The Ghost Hunter by Lori Brighton Page A

1900s, two men from the 1800s…and another…the Constable, that was right. A man from the 1700s and completely delusional. One of those few spirits who had not known he was dead. Clare had talked about the ghost often; she’d had a special fondness for the spirit.
    Ashley was silent, her gaze focused on the floor. She was still in that curtsey position and her legs had started trembling, her skirts rustling. They were mocking her, obviously. He knew it, but apparently she didn’t.  
    Ashley’s head snapped upright. “You lied!”  
    Ah, finally she’d figured it out.
    She straightened, her wide skirt crinkling with the movement. “You’ve obviously been screwing with me and I don’t appreciate it. Don’t you have any freaking idea what’s going on here? How serious this is?”
    She started pacing, her steps hurried, the floorboards underfoot creaking loudly. No longer was she attempting to be quiet; she’d forgotten he was supposed to be downstairs.
    “If this happens, if this evil gets out, you’re all gone, done with. You’re already cowering in the attic, where will you go if this thing destroys your house?”
    Cristian narrowed his eyes. She knew more than he’d realized. He wasn’t expecting her to admit, albeit to her ghosts, that she knew there was something lurking in the cellar.
    “Rachel?” Ashley spun around, staring at the wall. “Rachel!”
    Cristian was vaguely aware of the shimmers headed toward the wall. She’d spoken the truth and because of that, her ghosts had abandoned her. Spirits hated to deal with reality. Silence settled in the attic, heavy, suffocating. Ashley sank onto a trunk, her skirt puffing up around her. Cristian had seen and heard enough. He surged to his feet and started up the steps to the floor.
    “Ashley, what the hell are ye doing?”
    He knelt in front of her. She didn’t respond, didn’t look surprised to see him, merely looked at him with wide, hopeless eyes. His lips parted on a sigh and he shook his head exasperated with the entire situation.
    “Honest to God, I don’t know what the bloody hell yer up to, but I suppose it doesn’t matter right now. Come on.” He grasped her hand and pulled her to her feet. Before she could protest, he wrapped an arm around her waist and under her knees, lifting her. Her dress crinkled as he cradled her to his chest. She was a trembling mess. What had the ghosts said to her? How he wished he could demand answers.    
    He carried her down the stairs and didn’t stop until they made it to his room. She didn’t protest when he settled her on his bed. Frankly, he wouldn’t have cared. He had the insane desire to comfort her in some way, yet hadn’t a clue how to help.
    Instead, he moved into his bathroom. He didn’t have experience comforting humans. He’d never had to before. He had a job to do on this earth, and that job didn’t involve getting attached. He turned on the shower and glanced through the door. She hadn’t moved.
    Damn he felt useless and he hated the feeling. He rested his hands on the pink tiles as the urge to comfort her overwhelmed him. He suddenly wanted to swear to protect her, fight a fucking dragon. He rubbed the back of his neck and when he could stand it no longer, he surged to his feet and moved back into the room. She sniffed, glancing up at him through her lashes. Her cheeks grew red with what he assumed was embarrassment.  
    “Come on.” He took her hand and pulled her into the bathroom so quickly she wouldn’t have time to argue. In the close quarters, with her warm scent catching the steam from the shower and peppering the air, he could barely think. Swallowing hard, he turned her so her back was to him. Shite, if his fingers didn’t tremble as they moved down the back of her dress.
    “Where the bloody hell did ye get this gown and better yet, why the bloody hell are ye wearing it?”
    She shook her head sending powder sprinkling down around them like snow.
    “And yer