Visions and Spells

by Kate Allenton

  “Just talking to myself. Ignore me.” Quinn issued her standard answer for the times when she knew she sounded mad. Maybe she was. Regardless, no one had proof…yet.

  She slipped out of the car, not waiting for Angus to open her door. His feeble legs looked as though they could use the break. She ducked back inside before shutting the door. “Hopefully, I’ll just be a minute.”

  “I’ll wait as long as you need, lass. I’m in no rush to get back to my wife’s long list of chores.”

  “Thanks.” Quinn shut the door and drew in a deep breath. Inhaling the nearby ocean air made her feel a little more like home minus the huge jagged cliffs. Returning the stone had been a brilliant idea back in the States. A means to an end to get rid of Clarence, but explaining how she’d found it might take a little finesse. She hoped she’d remembered to pack hers.

  Quinn rattled the door knocker to announce her presence. Within seconds, the door flew open and a young maid in full uniform gasped rather loudly and rudely, covering her mouth with her hand. Blood drained from her face, leaving her cheeks as white as her apron.

  Maybe Quinn should have checked her hair before getting out of the car. She didn’t normally get that type of reaction. “I’m here to see Laird Menzie.”

  “As I live and breathe, I must be dreaming.” The woman gasped again while pinching Quinn’s arm.

  “Oww, is that your normal greeting?” Quinn pinched her back for good measure. The sting must have triggered some common sense because it brought a little color to the maid’s cheeks. They flushed a bright red as she rubbed her arms.

  “Excuse me, miss. I’m so sorry. I thought you were a ghost.”

  Ghost, yes…because everyone could see them. If only that were the case. Quinn might be out of a job, but she’d have a lot more free time. “Sorry to disappoint you. Is the laird around? I really need to speak with him.”

  A tight smile slipped onto her lips. “He’s just up the ridge, and he’ll be there most of the day.” She pointed toward the hill. “Would you like me to take a message?”

  “No, thank you.” How did one go about leaving a message that she’d found his green rock? Great. Up a ridge. Quinn glanced down at her stilettos. Perfect. “So if I head up that way, I’ll run into him?”

  Getting information from this chick was like trying to dig a splinter out from underneath her skin, a sliver of annoyance but necessary.

  “Aye, yes, miss. Up the ridge and over the bridge. You cannae miss the lot of them.”

  The lot of them. It sounded as if Quinn would have an audience for her explanation. Could her day get any better? She waved and stepped down the stairs. “I’ll go find him myself.”

  “I donae think that’s wise, miss.” Her voice was strained with a mixture of worry and amusement. “He’s likely to have the same reaction.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll pinch him too.” Quinn, refusing to be dissuaded from her quest, wiggled her fingers and left the maid standing at the door.

  Quinn started the climb up the grassy hill. With each step, her perfect white heels sank further into the brown dirt and her calves screamed in protest.

  “I could be on the beach working on my tan,” she grumbled as Clarence appeared at her side. “Nice of you to show. I hope you’re happy and decide to stay.”

  The damn ghost had the nerve to disappear again. Jerk. If she ever figured out a way to blast ghosts into the light, her job would be easier. She gave up trying to climb the mountain on her tippy-toes to avoid completely ruining her shoes. She slipped them off her feet and dangled them between her fingers as she walked barefoot the rest of the way to the top. Ridge her butt. A baby Mt. Everest was more like it. Okay, so maybe cheeseburgers weren’t her friend either.

  She heard shouting that got louder as she neared the stone bridge. She crossed it to find several grown men and women standing in a circle. Their plaid clothes reminded her of a picnic without food. Two kilted men sat tall on horseback, one on a black stallion and the other white, while clanking their swords together, making her ears ring. One of the horses rose on his hind legs, and the rider lifted the shiny silver sword in the air and waved it around, like Quinn had while trying to get a male stripper’s attention by flashing a twenty-dollar bill. His hooves landed with a thud against the ground, and a ghastly smell permeated the air. Did horses fart? Or maybe it had been the rider. Whoever was responsible, the smell reeked of bad eggs. Quinn stood unsure and stunned as she watched. Taking a tentative step toward the crowd, she held her breath from the smell. Using her shoulders and elbows, she slipped into the surrounding crowd for a better view of the barbaric fight.

