Wanted: One Ghost Read online

  He had no idea who she was speaking of, and realized a bit too late, maybe he should. “Oh, yes Kenneth Miles…really?” he said, feigning interest.

  “He recently discovered he’s a distant relative of James Addison and has a fascination for the man, too. He’s looking into proving James Addison owned the land and gristmill in which Kings Mill is named for.”

  James frowned. “What’s to prove? Everyone knows he was the proprietor.”

  “That’s one belief. There are those who say Henry Samuel owned it. But no one has been able to find documentation to prove it one way or the other.” Dr. Branford shrugged. “Mr. Miles hired me to unearth historical documentation proving Addison owned it.”

  Of course he owned the mill and the land! He bought the land for 500 British pounds and signed the deed with Henry Samuel, the louse. How the fop had managed to become the land commissioner for the western Maryland colony he had no idea. Even Lord Calvert thought the man was a bit of a horse’s arse.

  But this was a turn of events for him. Here was someone with an actual curiosity about his past. Would she be able to help him find out the truth about his death? James’s hopes lifted, and then dropped as quickly. Good luck. The mystery of his death was still unsolved. Someone would have surely pieced it together by now if there were any clues to be found.

  Dr. April Branford eyed him with a shy grin, biting her lower lip, an innocent yet provocative gesture. How long had she been staring at him? He wasn’t sure, lost as he’d been in his thoughts. But he was intrigued. Nice to know he could still hold the interest of the fairer sex.

  Hell’s bells. Unused to having an actual person he could talk to, he’d drifted off. If he wanted answers, he would need to remain focused on her.

  “Is something the matter?” he asked.

  “We seem to have a common interest in James Addison and Kings Mill’s history. I was wondering if you could show me around. Give me a private tour? You have a much better flair for telling a tale than your co-worker. Perhaps give me your opinions on James Addison, who you think he really was, over a cup of coffee?”

  She was a bold minx, asking a man to accompany her, and without a chaperone!

  Was the girl being coy with him? Her lashes lowered and she turned her face away momentarily. When she looked back she was grinning shyly, her teeth planted in her luscious bottom lip again.

  By George! She was flirting with him! He could almost feel his non-existent heart beating in his hollow chest. He wouldn’t be able to touch her but the company of the comely lass, after all this time, was definitely something he didn’t want to pass up.

  “I would be delighted, Dr. Branford.” He doffed his hat and bowed low over his extended leg in true gentlemanly fashion. This could be the start to something wonderful!

  Or perhaps you’ll end up scaring the bloody hell out of the poor girl.

  Chapter Two

  April couldn’t believe her good fortune as she walked beside her tour guide. He provided a highly detailed account of the small Maryland town of Kings Mill, formerly known as Kings Land, before the arrival of James Addison and his productive gristmill. The mill had produced a great deal of grain and flour for the colonies and England.

  He talked briefly of various punitive acts by King George III and, looking properly offended, discussed the radical Sons of Liberty who seemed to pop up everywhere in the colonies. With his yummy British accent, he played the part of a pre-Revolutionary War colonist to the hilt. Honestly, the man was wasted as a tour guide. He should be treading the boards as a Thespian.

  The fact he was easy on the eyes didn’t hurt either. His angular jaw with a light touch of shadowed scruff gave him a ruggedly handsome appeal. His black hair was tied back in a colonial style queue. A feminine urge to untie it and run her fingers through its length hit her with amazing force.

  While she fought to focus on his words and not the man himself, she soaked up the atmosphere surrounding them, inhaling the essence of the bygone era in the small reminders around her. Replicas of old gaslights illuminating the brick paved sidewalks, Georgian-style townhomes with carriage lights hanging at their door, and single artificial candles placed in multi-paned windows hinted at the cozy warmth of what America had been in its youth. Still, something toyed with her ability to sense the historical aura of the colonial town. What could it be?

