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skill?
    Cam leaned over the desk and stared into her misty eyes. “Who’s to say if the ghost exists or not?”
    “I am.” She eased farther into her chair. “There’s no such thing as a ghost.”
    He sighed, a disappointed sound. “Ye are a Sassenach, and it’s well known they have no imagination.”
    A wry curve flicked her mouth at the common slur.
    And that one tiny movement made his heart pump like a madman in his chest. He’d spent his life tracking the wild movements of tribes and terrorists and traitors. He’d reveled in the massive movements of rebellion and war. Only the most outrageous and outlandish made his heart beat with excitement and life.
    Just one tiny movement from a mouse…
    He yanked himself back and paced away.
    “I still say it’s not your ghost,” she tossed the words at him as he made his escape. “It’s a human being.”
    Yes, yes it was.
    His son.

    * * *
    J en frowned down at her gloved hands and sighed.
    The sigh, unlikely as it seemed, being as she sat in the middle of a garden, was not happy.
    Two weeks.
    Two bloody weeks of sneaking around the giant mansion lying behind her, searching a hundred bookcases and armoires, opening a thousand drawers, peering into a million cubbyholes.
    Finding nothing.
    She stabbed the moist earth with the old trowel she’d picked up in the shed. Though really, she couldn’t say she’d found nothing. She’d found a ton of odd, eccentric things.
    In one portion of a cabinet, she’d found an extensive hoard of marbles. In an armoire, she’d found dozens of round glass jars filled with dried leaves and grasses. Yesterday morning, she’d stumbled onto a vast collection of shells all placed methodically in boxes by size and shape.
    She couldn’t imagine her employer as a man who’d save shells.
    Mrs. Rivers?
    Jen snorted.
    Mrs. Rivers, the nonexistent housekeeper. The only clue she still existed was the fridge filled with new food every other day. Even if Mrs. Rivers did do more than stock food, she surely wouldn’t be saving twigs and grass and shells.
    So who?
    The memory of the crying ran through her mind. The crying hadn’t sounded female; she’d crossed off Mrs. Rivers as a likely suspect. The crying didn’t resemble her employer’s voice at all. Adding in the way he’d responded a week ago when she’d questioned him, the sound didn’t come from him.
    He’d puckered his mouth and then put on a show. Quite a lively storytelling show, yet not one she believed. Add in the fact that since that moment the crying had stopped, and it pointed to someone besides Cameron Steward.
    Perhaps he’d found his silly, make-believe ghost and yelled at it to shoosh, in that rich, redolent accent of his.
    With a rough sound of disgusted disbelief, Jen pushed herself straight and inspected the one accomplishment she’d achieved in the last few days. It was still early in April, and Scotland’s winter lingered in the mist of the loch and the coldness of the mornings, yet the flower beds lying before her were coming to life.
    Someone had loved this garden at one point in time.
    But that time had been many seasons ago.
    She’d first noticed the little white heads of the snowdrops trying to push themselves into the sun past the dreck and weeds. Then a few days later, on her daily walk, she’d seen the tulips and daffodils struggling for life. By the time the lilies and crocuses were begging for attention, she’d lost the fight to stay aloof.
    This garden needed her.
    Not as much as her grandfather did, however.
    At the guilty thought, she snuck her hand in the wool coat she always borrowed and pulled out her mobile phone. The damning voicemail sat, crouching on her screen.
    Cousin Edward. At his most commanding.
    Where was she ? Had she found the ring yet ? When was she coming home ?
    Sighing, she stuck the phone back in her pocket. Her grandfather had been released from the hospital, her cousin had boomed down the line, but time was still of the