Gallant Rogue (Reluctant Heroes Book 3) by Lily Silver Page A

one might imagine in a good old fashioned gothic novel some women fancied. He liked to admire Amelia's portrait sometimes and forget everything but the enchantment of being in love. He’d been a young man when he proposed to Amelia. Barely twenty-two and full of noble ideas.
    He cleared his throat. Jack unwrapped the miniature from its protective sheath.  The gilded frame seemed to sparkle in the candlelight. He caressed the painted wood, the pads of his fingers remembering its contours like an old woman feeling her rosary beads.
    Amelia . She was youth and innocence personified. He admired the soft, oval face of alabaster, the sapphire eyes that seemed to glow with delight, and that sweetness of her smile. Her head was tilted slightly. Wave upon wave of golden hair framed that delicate complexion. He stared longingly at the image of his Amelia at seventeen, the year she sailed east and was lost to him forever.
    An abrupt crash and the sound of tinkling glass made him turn about in his chair to see what would cause such a disturbance in the empty room.
    The whiskey glass on the table behind him was now on the floor, so many shards and splinters glittering in the low glow of the wall lantern. He looked about the cabin for the culprit. The windows were closed. No errant breeze was at fault. And as for animals, he knew the cat Red Jami kept as a pet was below decks at this time of night, hunting rats in the hold.
    A cool wind moved past him, ruffling the hair on his nape and making his heart seize with an old fear he’d rather not revisit.
    “Jack.”   The breeze whispered his name in a faint, feminine tone.
    Amelia never manifested before him. Not once. He often felt her presence but was uncertain if it was his imagination or too much strong drink. She did appear once to another woman, a frightened young woman much like herself----the count’s young bride. Amelia gave Lady Elizabeth a message to relay to him from beyond the grave. The message was simple: embrace life. He tried, but for some reason life kept eluding his embrace.
    The miniature beneath his fingertips was snatched up by invisible hands. Jack watched, paralyzed by shock as the portrait was flung viciously across the room.
    “No!” he shouted as he shot out of his chair and scrambled to where the portrait had been flung and now resided on the floor with Angelic Amelia smiling up at him. He crouched down, determined to retrieve it before it suffered further abuse.
    His fingers barely touched the cherished portrait before it lifted up and away from his reach. The picture hovered in front of him and then was slammed against the wall repeatedly, as if the intention of the invisible abuser were to destroy it altogether.
    “Stop!” he commanded as he rose to retrieve it. “Enough, I say. Leave me that small trinket to remember you by.”
    The portrait hung in mid-air, as if the spirit of his betrothed were considering his words. It danced a little, moving slightly, and then was banged against the interior wall again with deliberate malice. The interior wall abutted Donovan’s cabin. He feared the banging might disturb Chloe at this late hour.
    “Oh, you cheeky lass! Stop I say. Gazing at your image does me no harm. It soothes me.”
    He was drunk; he knew it. He had to be. Why else was he speaking to the air?
    The door to the hall opened and Red came in, looking frumpy as any lad would if he’d forgotten his chore and been roused from his bed to do his duty in the night.
    “Sir?” The lad gave him a queer look, his freckled mug rumpled with confusion. “Do ye need a hand in findin’ yer bed again?”
    The implication stung, as the little blighter was implying his captain was too drunk to find his way to his own berth and pass out. Well, it wouldn’t be the first time it happened, but tonight, such was not the case.
    “Silence, you cheeky little brat.” Jack was quick to command the child. “Don’t speak disrespectfully to your captain or you’ll