THE PERFECT TEN (Boxed Set)

of your journals?”
    Tom grinned, but he shook his head. “Only a Silverstein may read them.”
    Masking her disappointment, Beth said, “Speaking of Silversteins, how is your lovely wife?”
    “Her back aches, her feet look like pillows, and she canna get out of bed without help. She’s not a happy woman.”
    Beth laughed. “Well, give her my best.”
    “Aye.” He buttoned his coat, readying to take his leave. “I’ll be bringing the ledger and checkbook to you on my next visit.”
    She tried to hide her surprise at this major concession. Tom had been opposed to her handling anything but her maintenance funds—-a meager six hundred pounds per month—just a few days ago.
    She grinned. “What changed your mind?”
    “The windows, lass.” He chuckled. “And the fact that you’re not packed and on your way to the airport after seeing his querulous lordship.”
    “Ah.” Pleased, she ducked her chin to hide the blush she felt creeping up her neck.
    Tom didn’t need to know it would have taken a team of horses to drag her out of the keep now that she’d seen her frequently scowling but handsome specter.
    Would it be possible for her to establish a companionship of sorts with her ghost? Duncan was, after all, dead, so she wouldn’t really be exposing her heart to another rejection if she tried to garner his attention and failed. Was it possible or just a flight of fancy? Could her ghost speak to her? Keep her company during long winter nights? And if so, what would it take to prompt him into it?
     
     
     
    Chapter 3
     
    Duncan found Beth in the kitchen, chattering like a squirrel into her telephone. Frowning, he rested an elbow on the roasting pit mantle.
    “It’ll cost how much?” Beth asked the phone, heaving an exasperated sigh. “Then send only the catalogs by air. Ya. I’d kill to be on-line.” She rearranged the spice jars on the table. “Right now? What I miss most are you, Junior’s Cheesecake, and West Wing.”
    He scowled in confusion. He could understand her missing a friend or cake, but how could she miss the west wing? ‘Twas one hundred feet long, three stories high and attached to the left side of the keep.
    “Silverstein didn’t have a problem with my starting a B and B, but asked that I wait until after my six-month probation. Then I can do as I like.”
    Duncan wondered once again what the two B’s stood for. As long as it didn’t stand for bingeing and buggery and made her happy, he supposed it didn’t matter. This would be her home after all. His and hers to share. Alone. Until—or rather, unless—he decided to take her.
    She giggled. “Of course you’re invited. Do you think you can get time off at Christmas?” She listened, looking pensive. “Oh. Then I’ll look forward to seeing you in June.” As she said goodbye, her eyes grew glassy, reflecting the lamp’s light like liquid pewter.
    Humph! She shouldn’t use the bloody telephone if it made her forlorn. If it continued to cause her distress, he’d do them both a favor and misplace the damn thing. The piping tune it played whenever it wanted her attention was annoying as hell, anyway.
    She brushed at a tear and pocketed the telephone.
    “Onward and upward,” Beth muttered.
    He eyed her warily.
    ~#~
    In a dusty storage room, Beth smiled as she ran a careful hand over the small icon-like portrait she’d unearthed. “It’s about time.”
    Centuries of grime and mildew coated the painted wood in her hands, but she felt sure she’d found what she’d been looking for, her ghost’s portrait.
    Clutching it to her chest, she pushed back through the mountain of antique furnishings she’d piled behind her in her quest to find his likeness. Outside the storage room, she reexamined the other canvases she’d set aside, beautiful portraits and landscapes that would add interest to the keep’s great hall. After a bath, she’d research their dates against the forty-odd journals she’d found in the library. It would be fun discovering who the individuals were. Hopefully, she could learn enough in the next six months to dazzle her guests with stories seeped in love, gallantry, and mayhem.
    Sighing, she held her specter’s portrait at arm’s length to study the deep blue eyes and heavy beard. “Is your chin square, dear ghost, under all the black fuzz?” She hoped so.
    Because he always appeared dressed in a swatch of tartan, a sleeveless furred tunic and a wide leather belt whenever she spied him