  “What gives?”

  The burly man standing next to her answered without looking in her direction. “The annual reenactment of the Menzie/McDougall battle over the lost emerald. It’s tradition.”

  “I bet.” Her lips twitched in amusement. “Which one is Menzie?”

  “Menzie is in the green. McDougall is red.”

  Menzie’s arm muscles constricted as he swung his sharp sword, clanging it against his opponent’s. A mischievous smile spread across his lips as his eyes twinkled. He was handsome in a rugged kind of way, and she silently wondered if he was all brawn and no brains. She should be so lucky.

  Quinn stepped into the arena and held up her arms to stop the battle. “Excuse me...”

  The swords continued to clink, and her presence went ignored, so she did what any southern woman would do. She slipped her fingers into her mouth and let out a loud whistle that would have made her mother cringe and her father think he’d raised a tomboy.

  Both men came to an abrupt stop and turned their horses in her direction. Both had that…who-the-hell-do-you-think-you-are glare Quinn seemed to get everywhere she went. She rolled her eyes.

  People in the crowd gasped with the same greeting as the maid. As long as they kept their pinchers to themselves, no one would get hurt.

  Quinn slipped the emerald from around her neck and tossed it toward the man in the green kilt. “Game over. The mighty emerald has been returned. You can each go back to your castles and have a beer or whatever it is you do to celebrate.” She planned to.

  Quinn smiled brightly and spun on her bare feet, ready to walk away. Within seconds, the sound of galloping hooves and the bark of a dog had her spinning around just as a huge ball of white fur leaped from the ground and tackled her. Her body hit the grass with a thump as a pink tongue licked the length of her cheek, covering her in drool and ruining her makeup. Of course, a psychotic dog. She should have known.

  “Harness, heel,” a deep-timbered voice boomed with authority from above.

  The dog gave her one last lick and climbed off. Crazy mutt. Harness sat on his haunches, staring at Quinn through the white hair that covered his face. His tongue lolled out as he panted, as though waiting to lick her like his favorite lollipop flavor while humping her leg. Quinn’s nose twitched while picking the dog hair off her shirt, trying her best to hold in the sneeze that teased for release. A shiver of annoyance traveled down her spine, in a clutching hold, like the flu that had attacked her pilot.

  “Good dog,” she mumbled, getting back to her feet. She swiped at the dirt stains covering her ruined white skirt. These people could keep their motherland. Scotland and Quinn would never get along.

  “Who are you?” Menzie asked, hopping down off his extremely large, white horse. A shame. The wind kept his kilt down. It would have answered an age-old question and brought a whole new meaning to the word bareback. She shivered. Becca would have loved this place, and the knight in shining armor this guy portrayed. Pity that Quinn couldn’t have manipulated her to deliver the damn gem.

  “I’m nobody, and I’m just leaving.” She grabbed her shoes.

  “No, wait.” His voice held more of a demand than a request. She ignored him. There was only one man that she’d consider stopping for when he issued a command, and she called him Dad.

  “There isn’t enough sinus medicine in al
l your land to get me to stay,” she called over her shoulder and lifted the heels in her hand as a wave goodbye. “Peace, love, and God save the Queen.” Was that right? Probably not, but it still brought a genuine smile to her lips.

  Laughter and voices continued behind her. The quicker she got back to the hotel, the closer she’d be to getting home.

  Quinn had just cleared the bridge when the dog appeared by her side. “Go away. Shoo.” She waved her shoes toward him. Her scare tactic bombed, and he rubbed against her leg.

  “I’m not here for you,” Quinn yelled out to the ghostly woman watching from her perch in the tower. Sometimes ghosts could be as nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs, and other times just plain mean. No two were ever the same.

  “Who are you talking to, luv?”

  Quinn refrained from rolling her eyes as Menzie appeared on her right and McDougall on her left.

  “I didn’t mean to interrupt your play time. I just wanted to return your prize.” She quickened her step. For every two of hers, they took one.

