My foolish yearning to again see a raven-haired beauty who does love ghosts and who kisses like an angel –a lass he could only ask to be his now-and-again mistress, a fate his honor wouldn’t allow him to visit upon her or anywoman.
Greyson kept the thoughts to himself. But he did level a fierce look on thecrone.
The far-famed Devorgilla ofDoon.
Whoever heard of anyone escaping her clutches? He couldn’t recall a soul. She was legend, as mythical as mist on the hills. Yet she stood before him, real as the rain beginning to pelt the windows. Greyson’s gut tightened, everything in him warning him to show her the door, and then boltit.
He almost choked, sure a locked door wouldn’t stopher.
And so he took his first step toward the abyss. “What ails thislass?”
As he’d known she would, Devorgillasmiled.
“Nary a thing,” she said, holding his gaze. “She’s as hale and fit as lassies come. Regrettably, she dwells at Kettle House, the home of her aunt anduncle.”
“So?” Greyson folded his arms. “I have ne’er been to the house, but know of it. Word is the owners serve soup to the hungry. Since when is that a peril? I’ve ne’er heard an ill word spoken of theplace.”
“You willnae.” Devorgilla glanced down at Greyson’s ledger, ran a finger along its leather-bound edge. “The Russells are goodsouls.”
“Those who feed the needy usually are.” Greyson was still suspicious. “Where is theproblem?”
Devorgilla looked up. “The matter is delicate. I require someone discreet and trustworthy enough to address it to Mrs. Russell. And then…” She paused for effect. “To never mention it again, which is why I’mhere.
“You are no’ a gossip.” She came to stand before Greyson. “You also understand those with adventurous natures, a bit more spirit thanmost.”
Greysonfrowned.
“I am no’ in the market for a wife, my lady. I told you that. Dinnae think to saddle me with an unhappy young woman who is watching her bellyswell.”
“She is no’ with child. But she would make a good mother. She needs a family of herown.”
“All the more reason no’ to go anywhere near her.” Greyson’s frown deepened. “I am no’ in a position to support a family. I can barely provide for myself, Smithers, andWiggle.”
Devorgilla poured herself a cup of ale and took a sip. “You value money more thanlove?”
“So you are hoping to foist the lass onme?”
“No’ at all.” She set down her cup. “I’m only asking you to visit Kettle House and tell Mrs. Russell you know someone interested in the lass. A man who hopes to court her. Say he is good, decent, and hardworking. He can be a shopkeeper, fisher, scholar, whate’er, just someonereliable.”
“Someone who doesn’t exist.” Greyson didn’t hide his dislike of the scheme. “You want me tolie.”
“‘No’ at all. I will find such a soul before you even step into Flourmill Lane.” The crone paused to wag a finger at him. “My like hasways.”
“Why don’t you go to Kettle House?” Greyson tossed back the remains of his own ale, then wiped his mouth. “You camehere.”
“Folk know me too well.” Devorgilla shook her head. “There could be someone sitting at her kitchen table, spooning soup, and that soul might recognize me. The Russells have Highlanders on their staff. They will know me, too – or of me.” Her eyes twinkled then, a note of pride lacing her words. “Mrs. Russell would demand the suitor’s name. I cannae yet provideit.”
“Then wait until youcan.”
“That willnaedo.”
“Why?” Greyson wasn’t convinced. “What if she asks why this man doesn’t presenthimself?”
“You shall tell her he must be on the Continent for some weeks and will call upon his return.” She made it seem so easy. “That will give metime.”
“Forwhat?”
“To find the man, ofcourse.”
