The Scotsman’s Ghost Launch Party

If you live in the States, this is a… kind of crazy week. You know what I’m talking about. But let’s not worry about that here, right? Because the one thing we can ALL agree on is that Darcy is delicious when he’s out of his element. And does it get more out of his element than seeing things that nobody else can see?

Are you ready to see what sort of Yuletide Mischief poor Darcy gets dragged into? The Scotsman’s Ghost goes live today! Here’s a sneak preview, and stick around for the giveaway!

The Scotsman’s Ghost
Excerpt from Chapter Five

I woke early, despite a night of restless tossing, thanks to a nagging worry in the pit of my stomach. Jane had not returned. The rain had come down hard the night before, and though we had received word that she was staying at Netherfield, I couldn’t help but imagine her shivering in a strange room, her cold getting worse by the hour.

Throwing back the covers, I quickly dressed and hurried downstairs, hoping for some news. The early morning light filtered weakly through the windows as I reached the breakfast room, only to find my mother already seated with Lydia and Kitty, conspiring about something.

“She’s certainly staying another day,” Mama declared as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, her hands fluttering over her tea cup. “You mark my words, Lizzy, this is all for the best. What could be more advantageous than Jane falling ill at Netherfield? Mr. Bingley won’t be able to help himself—he’ll be bound to offer every comfort and kindness!”

I stared at her, incredulous. “She’s ill, Mama. And no doubt uncomfortable in a strange house. How can you be so certain this is for the best?”

Mama tutted, waving her hand as if I were fretting over nothing. “Oh, nonsense, Lizzy. Jane is perfectly well—just a touch of a cold. And she’s with Mr. Bingley! Do you know how many girls would give anything to be in her position?”

“Yes,” I muttered, grabbing a piece of bread from the table. “But those girls aren’t shivering in some drafty guest room with a cold.”

Lydia, far less concerned than I was, giggled. “Perhaps Mr. Bingley is already by her bedside, offering to sponge her forehead.”

My patience thinned. “Enough, Lydia. This is no laughing matter.”

“Honestly, Lizzy,” Mama interjected, setting her cup down with a clatter, “you worry too much. A girl must make the most of every opportunity, and Jane is doing just that—whether by chance or design. Mr. Bingley is as good as smitten!”

I pressed my lips together, debating how much I should argue. There was no point in reasoning with my mother when she had already decided that Jane’s cold was somehow a victory for the Bennet family.

“Has anyone heard from her this morning?” I asked, hoping to divert the conversation back to something useful.

“Not yet,” Mama replied, sounding far too pleased with herself. “But I’m sure news will arrive soon. They’re likely all fussing over Jane as we speak!”

I sighed, pushing back from the table. “If there’s no word by mid-morning, I’ll walk to Netherfield myself to check on her.”

Mama’s eyes widened in alarm. “Walk? You’ll do no such thing! What will people think—especially Mr. Bingley—if you appear at Netherfield all flushed and untidy?”

I raised my eyebrows. “What will people think if Jane is left there sick and I do nothing? I’ll be perfectly well, Mama.”

“You most certainly will not,” she declared, her voice rising with a mixture of frustration and disbelief. “It’s far too improper. And in this weather? You’ll be soaked to the bone before you even arrive, and then I shall have two sick daughters!”

“But Mama, are there not two single gentlemen there?” Kitty pointed out.

“If the other even counts as a gentleman, and I shan’t give him that much credit. Mr. Darcy is not worth suffering a cold for. No, Lizzy, I absolutely forbid it. You will die and have nothing to show for it.”

“I’ve walked farther in worse weather,” I retorted, already moving toward the door. “Besides, Jane may need me.”

Mama made one last attempt to protest, but I was already reaching for my bonnet. I couldn’t sit idly by and leave Jane to the care of the Bingley sisters—who, while polite, had never struck me as the nurturing type. Jane would at least have the comfort of her family in her misery.

I woke with a pounding in my skull, my mouth as dry as sand, and the distinct sensation that something was terribly wrong.

For one, I was lying face-down at the foot of the bed, wearing breeches and a rumpled shirt for some reason, my head resting uncomfortably on top of the covers like some discarded piece of baggage. My limbs felt stiff, and my stomach churned with the unmistakable queasiness of too much brandy.

I groaned, dragging myself upright, and immediately rubbed my head. The ache in my temples flared painfully, and I pressed my hands harder against my scalp as though I could knead the headache out of existence. What on earth had happened last night?

Flashes of strange images crossed my mind—dark shadows, a wild-eyed man, and… what had he been saying? Something about lousy whisky? Nonsense. Complete and utter nonsense.

I let out a ragged sigh. It had to have been the brandy. Far too much of it. I had not thought I drank that much—just a nightcap with Bingley—but there was an empty bottle on the floor.

That must have been what happened. I’d imagined it all. Had too much to drink and imagined it all. No wonder I felt like I’d been trampled by a horse.

“This is absurd,” I muttered, my voice rough from sleep. “Just a wild dream.”

