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  Six Romance Novellas

  Sarah M. Eden

  Heather B. Moore

  Annette Lyon

  Lisa Mangum

  Jordan McCollum

  Elana Johnson

  Copyright © 2015 by Mirror Press, LLC

  E-book edition

  All rights reserved

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form whatsoever without prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief passages embodied in critical reviews and articles. This is a work of fiction. The characters, names, incidents, places, and dialogue are products of the authors’ imaginations and are not to be construed as real.

  Interior Design by Heather Justesen

  Edited by Cassidy Wadsworth, Julie Ogborn, Jennie Stevens, and Lisa Shepherd

  Cover design by Mirror Press, LLC

  ShutterStock Image #143705743

  Published by Mirror Press, LLC

  http://timelessromanceanthologies.blogspot.com

  eISBN-10: 1941145566

  eISBN-13: 978-1-941145-56-2

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  THREE HISTORICAL ROMANCE NOVELLAS:

  Of Ghosts and Gardens, by Sarah M. Eden

  Other works by Sarah M. Eden

  About Sarah M. Eden

  It’s You, by Annette Lyon

  Other works by Annette Lyon

  About Annette Lyon

  Sophia’s Curse, by Heather B. Moore

  Other works by Heather B. Moore

  About Heather B. Moore

  THREE CONTEMPORARY ROMANCE NOVELLAS:

  The Sirens’ Song, by Lisa Mangum

  Other works by Lisa Mangum

  About Lisa Mangum

  The Man of Her Dreams, by Jordan McCollum

  Other works by Jordan McCollum

  About Jordan McCollum

  The Ghost of Millhouse Mansion, by Elana Johnson

  Other works by Elana Johnson

  About Elana Johnson

  Chapter One

  Brecknockshire, Wales—1805

  To be Welsh was to believe in the wondrous, and Enid Pryce was inarguably Welsh. Her family, like so many others, included a great many Englishmen and Scotsmen and even the occasional Irishmen if one looked hard enough. And her family, like so many others, chose not to look overly hard. After all, they need only point to their garden, haunted by a famous, long-dead Welshman, to prove how very strong a claim they had to their nationality.

  Enid first made the acquaintance of the ghost of Dafydd Gam at four years old when he caught her pilfering flowers from the garden. The one-time opponent of the 15th-century Welsh rebellion had spoken to her next when she was six and gathering a collection of autumn leaves, something which, she discovered, required his permission.

  “You must not take what is not yours.” That was all he ever said to anyone, and only ever in response to someone attempting to make off with a bit of the garden.

  She wasn’t firmly decided on whether or not Dafydd Gam’s place in history ought to be viewed as that of a traitor or a hero, a topic of some debate amongst those for whom the contradictory conduct of a man during the course of two wars fought four hundred years earlier was still incredibly relevant— which, if she was being honest, likely included most of Wales— but she knew one thing about him for certain: he was a very particular gardener.

  Now a grown young lady of nineteen, Enid had been dragged quite against her will to Bath, along with a great many other young ladies whose families hadn’t the means to grant them a proper Season, to mingle with an endless supply of penniless soldiers, younger sons, and widowers looking for someone to raise their horde of unruly children. Hardly a recipe for matrimonial success and happiness.

  After a tiring summer— they’d extended their stay beyond the usual time frame in the hope of catching the trickle out of London— Enid returned home a happy failure and, upon arriving, went directly to the garden, intent upon immersing herself in the scent of late summer roses. She also secretly hoped Dafydd Gam would make an appearance. His presence would be a much-needed bit of evidence that she was home again.

  “Dafydd,” she called out as she walked the familiar paths. “I’ve come to pilfer your garden. You’d best come scold me for it.”

  Not even the wind picked up in response. Dafydd Gam had always been too stubborn for something as simple as answering a summons.

  I’ll have to steal something. She wasn’t sure what was most likely to bring down spectral wrath upon her head. Roses usually worked, but the bower looked so nice, and she’d not seen a decent rosebush in all the months she’d been in Bath. It would be a shame to desecrate these. Autumn had not yet rendered the leaves gold. Plucking leaves outside of autumn really didn’t make a great deal of sense.

  Spring wildflowers would have been a nice option. Had it been spring. And had wildflowers been permitted to grow there. One year an extremely late frost had killed all of the wildflowers in the garden, which everyone of sense had agreed was a message from Dafydd Gam that he found wildflowers objectionable.

  Perhaps if she plucked a few stems of rosemary… No. That wouldn’t work. The ghost didn’t generally object to the picking of herbs, owing, no doubt, to herbs being quite useful and, therefore, the picking of them not being particularly wasteful.

