Free A Loving Spirit by Amanda Mccabe Page A

chill in the air, he was in his shirtsleeves, his hair falling in a rumpled mass to his shoulders. He looked startled to see her there, and, for one second, the candle in his hand wavered.
    "Lord Royce," she said with a smile. "We really must stop meeting like this."
    "Miss Richards," he answered slowly. "I did not expect anyone to be about at this hour."
    "I could not sleep, so I came down here to find something to read."
    "And what did you find? A novel?" He came closer to the desk, put his candle down next to hers and the papers atop some books, and sat in the chair beside her. He smelled of clean soap and night air; his warmth and nearness was natural, comforting.
    "No. It is the first volume of your series on ancient Greece."
    "Indeed?" His dark brow arched. "What do you think of my work, Miss Richards? Too stuffy and academic?"
    Cassie shook her head. "You are a very talented writer, Lord Royce," she said quietly. "I could almost imagine myself there."
    "That is a very kind thing for you to say."
    "It is not kindness. It is the truth. Through your words, I can see the marketplace in my mind. Smell the wine and olive oil, feel the Grecian sun on my face, and hear all the chatter and laughter." Cassie looked back down at the open book. "In a strange way, it reminded me of—of Jamaica."
    "Of Jamaica? Ancient Greece? In what way?"
    She wondered if he was making fun of her. After all, ancient Greece and Jamaica were really nothing alike. But when she glanced up at him, she saw only interest written on his face. "In the way so much of life is lived outdoors. In the warmth of the sun, and the diet of fish and fruit and wine. When I was a child, Antoinette's mother would take us to the market in Negril with her. I remember how much I loved that, how I loved the sights and smells, being surrounded by all the life..."
    Her throat grew tight, and she lapsed into silence.
    "You miss it very much, don't you?" he said quietly.
    "England is not so very bad," Cassie answered. "It has its own sort of life. But yes, I do sometimes get homesick, even now."
    "Why did you not stay on there?"
    "My parents were gone; Antoinette was all I had left. And Aunt Chat wrote so often, urging me to come stay with her. It seemed the best thing to do." Cassie ran her hand over the cool smoothness of the paper. "There are women who can run their own plantations and succeed. But I do not think I could be one of them."
    "I think you could do anything you set your mind to," he said.
    Cassie looked up at him, startled. No one had ever said anything like that to her before. No one had ever thought her capable, or sensible, or able to do much of anything. Even her parents and Antoinette, who loved her, never had. "You do? Truly?"
    "Truly."
    "Then I shall have to set my mind to something." She closed the book and looked down at his name embossed on the cover. "I wish I could write a book, like you."
    "You could probably write a grand horrid novel," he suggested. "Strange noises in the night, mysterious servants. Exotic ceremonies in seaside tunnels."
    Cassie grinned at him. "Oh, so you have heard about that scheme, have you?"
    He grinned back. "My mother said something to me about it. She also said I could come along, if I like."
    "Of course you can come along. They are your tunnels, after all. But no cynical comments, if you please."
    "The spirits won't appear if there is an unfriendly presence, eh?"
    "Something of the sort."
    "Then I promise, no comments of any sort. You read my book; the least I can do is be polite at your—ceremony."
    "I learned a great deal from your book, Lord Royce," Cassie said. "Perhaps you can learn something from me."
    He looked at her steadily, his eyes serious. "I am sure I can, Miss Richards."
    Cassie returned his regard for a long, still moment. The room around them seemed to disappear. Books, ghosts, castles, Jamaica—nothing else existed in the world for that one instant. Nothing but him and herself, held together in a