  Her guide stopped in front of the house where she was staying. The brick colonial home, established in 1760, sat majestically on the street facing the backside of the courthouse. A plaque by the front door named the manor a Maryland Historical Site.

  Renovated many times over the years, the house still maintained the original décor. April loved the red brick exterior walls with the haze of white wash owners had applied over time. The black shutters, contrasting against the colonial paned windows, highlighted the glow of the candlelight. Even though it was nearly November, wooden rocking chairs and a small wicker table still resided on the front porch, hinting at summertime when folks sat on their porches and observed their neighbors parading by.

  “This house belonged to Henry Samuel, the first land commissioner to Kings Land,” her guide indicated with a condescending snort.

  “I know. This is my aunt’s house. Actually, she’s my great-aunt…on my mother’s side. I’m staying here while I’m working on my research,” she rambled.

  His brows arched and he tilted his head, looking her over, making her feel the intensity of his eyes from under the shadowed light of his tricorne. He appeared a bit perturbed.

  “Interesting. Are you a distant relation to Henry Samuel?”

  “No relation. After my uncle passed away six years ago, my aunt bought the house. She wanted to get away to the country after living in Baltimore most of her life.

  “I see.” He stared attentively at her, studying her again with those deep, dark eyes.

  Heat scorched along her neck and up to her cheeks under his intent scrutiny. She was a historian for God’s sake, not some tourist with a crush on a historical re-enactor. Perhaps her hormones were finally kicking in. God knows they hadn’t while she’d been focused on her studies!

  Whatever her sudden condition, every time she looked into this man’s eyes she lost her place in the conversation and began to perspire. She shivered, averting her glance from his intensity, and turned her attention on anything but her handsome guide.

  Perhaps it was her natural gift of psychometry kicking in. It had a tendency to appear when she was in places of historical importance. Her volunteer dig at Jamestown two summers ago nearly hospitalized her with the intensity. She suffered fevers, hallucinations, even allergy like symptoms, probably because of all the dirt and dust surrounding the artifacts and digging sites.

  She’d always known she was different, but it wasn’t until her professor, Dr. Moreland had noticed her gift that she learned to harness her ability and use it in her historical research. He had the ability, too. But it wasn’t as prominent as hers. At times, she had no control. Touching objects alone brought forth empathic images and emotions of previous owners, making her feel like she was a part of them.

  Her Aunt Vickie said it was a strong part of her natural aura. It would hit her and she would find herself sensing pieces of time from the past, represented in the object of a certain time period. Going into museums was a nightmare. Any artifacts not under glass would set off her senses to their history, and she’d lose herself in another time. Her ability made for great details on historical papers and theses but gave her such a pinch physically.

  Kings Mill dated back to 1740, a time prior to the American Revolution. Many of these houses and streets, the very air of the town, maintained the atoms and molecules making up its history. The lingering energy of the past surrounded her, attaching to her skin, so she’d soaked the essence of every sensory object she experienced. Scents, sights, but mostly touch affected her power. Possessing the gift of psychometry made her impulsive sometimes. Like now, she wanted to reach out and touch t
he man’s costume because of its authenticity.

  Oh hell, April, who are you kidding? You want to touch the man. She shoved her hands deeper into her coat pockets to keep her itchy fingers at bay.

  Her guide had stopped talking and was staring at her. Chagrined, she realized once again, she had no clue what he’d said. She shook herself, releasing the empathic connection with him.

  “Are you well? My apologies for rambling on. I don’t often have the opportunity to converse, or have a captive audience. You must think me a bore. You came for a ghost tour and here I am giving you a lecture.”

  “Oh, please.” She batted her hand in the air. “I’m a historian, remember? Lectures and tours of historical pasts is what I live and breathe.” April laughed self-consciously.

  He was the first guy in quite a while to impress her with knowledge, not just his looks. “I find it refreshing to hear someone as excited about history as I am. My ex-boyfriend, Jason, was the only one who understood my love of history. One of the things we shared an interest in was a love for the past. We were both history geeks.” She stiffened with embarrassment after relaying such information to a complete stranger.