  A beefy hand clenched Quinn’s arm. The thick fingers dug into her poor delicate skin and she stopped on the spot, adjusting a shoe in each hand with the sharp, pointy heels to use as makeshift weapons. “Remove your hand, or I’m going to find out if you are actually wearing underwear under your skirt when I kick your balls.”

  “McDougall, release her,” Menzie growled, and McDougall smirked. Wrong move. Men were all the same, no matter what country they were from. They’d test her resolve until she shoved it in their faces.

  “No, I willnae until the wee lass tells me how she came to find the stone.”

  “Suit yourself.” Quinn slammed both of her heels into his arm and spun, kicking beneath his skirt. Her foot came in contact with sweaty balls. Lucky for him, her newfound anger held her gag reflex at bay. Otherwise, he’d be covered in the same color as his enemy. Green split pea soup.

  Mr. McNotSoStudlyNow fell instantly to the ground, cupping his crown jewels. She shrugged.

  “Can’t say I didn’t warn you. You should really think about wearing underwear. I’m not sure it’s sanitary for the horses.” Much less her foot. She chuckled and continued walking, leaving the Scottish douche on the ground, moaning like a big baby while she desperately tried to remember if she’d packed a bottle of disinfectant in her bag.

  “You’re a feisty one.” Menzie chuckled. “But he deserved it.”

  “And more. My momma always told me to act like a lady, unless some schmuck tried to treat me like a piece of meat.”

  “Wise advice,” he said as they approached the car, where Angus was waiting with the door open. A smile split his lips, and his eyes twinkled in approval.

  “I would say it’s been a pleasure, but it hasn’t. Good day, Laird Menzie. I hope you have a long life with your prize.”

  “Who are you?”

  She let out a resigned sigh. “Quinn Thatcher. You have your emerald, so my work here is done.” She patted the large muscles on his sweaty, bare, tanned chest. Yes, okay, she copped a feel. It was the least he could put up with to repay her for her hell of Mr. Grabby and the obnoxious ghost. “Have a nice life.”

  “Wait.” He reached for her arm. She raised a brow in challenge, making him pause in midair before returning the currently uninjured hand to his side. She’d guessed wrong. This one did have brains. He smiled warmly down at her; his ruggedly handsome face made the butterflies in her stomach flutter to life. “Where did you find the emerald?”

  “At the grave of Clarence McNolte in Florida.” Quinn slipped inside the car, and Angus shut the door before he could ask more questions she wouldn’t be able to answer. Menzie exchanging a few words with Angus before climbing in behind the wheel.

  “I must say, lass. Only a strong woman would dare bring a McDougall to his knees.”

  More like his ass, but she didn’t correct Angus. She met his aged eyes in the rearview mirror. “Low blood sugar makes me cranky, and his momma should have taught him better manners.”

  “Where to?”

  “The hotel so I can shower and change.” Before her foot turned green and fell off from some sexually transmitted disease, but she kept that comment to herself. When in Rome, it was probably better not to piss off all the natives. “Then I’m getting dinner and a beer at the pub. I won’t need the car again today.”

  “Aye. Sounds like a fine plan.”

  Fine was an understatement. Quinn leaned back into the seat; the worn leather creaked in protest. Resting her hand over the flutters in her stomach, she pondered whether she’d done the right thing by taking this trip.

  Chapter 3

  Collin Menzie stared down the driveway and watched Angus drive the redhead away. The legend had been true. Criminy. He was sure that the legend had been a lie, perpetrated by whoever had stolen the stone. The cool breeze that he’d enjoyed earlier caressed his skin but didn’t stop the blood from boiling in his veins. Why had he been the one to be saddled with the legend and not an ancestor before?

  “Looks like the emerald has returned, and under my watch.” McDougall chuckled as he slapped Collin’s back. “If the story stands true, the jewel shall finally find its final resting place among my colors and on her finger.”

  With friends like Ian McDougall, a man didn’t need enemies. The old wives’ tale foretold that a member of the Menzie clan would wed with a part of the stone before handing it back to a McDougall. Not likely since it had been a peace offering from the McDougall clan to the Menzies, not to mention the thought of putting a ring on the American’s finger. His fate was his own, no matter what the gypsy had proclaimed.

