother would return home as one, and then choose to have tea with Miss Stanton.
And yet, uneasiness continued to congeal in his belly.
“What did Timothy say?” That look again. Guilt. Mistrust. “God damn it, Susan, if you expect me to believe—”
“He asked me not to tell anyone. Including you.”
Evan stared at the woman before him, still damp and flushed from his lovemaking, and couldn’t believe his ears. “Your loyalty is greater to mydead brotherthan to me?”
Again with the deafening silence.
His couldn’t keep the sarcasm from his voice. “Is he here right now, watching us?”
She blushed. Then shook her head rapidly.
That was a plus, at least. He didn’t want Timothy witnessing the brother he’d always considered an indomitable lothario being utterly destroyed by a debutante in her shift and stockings. Wait. Evan rubbed his face, frowning. Was he starting to believe this rot? If Miss Stanton saw spirits, that would mean therewerespirits. And that Timothy had chosen to reveal himself to a complete stranger rather than his own brother.
Unless... he’d had no choice.
Evan did his best to keep his voice calm, reasonable. “Have you always spoken to dead people?”
She shook her head. “Just since I died.”
Thunderclouds gathered in Evan’s head. “For the love of all that’s holy, woman, if you don’t start making sense, I can’t be responsible for my actions.”
She thrust out a pale arm, palm up. A wicked scar zigzagged from just above her wrist to very nearly her elbow. She offered no explanation. Evan began to suspect this was because she wasbarmyand all indication to the contrary mere coincidence.
“Ghosts speak to you through your... magic scar?”