  Another circuit of the frustratingly ghost-free garden produced no grand schemes. She might have picked any number of things, but Dafydd Gam had grown very stubborn. He no longer appeared every time she made off with something. Summoning him often felt like a puzzle she was required to solve. But after months of Society and balls and uncomfortably fashionable gowns, followed by dire predictions of her miserable future as a speedily aging spinster, Enid was too weary for riddles.

  “I don’t know what to steal,” she announced in ringing tones. “I am perfectly willing to make off with any number of things; you simply have to tell me which.”

  The voice that answered, though decidedly male, was not Dafydd Gam’s. “I am not intimately acquainted with the laws governing Brecknockshire, but I am relatively certain thievery is as much a crime here as it is in the rest of the kingdom.”

  Enid turned toward the unfamiliar voice. His tone and timbre, though pleasant, hadn’t prepared her for the picture he presented. He was not the sort to send entire ballrooms full of women swooning en masse, perhaps, but he suited Enid’s tastes quite perfectly. Dark hair to contrast her golden, eyes of a very light blue, tall, and of an active build. His smile hitched up a touch higher on one side than the other, something that sent her heart into a rather absurd rhythm.

  And this handsome stranger thought she was a thief who talked to herself in gardens. It was, technically, the truth, but still a terribly unpromising way to make a gentleman’s acquaintance.

  “One must not take what is not one’s own.” She paraphrased Daffyd Gam’s signature declaration. “But as this is my garden, stealing from it wouldn’t truly be stealing.”

  His brow pulled low in thought. “Why would you be stealing from a garden?”

  “To summon the ghost who lives here.” />
  With that, his eyes opened wide, and his smile blossomed fully. “It appears I am in the right place, then.”

  “You have been searching for a ghost in a garden?”

  “I have been searching for the particular ghost in this particular garden.” He spoke with utter sincerity. “I should very much like to make his acquaintance.”

  “You believe he’s real, then?” She’d mentioned her family specter to a few people she’d met during her Season and was always met with doubt, both about the ghost and about her mental state.

  “I have no reason not to believe it,” the stranger replied.

  “In that case, sir, welcome to Wales.”

  Chapter Two

  Welcome to Wales. Those had become Burke Kennard’s three favorite words over the past half-decade. Wales was not his home, but it had come to feel as though it were.

  The young lady he’d come across in the garden was watching him expectantly. He wasn’t at all sure what the connection was between her intention to pilfer something from her gardens and the ghost who was purported to frequent its paths, but he’d always been of a curious nature and looked forward to learning all he could.

  “I hadn’t wished to disturb your solitude, miss,” he offered by way of apology. “I simply wanted to ascertain if this was the garden I was looking for before foisting my presence upon those in the house.”

  “Come, then.” She motioned him toward the garden’s entrance. “I’ll foist your presence upon them.”

  She moved with an unhurried but confident stride. He’d found the women of Wales generally fit that mold. They possessed all the assurance of Society ladies without the pretentiousness. Burke rather liked the combination.

  “I promise not to make a nuisance of myself,” he said. “I simply wish to ask some questions about your ghost.”

  She smiled at him, her head turned in his direction, her chin very nearly touching her shoulder. It was an adorably coy look, one to which he was not at all immune. “There is nothing this household enjoys discussing more than our ghost. You could talk all the day long and into next week, and no one would be the least put out with you.”

  “It has been my experience that the Welsh always enjoy speaking of their history and legends.” He held the garden gate open as she passed through it.

  She pulled her shawl a touch tighter around herself. “There are two things we never run short on here: tales and rain.” Her eyes darted toward the leaden skies. “I’d wager you’ll be subject to both before long.”

  “I’ve spent a great deal of time in this area of the country. Not even a Welsh downpour frightens me any longer.”

  She paused on the back terrace and eyed him with a touch of skepticism. “Do ghosts frighten you?”

  “Not so far.”

  That brought a contemplative look to her face. That was another difference between the women he encountered here versus those in Society: they didn’t feel the need to hide their thoughts and emotions the way ladies did in London.

  “Have you encountered many ghosts?” She seemed to doubt it.

  “I have visited Wales upwards of eight times a year this past half-decade.”

  That was answer enough for her. She gave a quick, firm nod, then indicated he ought to open the terrace doors. He happily obliged. There was something infectiously energetic about her.

  Only a moment later she led him into a sitting room occupied by a gentleman and lady whom Burke was relatively certain were his guide’s parents. They looked up, he from a book and she from a bit of sewing, and immediately focused their attention on him.

  “What is this, Enid?” the young lady’s father demanded. “Have you picked up a stray again?”

  A stray? Again?

  “No, Father. I found him in the garden.”

  Enid’s mother set aside her sewing. “Dearest, simply because a gentleman happens to be in the garden does not mean you can keep him. You must not take—”

  “—what is not yours.” Apparently that was a familiar turn of phrase in this family, as his guide— Enid— finished it without prompting. “I hadn’t intended to keep him, only introduce him. Father. Mother. This is—” Her brow pulled deep as she turned to look at him once more. “Who are you, anyway?”