  He doesn’t care about your love life or lack thereof, she berated herself.

  But he belied her observation when her colonial guide grinned at her with amused fascination. “Really…history geeks?”

  Noticing the familiar sign down the street on the main corner of town, she tilted her head in the direction of the café. Hopefully she could make up for her blundering, social-idiot appearance.

  “The coffee shop is still open. Would you care for the cup I promised earlier? We can continue our conversation inside, with a latte or cappuccino.”

  An awkward moment of silence followed. The bells in the Episcopal Church toned quarter to the hour. Her guide went completely still and stared at her with those intense eyes. His lips quirked in an odd half smile again, setting her heart to race. He looked towards the church further down the street.

  “I appreciate the offer, but I will have to decline. I cannot stay much longer.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to take up your time. I’m sure you have to report back to the store before heading home.”

  She held out her gloved hand again. He didn’t respond and only looked down on her hand with a sense of sadness. What was wrong with this guy? Why didn’t he want to touch her? She didn’t have the mange.

  Tucking both hands back into her coat pockets, April blushed.

  “You didn’t take up my time, Dr. Branford. I’m delighted to talk with you but I must take my leave. Perhaps we’ll meet another time.” He touched the brim of his hat in salute and turned, walking away from her.

  April wanted to capture his entire look—for historical purposes, of course. “Wait! Can I take a picture of you? I love your authenticity. Not many people can pull it off so well.”

  He turned around as he crossed to the other side of the street. “A…picture?”

  “Yes.” She looked around trying to find the perfect setting for him. She caught his shrug of indifference. “Stand over by the lamp post. Do you mind?” She crossed the cobbled road to get a better angle as her subject stood in front of the light she’d pointed to. She quickly shot the picture and looked up at him.

  He touched the side of his hat again in salute and sauntered away, his manor coat billowing behind him like a great raven’s wing. Damn, but he was a fine looking man!

  It’s the costume. He’s an ordinary guy, April. You’ve always been attracted to history—he reeks of history, right down to his colonial style, buckled shoes.

  Shaking her head she turned off the power to her camera. Dropping it into her hobo bag, she sighed heavily. Darn, she hadn’t even gotten his name!

  ***

  “So, did you have a good time?” Victoria Snyder asked when April walked in from the grand foyer.

  “Hello, Aunt Vickie. I didn’t expect to see you awake.” April hung her purse, coat, hat, and scarf on the coat tree and joined her aunt in the parlor.

  “Just doing a Sudoku puzzle and having a cup of tea before Leno.” The woman placed her puzzle book on the small Victorian side table next to her chair. “So, tell me everything!”

  A warm fire blazed in the antique hearth, and small bowls of pumpkin spiced potpourri filled the air with delicious fragrance, lending an air of coziness to the parlor. She loved visiting her aunt. Vickie had a way of adding just the right touch to any atmosphere. Unfortunately, April hadn’t been able to visit her since she’d moved to Kings Mill because of her studies and life in Williamsburg. She had missed the long talks with the woman.

  But now she was a bit apprehensive. She could almost sense what Aunt Vickie wanted to converse about—and it wasn’t as simple as a ‘ghost tour.’

  April shrugged. “It was a ghost tour.” She would keep the conversation light and simple.

  Vickie nodded her head toward the kitchen. “There’s still some hot water for tea on the stove. Get yourself a cup. I want to hear all about it.”

  April made herself a cup of tea and reluctantly returned to the front room. No use postponing the inevitable. If she didn’t tell her aunt about the ghost tour tonight, she’d have to do so in the morning.

  Her relative leaned forward in her chair, anxious as a school girl to hear juicy details of a friend’s date. “So, did you see anything?”

