Page 48 of The Lady Needs a Rogue
“I wanted you to see this.”
She cut a direct path to an exceedingly small wing chair. Bloody hell, the piece looked to be a perfect child-sized replica of a Chippendale.
“Have ye a notion to pretend ye’re Goldilocks and test it out?”
Her mouth curved into a playful frown. “You know better than that, Finn Caldwell. This chair fit me—quite nicely, as I recall—when Grandpapa had it made for me. I was about seven at the time. We’d come into this room, and he would tell me tales about those who had come before in our family. His grandfather, a wily old buccaneer, actually came to live in this house. He passed away long before I was born, but Grandpapa boasted he still roamed the halls day and night, watching over his kin.”
Finn regarded her with a deliberately bland expression. “Why doesn’t it surprise me that yer ancestor was a pirate?”
“It seems to fit, doesn’t it?” She tapped her fingertip to her chin. “Perhaps I should embellish the story a bit. A fierce pirate watching over me might run off a baron or two.”
“I don’t know about a baron, or a duke, for that matter. But the notion of yer ghostly pirate ancestor pursuing me down the hall might send me bolting from this place.”
“I thought you wanted to see the ghost of Bennington Manor for yourself.”
“That was before I knew he was a bloodthirsty scalawag,” Finn said.
“Oh really? The man was not bloodthirsty. At least, I don’t think he was.” She pursed her lips. By thunder, did she realize how tempting her mouth was when she looked at him like that? “Phineas Caldwell, surely you, of all the rogues in London, are not afraid of a phantom.”
“I haven’t decided yet.” He shrugged. “It would depend on the ghost.”
“You can’t fool me. It would take more than a grouchy spirit to send you running.”
“Don’t be so sure. I’ve never had to fend off a ghost, let alone an ill-tempered one.”
“You don’t have to chase it off. You simply have to acknowledge it and go about your day. Or night, for that matter.”
She flashed a little grin. The woman had no right to be so appealing. Much less when she knew there wasn’t a damned thing he could do about it. Not if he wanted to see this infernal deal with the devil through to the end.
“So, ye’re an authority on the matter, are ye?” Finn cocked a brow, attempting to distract himself from her lips with thoughts of her pirate ancestor.
“Perhaps,” she said, her tone teasing.
“Ye’ve seen him roaming about, have ye?”
“I’m sure that I have. When I was a girl.” Her teeth grazed her bottom lip, drawing his eye once again. “Though Jon believed I had an overly active imagination.” She motioned him to the large mahogany desk near the fireplace. She handed him a silver-framed image that had been displayed by a neatly arranged pile of books. “My grandfather looked at this photograph every time he sat at this desk.”
Finn gazed at the decades-old memory preserved by a camera’s lens. The woman he recognized as Macie’s grandmother had been rosy-cheeked and vibrant, dressed in a prim white gown trimmed in lace. Her smile gleamed in her eyes despite the softly curved set of her mouth. Macie’s grandfather stood at her side, tall and lean, looking to be barely in his twenties. Decked out in what must have been his best suit of clothing, he looked rather nervous as he posed for the photograph. Perhaps that had something to do with the tall,imposing man who stood to the side of the young couple, his expression far less joyful than that of the lovely woman he’d wager had been Macie’s great-grandmother. An equally tall and somber man, a generation older than the others but still boasting a full head of silver hair, stood near the groom.
“This portrait was made on the day of my grandparents’ wedding. Grandpapa said he treasured it above all the others he’d commissioned over the years.”
“Yer grandmother was a beauty,” Finn said, taking in Macie’s keen resemblance to the young bride. He pointed to the stone-faced man and the joyful redhead. “Those are yer great-grandparents?”
She nodded. “My grandmother’s father was not pleased with the choice she’d made. His expression made that quite clear. But Grandmama was ahead of her time. Just as my mother did, she spurned a match to a man with a fortune to marry the man she loved. That may have been why Grandpapa was driven to make his own fortune, if only to justify her faith in him.”
“She was strong willed. Like ye.”
“I like to think so.” She tapped her fingertip to the glass covering the photograph. “That’s him,” she said, pointing out the man with his gray mane. “My ancestor, the pirate. Quite a dignified fellow, as you can see.”
“He looks like a man of grit and determination,” Finn observed. “And not a hook or peg leg in sight.”
“You do realize that all pirates did not resemble Blackbeard.”
“I cannot say I’ve ever given it much thought.”
“He did have a small scar from a dagger on his cheek. Or so I was told. You can scarcely make it out in the photograph.”
Finn spotted the curved mark near the man’s jaw. Reflexively, his hand went to his own face, touching the scar he’d borne for nearly two decades.
