Ireland, 1725
“Who the devil are you?”
Taken aback by the unwelcoming words, Vivian stammered, “I. . .I am Miss Vivian McNamara. We were traveling to visit with Lord Alexander Wheelan..”
He tipped his head, regarding her intently. “My father is not here,” he growled with a heavy burr.
Alarming thoughts burst into her mind. “That cannot be.”
“Oh, I assure you, lass, it can be.” A wolfish grin tugged at his mouth. “I would know—because I killed him.
# # #
The girl gasped and reached for the wall. Galen let go of the lantern and caught her before she tumbled back down the stone stairs.
“Get her things,” he commanded as he carried her into the castle. What the hell was he going to do now? He had barred himself in Lomarcan Castle and now this chit had invaded his solitude. Galen could not face outsiders, could not bear the accusing glances and questions over his father’s violent death.
He gazed down at her. Violet eyes inspected him right back. They were startling and intrusive. Severing their visual connection, he hastened his stride, not sure which room to put her in. It had been months since he had even thought of such mundane matters.
The lass’s hair spilled over her shoulders in wet curls, tickling the bare skin of his hand. His grip tightened around her slender body all on its own.
He felt her inspecting him and looked again at her alluring eyes. Galen could read wariness in their depths, the line of fear that clutched her jaw. The tension started there and ran the length of her rigid body.
The footsteps and heavy breathing of Miss McNamara’s servants followed behind him as he shoved open a bedchamber door. He failed to care how dirty it was. If the lass wasn’t happy, he would show her out.