  Bingo! There it was. The family lecture of ghosts and metaphysics. Her aunt had insisted on the tour, going so far as to purchase the ticket when April called to ask if she could stay with her during her research project. Aunt Vickie thought a ghost tour would be a good place to start, for more than practical reasons, April was sure.

  “No. I didn’t see anything.” April sighed, knowing it would be useless to stave off the unavoidable interrogation. She leaned against the open archway, letting her aunt know she wasn’t settling in for a long talk. “I wish you and Grams would give up. Maybe I’m not meant to have the gift of paranormal sight the rest of the Wilton women possess. Wouldn’t I have already experienced it by now if I did? Perhaps I’m more like the Branford side and received the more ‘logical’ bones.”

  Each woman on her mother’s side of the family was blessed, or cursed, with the ability to intermingle with the paranormal. Aunt Vickie could sense people’s auras, living or dead, and foretold futures based on the workings of fate. Her ability to pick up on psychic energy was pretty amazing, though she only used her gifts when she thought it was necessary, which to April was quite often. Her grandmother, Dorothea, could sense ghosts in various realms, and often see them, depending on the realm they were in.

  Over the years Grandma Dottie and Aunt Vickie had studied metaphysics. They were well known among their circle of friends who believed in spirits and hauntings. Ghost hunters and parapsychologists called upon their talents to help rid families of ghosts from their homes or give lectures at workshops.

  April didn’t doubt any of their gifts. Parapsychology was a strong art within her family, and with her natural penchant for psychometry, she supposed anything could be possible. She just hadn’t encountered it herself.

  “You are a Wilton woman! God is waiting for the right time. You’ll know when it happens. Or is this more about how Jason called you a fraud in front of the crew you were volunteering with at the Jamestown expedition?”

  April groaned, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Oh please, I don’t want to discuss this. Jason and I are history—”

  “—and good riddance I say.” She shook her bony finger at April. “I told you when you introduced him to me that your auras and bio-rhythms were not compatible.” Victoria Snyder puffed up her chest proudly. “You need to move away from his negative energies and accept your gift, learn from it, and see where it wants to take you. Our gifts and fate guide us to where we need to be. We Wilton women value the gifts we have, you should too.”

  “Except my mother,” April whispered, looking down at her hands. Her mothe
r’s gift had caused her parents’ divorce when she was a young teenager. She didn’t like to bring it up but this was one of those times. Maybe her mom was right to be afraid of her gift.

  Aunt Vickie let out her breath wearily. “Yes well, your mother hasn’t found how to work with her gift for clairaudience. She can’t control the voices of the ghosts who come to her for help and they frighten her. And what’s worse, she refuses to even try. That’s why she has those damn headaches.”

  “Can we stop talking about this?” April asked.

  “Fine.” Her aunt sat back, apparently giving up badgering her for now. “Tell me all about the tour. I felt a strong presence when I went, especially around the old hanging tree. I believe there is some unresolved, live energy residing there. But truthfully, I think the tour is mostly historical legend and entertainment.”

  “Ghost tours are just forms of entertainment for tourists and ghost aficionados,” April agreed. Her thoughts focused on her tour guide and their brief walk, and her lips molded into a smile over the rim of her tea cup. “But I did happen to meet a nice re-enactor. He seemed to know quite a bit about Kings Mill’s history and James Addison.”

  “You met a nice man? Did you ask him out to dinner?”

  Aunt Vickie was her champion when it came to her love life. Yes, she agreed she should have listened to Aunt Vickie about Jason’s lack of a true aura. It would have saved her a lot of heartache.

  “Of course I didn’t ask him out to dinner!” She sipped her tea and gave her aunt a cheeky grin. “I did ask him to join me for a cup of coffee, but he refused.” She shrugged as if it didn’t matter.

  April put down her cup and saucer on the small Victorian tea table beside her and went for her purse. “He let me take a picture of him though. I have it here somewhere.” She grinned, thinking about her personal tour guide and what her aunt would think of him when she saw him. They both shared a preference for tall, dark haired men.