Haunted by the Earl's Touch by Ann Lethbridge

Author:Ann Lethbridge
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: Harlequin
Published: 2012-01-23T05:00:00+00:00

Lo I the man, whose Muse whilome did maske,

As time her taught, in lowly Shepheards weeds,

Am now enforst a far unfitter taske,

For trumpets sterne to change mine Oaten reeds,

And sing of Knights and Ladies gentle deeds;

Whose prayses having slept in silence long,

Me, all to meane, the sacred Muse areeds

To blazon broad emongst her learned throng:

Fierce warres and faithfull loves shall moralise my song.

Hesitant at first, she struggled with the rhythm and the ancient spelling. But her difficulties were not entirely the fault of the text. She could not help but be aware of the earl’s overwhelming presence. The very essence of him pulled at her mind. The intensity of his regard on her face made her tremble inside.

After a time, she lost herself in the lyrical words and the world of warriors. Stanza after stanza rolled off her tongue. Her heartbeat provided the rhythm and her indrawn breath the pauses.

Slowly, she became aware of the low male voice joining hers, at first a murmur and then increasing in volume, until they read together, but he was not reading, he spoke from memory.

She let her voice subside to a whisper, and then die away altogether, watching his face, his gaze fixed on a time and space not of this room. There was sorrow and bleakness in his expression, as if the words did not recall happy memories.

And there was a shade of anger, too, mirroring that of the Knight whose words he spoke.

When he reached the end of the first Canto, he seemed to come to himself and realised she had ceased reading. A faint colour stained his cheekbones.

‘You read very well,’ he said.

‘And you know it by rote.’ She let her question go unspoken, but it hung in the small distance between them.

‘I heard it read so often I think it is engraved on my brain.’

He reached for the book and tucked it back in a small pocket in the breast of his coat.

She felt a pang in her chest with respect to this Laura, whose book he carried close to his heart. Not jealousy, surely?

‘It was my mother’s.’ His usual rough-edged voice was more raspy than usual, as if it cost him something to speak of it. ‘It was the only thing she brought from this house, apart from me.’

She could not quite believe her feeling of relief that it was not something he had given a lover. ‘And the giver?’ she dared to ask.

‘Her husband.’

She noticed that he did not call him his father.

‘She read this book over and over,’ he continued. ‘Long after we heard he had died.’ He looked away, clearly not wanting to share his emotions. ‘It reminds me of her. Thank you for indulging me.’

There was no sentimentality in his voice and she had the sense the reminder was uncomfortable. She wanted to say more, even to offer comfort, but she had the sense he had said far more than he wished.

‘Thank you. I have not read that work in an age.’

‘It was not part of the school’s curriculum?’ he said, his voice sounding normal again.

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