The Earl's Secret. Kathryn Jensen

she wasn’t prone to being swept away by the mere touch of a hand or flash of blue eyes. Was she afraid of that dark inner core of him? No, she answered herself. Christopher seemed to be a man with principles. If he’d been truly dangerous, the gossip columns would have had even more ruthless comments on his flamboyant lifestyle.

      So, yes, he was flirtatious, but she was certain he would never attempt to force her to do anything against her will. Was he the sort of man who got his kicks seducing female tourists? She’d run into that type before—identified, cataloged and dismissed them without hesitation.

      No, she decided, Christopher Smythe was different. But what made him different and what he wanted from her—those were the real questions.

      Despite her preoccupation with the earl, by nine o’clock Jennifer had finished drafting her plans for the day, selected the appropriate maps and guide notes she’d written up before leaving Maryland and called each of her clients’ rooms to make sure they were ready to set out. True to his word, Christopher was waiting beside the rental van when she stepped outside, followed by most of her group.

      “Oh, it’s that handsome young groundskeeper from the castle!” one of the women twittered.

      “Dashing, dear. Here in Britain, all the young men are dashing,” another woman corrected her. “You know he looks an awful lot like that young lord we saw in that newspaper in the hotel lobby.”

      “I wonder what he’s doing trailing after us to Edinburgh,” Mr. Pegorski commented, waggling his eyebrows in Jennifer’s direction.

      She pretended not to see or hear any of them. “Everyone, this is Christopher Smythe from the castle yesterday. You remember him, of course. He’s agreed to give us a local’s view of the city.”

      Jennifer could feel the estrogen level rise in her group as the females ogled Christopher. The rest of their party arrived then, so they all piled happily into the van and started out for an overview of the city.

      While Christopher drove, she sat beside him in the passenger seat and studied his profile—elegant, but purely masculine, she decided. His features were powerfully drawn; his blue eyes made the more vivid by the dark lashes outlining them. A very faint scar ran close to the hairline along one temple, and she wondered if it had been caused by a polo injury. The article she’d seen mentioned his aggressiveness on the polo field. From the little she knew of the game, it was a rough sport requiring strength and daring. His hair was a dark, glistening brown that verged on black when out of direct sunlight.

      She admired his speaking style, which combined a touch of dry humor with crisp intelligence, all wrapped up in an English accent she found irresistible. But over all of this was a veneer of a darker emotion—like mahogany laid over paler oak—disappointment or sadness, or something fragile she couldn’t yet define.

      “Do you have family around here?” she asked between stops along their route.

      He seemed startled by her question, then glanced sideways at her, still keeping an eye to the road as they sped along. “My father still lives in Sussex. I have two brothers.” His voice was clipped, to the point.

      I’ll wager they’re both as devilishly handsome as you, she thought. Were they as terse and secretive, too?

      “Then your brothers live in Sussex as well?” she asked.

      “In Sussex? With my father?” He choked on an involuntary laugh. The taut muscles in his face relaxed enough to allow a thin smile. “My father isn’t the kind of man who encourages his family to remain close to home. As soon as we were old enough to be away from our nanny, he shipped us off to boarding school. None of us have gone back for more than the occasional holiday.”

      “How old were you then…when you first went away to school?”

      “Six.”

      “Six years old!” She knew that the upper-class English put great stock in educating their youth away from home, but a six-year-old seemed hardly more than a baby to her. “Didn’t your mother object?”

      The corners of Christopher’s lips pinched grimly inward, and she knew she’d said something terribly wrong. But before she could apologize, he was speaking in that incredibly dry, unemotional way she was beginning to suspect might be his form of self-protection. “Apparently, her sons’ welfare wasn’t at the top of her list of priorities. She left my father and the three of us before I turned a year old.”

      “I’m so sorry,” she whispered, shocked at the very idea of a woman abandoning three sons and a husband.

      “It’s all right. I remember nothing of her.” The chill in his words was a thing she could almost touch. His pain showed in the fine lines around his eyes and mouth, despite his unemotional denial. She didn’t know what to say to comfort him, but she sensed she had to keep him talking or risk losing the one chance she might have of understanding him. For some reason, that seemed important to her.

      “Are you and your brothers close?” she asked hastily.

      It took a moment for him to gather his thoughts and answer this time. “Not in any way you might expect. My oldest brother, Thomas, is an advisor to the King of Elbia. He lives with the royal family, travels with them, rarely returns to England. He recently married an American woman and inherited a gaggle of youngsters in the bargain.” He chuckled affectionately. “Thomas has his hands full now, but seems happy as a clam in an ocean of mud. Our middle brother is Matthew. I think he took our mother’s desertion the hardest. He was three years old when she left, and swears he remembers her vividly. As soon as he turned twenty-one and collected his inheritance, he lit out for America. He’s been there ever since, running an import business.”

      She waited for Christopher to go on. Something in the halting way he had spoken told her that he wasn’t accustomed to talking about his family. When he didn’t continue on his own, she prodded gently. “Do you often travel to visit your brothers?”

      “I have obligations here,” he said, casting her a sharp, sidelong glance.

      That was it then. He was ending the conversation.

      “I see,” she murmured. But she didn’t, not really. What was more important than family?

      Elbia, she mused, as her clients chatted happily among themselves in the seats behind her. She tried to envision a simple map of Europe. Wasn’t that the tiny alpine country about the size of Monaco? How difficult could it be for a man with Christopher’s means to jet across the continent for a quick visit with his brother? Traveling to the States was a little more difficult but surely the business that kept him tied down in Scotland would allow for a few weeks off now and again to see his own family.

      “What are your plans for the rest of the day?” Christopher asked after a long silence.

      “Edinburgh Castle, of course, then Queen Mary’s Bathhouse and the Royal Mile for shopping and house tours.”

      He glanced up at the sky. “The rain should hold off long enough.”

      She nodded, then let a grin slip out.

      “What is it?” he asked, glancing at her curiously as he pulled over a lane to let a lorry pass.

      “Queen Mary of Scots. Legend has it, she bathed in white wine and goat’s milk. I wonder if that mixture really is good for the complexion.” She held her arm out to inspect it as the truck sped past them.

      “I’ll bring the wine and milk, you try it out and—” he lifted a dark brow aimed toward the dip in her neckline “—I shall be the judge.”

      She laughed, thinking she wouldn’t put it past him. Stand ready for inspection, miss! He’d insist on seeing every inch of her. Fat chance she’d let him!

      Christopher accompanied Jennifer’s group to the castle and sixteenth-century cottage known as the queen’s bathhouse, which, more likely, had been a simple summerhouse or dovecote. He then asked her to drop him off at his car and arranged to meet them after lunch.

      Jennifer