  “Care to consult the paintings to get a fresh perspective of what to expect.”

  The infamous paintings depicted a tale of what to expect in the coming days. The so called Savior was among them who’d be changing Collin’s life forever.

  “Aye.” Collin spun to find the entire staff waiting. Each held a worried look in their eyes and rightly so. The legend coming to life, and the omen that followed wasn’t something any smart man would ignore. Disease, death, fire, and ruin were eminent if the old tales were to be believed.

  “If I were you, I’d have Ramsey hide your gold and monitor the accounts.”

  It had been years since Collin had studied the text and the paintings. He’d laughed it off as a cocky young lad, convinced no imaginary redhead from the curse would ever get the best of him. Had he been wrong all these years?

  “Shows over.” Collin clapped his hands, dispersing the crowd to lead Ian inside the castle. The thud of the heavy doors reverberated through the hall as the doors shut behind them. Ian and Collin had been raised by their fathers to hate each other, but the opposite had happened when Ian returned Collin’s favorite horse, which had taken off from the first of many fires. He’d since been one of the few souls that Collin trusted, along with Ramsey, Collin’s accountant.

  Collin had no more than cleared the door when Margarete came rushing forward. Her enthusiasm about furniture and décor wasn’t the only thing she wanted within these walls. Many a night Collin had brushed off her advances, but it appeared as though she had some crazy inner radar to know when he was home. “Collin. We must talk about the tapestries.”

  Margarete was a beautiful woman in her own right. She was educated and held a regal air of title in the way she presented herself. She was slender with blonde hair and a stick-straight figure. Many a man would have been proud if she showed them attention. Collin wasn’t one of them. Her beauty did little to hide her pretentious attitude toward the staff. He’d hired her due to her eye for detail in interior decorating. He hadn’t been expecting her to turn her eyes to him. He should have known.

  “No, wench, we have much more pressing matters to discuss,” Ian complained.

  “What your brother meant to say was, can it wait?” Collin asked, trying hard to soften Ian’s words.

  “Sure.” Her cheeks flushed pink, and she pasted a harden
ed smile on her face and lifted her chin. Whenever Ian visited, he managed to piss off everyone in his path, whether he intended to or not. He’d turned his brash attitude into a game of sport to flirt with the women he encountered. He had a way with words and with women. More than one of the maids had been found in a closet with her skirt up to her chest. Ian was truly gifted in the art of seduction.

  Having Margarete beneath Collin’s roof seemed to only make things worse. It was as though her presence alone managed to set the staff’s nerves on edge with her constant demands, as if she were the lady of the castle. Hiring her had been a favor; keeping her content had been the challenge. She was here to do a job, one that Collin had no desire to perform, and Ian’s rudeness always seemed to aggravate her more. Restoring and redecorating the part of the castle that had succumbed to fire wasn’t Collin’s idea of a good time. Ever.

  He led the way up the north tower where Gwinnie’s ghost was reportedly lingering. He didn’t believe in such nonsense. Her ghost had never appeared to him, and he was related by blood. She’d been a new daughter-in-law in the household all those years ago when the emerald had vanished. It was her mother-in-law, Lady Menzie, who had commissioned the gypsy to paint, based off what the crazy gypsy woman saw in her visions. Not so crazy now, Collin thought.

  Using his shoulder, he shimmied open the jammed door to one of the few rooms in the castle that the staff avoided at all cost. The solid wood flew open, slamming into the wall as if an unseen restraint had been removed. Dust floated in the sunshine coming through the windows that surrounded the empty room. The paintings had hung in the ballroom as a constant reminder of things to come, until Margarete had started redecorating. She’d stored them in the tower where they were leaning against the wall and covered in old sheets. Ian and Collin removed all of the coverings before standing in complete silence, staring at the painting of a woman who looked like Quinn Thatcher. The resemblance was uncanny, down to the freckles he’d noticed on her neck.

  Collin rubbed the stubble on his chin, trying to remember the story that accompanied the paintings. He shouldn’t have bothered. Ian knew the first few lines word for word.