I swung my legs off the bed, stumbling slightly as I stood. My body protested every movement, aching from being twisted in an awkward position for what must have been hours. Too much drink. Too little sense. I should have known better than to let Bingley talk me into staying up for that nightcap.

Still grumbling to myself, I staggered over to the basin. A good, stiff splash of cold water on my face would surely clear the last remnants of this ridiculous dream. I leaned over, doused my face, and wiped my eyes with a towel.

But when I glanced up at the mirror, my heart nearly stopped.

There, reflected behind me, was the wild-eyed man again—Ewan, if I remembered that part of the dream correctly—looking over my shoulder with an almost curious expression.

I froze, every muscle locking up in terror. For a split second, I told myself this couldn’t be real. But when he raised an eyebrow, I screamed.

Not the dignified, stern kind of shout one might expect from a man like me—oh no. This was a full-throated, soul-leaving-my-body sort of scream, the kind usually reserved for surprise proposals and armed highwaymen. I bolted for the door, my feet sliding on the floorboards, limbs flailing. All thoughts of composure, breeding, and every shred of decency went flying out the window.

“Ach, lad! There’s nae need to keen like a banshee!” his voice trailed after me, but I was too busy fleeing for my life to care.

Out into the hall I ran, my untucked shirt billowing around me, bare feet slapping against the floor in a manner I was sure would haunt me later. I didn’t care. I just had to get out.

I reached the landing and there he was, standing at the bottom of the stairs like he’d been there all along, arms folded, face full of complete boredom.

“Yer no’ gonna outrun me, ye know,” he called up, looking for all the world like he was lecturing a child about stealing jam.

I let out a sound somewhere between a yelp and a very manly grunt—no one would ever call it a squeak, certainly not—and spun around, charging back the way I came. The panic bubbling inside me surged like some wild animal, and reason had completely fled the scene, much like I was trying to.

“Ye’ll wear yersel’ oot, lad!” Ewan called, his voice infuriatingly casual, as if this were all a bit of morning exercise.

I pelted down the corridor, headlong into the next staircase. This was absurd. This couldn’t be happening! Ghosts weren’t real, and even if they were, they had the good sense to remain in tragic ballads, not in my bedroom.

But then, halfway down the stairs, I skidded to a halt. Ewan was standing at the bottom again, looking far too pleased with himself. This man—this ghost—was popping up like an unwanted relative at a dinner party.

“Ach, come, Darcy, this is gettin’ a wee bit daft.” He gave a long-suffering sigh, as though he were speaking to a child having a tantrum over vegetables. “Ye’d think ye’d ne’er laid eyes on a spirit afore.”

I let out another undignified yelp and darted down the hall, heart hammering in my ears—or was that my pride, beating itself to death after this series of humiliations?

This was insanity. Complete, unadulterated madness. But still, I had no desire to be seen by anyone else in this ridiculous state. The servants were stirring already, and the very idea of Mrs. Nicholls spotting me, barefoot and wild-eyed, tearing down the hall like a madman, made me consider launching myself out of a window.

I didn’t have the courage for that, though, so I did the next best thing.

I spotted the service staircase, hidden away near the far end of the hall. I lunged for it like a man lunging for the last lifeboat on a sinking ship. Flinging open the door, I threw myself down the narrow, creaking steps two at a time. There wasn’t much space to maneuver, but it wasn’t like I was doing much thinking anyway.

“Ach, runnin’ off now, are ye? Ye’ll nae get far, lad. I’m stuck with ye, like it or no’!”

I wasn’t listening. I couldn’t be. If I slowed down for even a moment, I’d have to face the fact that my life had taken a sharp, deeply unwelcome detour into the world of ghosts and curses. Either that, or it was the worst hangover I’d had since university.

Down the stairs I went, hurtling myself toward the back of the house. Each step groaned beneath my weight, and I could practically hear the house mocking me for my complete and utter lack of dignity. But I kept going. I had no other choice.

The moment I hit the stone floor, I slammed open the door to the servant’s entrance and practically fell out into the cold morning air, my feet skidding on the wet ground. I clung to the side of the house, gasping, hair sticking to my face in an undignified and, frankly, sweaty mess.

The chill of the dawn hit me, sharp and biting, and I stood there, panting like a hare that had just escaped the hounds. I had never been so grateful for fresh air in my life, but I also had never been more utterly, completely, certifiably done with everything.

“I’m going mad,” I muttered to myself. “That’s it. I’ve lost my mind.”

But I didn’t dare look behind me. If that horrid Scotsman appeared again, I’d likely faint outright, and that was a humiliation I wasn’t ready to face just yet.

Would you like a spoiler for what happens next? Well, this just happens to be the morning that Elizabeth Bennet shows up unexpectedly at Netherfield to check on her sister, Jane. How do you think THAT is going to go?

Poor Darcy doesn’t know which way is up, and it’s going to take a Christmas Eve miracle to put things right. But he’ll need a little help to make that happen… help from a certain fine-eyed lass who thinks he’s lost his mind.

The Scotsman’s Ghost hits your devices today! Dive in for a wild escape from reality that’s sure to warm you up for the Christmas season!

I’m giving away two copies to random winners! I’ll announce the winners on Friday. <3