Patricia Rice by This Magic Moment Page A

tried squinting into the sunlight to see beyond the voice, but pincers grabbed his brain and dug in. “Have your friendly ghost lead you back.”
    “She went away when you did. I’ve looked everywhere and can’t find her. Do you suppose it was your mother? There was a lot of love in her aura, but I think she was quiet and a bit shy. I could be wrong, of course,” Christina added, opening the draperies to let the sun pour in.
    “Shut the damned things!” Harry roared. Or thought he roared. Anything louder than a whisper pounded like thunder.
    “I didn’t think to bring you coffee. I’m sorry.” She didn’t sound apologetic. And she didn’t close the draperies. “I haven’t learned this wifely business yet. My sister Felicity is a natural at it, but I’m more comfortable outdoors than in.”
    Harry wondered what the punishment was for murdering a duchess. He rather thought even old Henry Fielding would consider it justifiable homicide when he heard the circumstances, but the wise magistrate had died last year. Besides, Harry was the magistrate out here. Dukes probably could get away with murder.
    A perfumed hand cooled his overheated brow. “I know the recipe for a hangover. Mother taught us a few useful things. Come along to the kitchen with me and you might live.”
    “I’m not sure you will,” he replied testily. But the fresh scent of pine and her cool hand soothed some of the pain. Eyes closed, he took stock: he’d found a long divan to lie on at least. He was still dressed. A blanket of some sort covered him, although he couldn’t remember putting it there. His mouth felt like cotton lint. And the ache in his groin hadn’t abated.
    “I have learned my lesson,” she said cheerfully, removing her hand. “Never offer to feed a hungover duke. But I fear you can’t be rid of me until you show me the way back. Did you know this room is nearly identical to the priest’s study next to the chapel in St. Andrews cathedral in London? Right down to the narrow cot in the windowless cell next to it. Why didn’t you sleep on the cot?”
    He didn’t want to know how she’d seen a priest’s study. He didn’t want to know why the smoking room had become a priest’s cell. Groping for the back of the divan, he sat up and held his head in place with his free hand.
    “Oh good, that’s progress. Meg and Peter have probably given up on us. Would another sip of brandy help? I think there’s a swallow left.”
    The strong aroma of fine French brandy drifted under his nose, and scowling, Harry opened his eyes to grab the goblet offered. He swallowed in haste, feeling the brandy burn through the cotton lint in his throat, waiting for the wallop that would give him strength to stand and strangle her, although his reason for doing so had begun to fade.
    “I’ve talked with Meg’s cook and maid, and they say they can find staff, but they want to be paid first. Isn’t that odd?”
    Balancing his aching head on his palm and propping his elbow on his knee so he didn’t topple over, Harry let the alcohol wake him fully. Christina had no inkling of the financial trouble they were in. He couldn’t blame her for simply being herself.
    “I’ll show you the garden door. It’s a shorter route to the kitchen across the courtyard.” He stood, and Christina’s arm slid around to steady him. He was starting to remember why he’d thought she would make a charming wife. She never complained or nagged or wheedled. She accepted his behavior for what it was and merrily went her own way.
    Which was why he was in this state. He wanted her way to be his. Stupid of him. He shook off her helping arm and stood on his own.
    She slid her warm hand into his, and he clutched it tight. The physical contact with another human being was inexplicably comforting.
    “A garden door? Excellent,” she said cheerfully. “I feared I would step out into that fearful pit or risk being crowned by stones again.”
    Harry shuddered in memory.