  “You’ve brought him in and don’t even know his name?” Enid’s father clicked his tongue in disapproval. “He really is a stray, and I have told you we won’t permit any more—”

  “He wishes to ask about our ghost, Father.”

  All objections ceased on the instant. “Does he, now?” Enid’s father rose and crossed to where Burke stood, his hand held out for shaking. “You’re most welcome, stranger.”

  “Burke Kennard,” he said, shaking the man’s hand.

  “Griffin Pryce.” He nodded toward the women, both now seated nearby. “This is my wife and daughter. Now”— he indicated Burke should sit— “what is your interest in our ghost?”

  This was proving remarkably easy. “I have spent a decade making an academic study of the 15th-century Welsh Revolt— I am considered one of the leading experts in the kingdom— and am compiling all I can learn into a book for future scholars.”

  “And you wish to ask Dafydd Gam for information about the Last War for Independence?” Mr. Pryce said. Many in Wales preferred that title for the uprising of nearly four hundred years earlier.

  Burke thought it best to answer judiciously. “While I would be interested in his thoughts, I am more keen on knowing your experiences with him. How long has he been appearing in your garden? Do you know what brought him to this particular corner of Brecknockshire?”

  “Gam was a Brecknockshire man, you realize,” Mr. Pryce said.

  “Yes, I know he was born in this county, but not in this particular corner of it.”

  The entire family puffed up, with Mrs. Pryce speaking for them all. “This is a lovely corner of the county. Why shouldn’t a famous ghost take up residence here?”

  If Burke wasn’t careful, he might have a new Welsh uprising on his hands. “I was not attempting to demean your very beautiful area of the world, nor to cast doubts on anyone’s desire to spend eternity haunting its environs. I only wished to discover if the particulars of Dafydd Gam’s journey here were known or the reasons why he wandered so far afield from the place of his death to settle so near his home and yet not at his home. It is not doubt that compels me to ask, but curiosity.”

  He was, after all, collecting folklore and legends to include in his study of the Welsh Revolt, and tales of ghosts fell firmly within that sphere.

  “Tradition holds that Dafydd Gam, in his current form, was, indeed, on his way to Penywaun when he was pulled here by the smell of leeks and the sight of daffodils.” Mr. Pryce held his chin at a proud angle. “We grow them here to this day.”

  This tale fit so perfectly the type Burke most wanted to collect. A legendary Welshman, in the county of his birth and ancestry, choosing his haunting grounds based on the presence of leeks, the symbol of St. David, patron saint of Wales, and daffodils, a symbol of Wales itself. “And that is why he remains?”

  “That, and, we believe he likes our family. The Pryces have always been very welcoming and careful to obey the rule he insists upon.”

  Oh, this grew better and better. “He has a rule?” Burke looked from face to face. Their eagerness to share matched his own excitement to learn.

  All three Pryces met one another’s eye before reciting, in unison, “You must not take what is not yours.”

  “How do you know that is your ghost’s rule?” Burke asked.

  Miss Pryce— Enid— smiled broadly, seeming to keep back a laugh by sheer force of will. “Because he told us so.”

  He froze on the spot as his brain spun those five words about. “Do you mean— Am I to understand that you have personally seen your ghost? That you have spoken with him?”

  Mr. Pryce did not seem at all impressed with Burke’s intelligence in that moment. “How else would we know he was real?
”

  How else? Were they truly so convinced that all people saw ghosts at regular intervals that their declaration ought not to have been surprising? “I have spoken at length with a great many of your countrymen who believe utterly and entirely that ghosts roam the corridors of their homes or walk the length of their grounds, but have only the accounts of previous occupants on which to base their belief. You are the first to have claimed a personal acquaintance with one.”

  “Clearly, you’ve not yet visited Radnorshire.” Mr. Pryce hazarded the guess without the slightest hint of doubt.

  “I’ve been there many times. Is there a frequently seen ghost in Radnorshire?” He’d want to look into it if there was.

  “There is, indeed.” Mr. Pryce’s mouth made a perfect, upside-down U. “A frightful ghost, from what I understand, but not nearly so important a figure as our Dafydd Gam.” His brows jutted down in a surprisingly well-executed V. Just how many letters could the man’s face form? “We should build a memorial explaining how significant our ghost is. I believe he would appreciate that.”

  “Only if we etch somewhere on it, ‘You must not take what is not yours,’” Enid said. “I doubt he would accept the offering otherwise.”

  “He is very fond of that rule, then?” This was proving far more intriguing than Burke had anticipated.

  “Very fond,” Enid answered.

  “Why is that, do you think?” Burke posed the question to all of them at once.

  “Perhaps you’d care to ask him yourself.” Enid’s suggestion sounded equal parts sincere and teasing.