by Lynn Kurland
The problem being, of course, his no-longer-mortal nose. He was a ghost, after all.
Ah, but with that ghostly status had come many other advantages, and he wasn't a man to discount whatever blessings came his way. After all, he'd led a rich life. One didn't count among his accomplishments being the laird of a powerful clan, a statesman of the most diplomatic proportions, and a wily sixteenth-century lad as well without having lived hard and well.
And now such a long afterlife to look forward to, with all the matches there were to be made! It was almost enough to induce him to indulge in a little capering about, but there was no telling who might see that. He did, after all, have his dignity to maintain.
So he continued on his way up the path and ducked in out of the rain by walking through the front door. The receiving desk was currently empty, but that wasn't unexpected. The handful of boarders who had arrived that morning were all settled, and no one else was expected that evening. With one more to come on the morrow, no doubt the staff was recovering with a good rest.
Ambrose strode to the desk and looked it over critically. There was naught out of place, and, look as he might, he could think of no fault possessed by the woman who manned the post. Even so, he would have preferred to have had the inn run only by family. It was, after all, owned by his American granddaughter (several generations removed, of course), Megan. Though she came north as often as possible, her husband's business interests were in London, and 'twas there that her duty lay. That left the inn in the care of hired help, but there was nothing to be done about it. Ambrose was never shy about instructing the staff, which often left them looking for new workers, but that, he supposed, was simply what Megan would have called the cost of doing business.
Ambrose walked through the door into the dining room only to come face-to-face with several of the inn's occupants telling tall tales. He paused and listened with great interest.
"Haunted," a young woman said in hushed tones. She shivered. "That castle up the way is haunted. It was, like, spooky. You know?"
"Dude," her male companion agreed with a vigorous nod. "One minute the flowers in the garden were there, the next— poof! Gone. I tell ya, dude, it was spooky!"
"I already said that," the girl said, frowning at her companion.
"I was just agreeing with ya, babe."
Ambrose shuddered at the unabashed slaughter of the Mother Tongue. He looked at the couple's audience, three older mortals whom Ambrose knew belonged to a rather radical preservation society. They wouldn't be using the warm, lilting tones of his beloved Highlands, but at least he might count on them for a few crisp consonants and a bit of proper grammar.
"Anything else?" one of the three asked. He was a thin, rodentlike man whose nose twitched eagerly, as if he scented a particularly tasty treat.
"I was asking the questions, Nigel," a gray-haired, no-nonsense woman said briskly. She pinned the couple to their seats with a steely gaze. "Did you witness anything else untoward?"
"Duuude," said the male Colonist, "isn't that enough? What kinda special effects do ya want out here?"
"What we saw was enough," the girl agreed with a shiver.
"Note that, Gerard," the gray-haired woman said, elbowing a plump man sitting next to her. "We've definitely a ruin in pristine condition."
"I am endeavoring," the scribe said, dragging his forearm across his perspiring brow, "to note things as quickly as I can, Constance!"
The man named Nigel slapped his hands on the table and stood. "I daresay we need no other evidence," he said enthusiastically. "The castle must be preserved in its natural state. Come, Constance! Come, Gerard! Let us away to plan our strategy!"
Ambrose lifted one eyebrow. So these three were bent on preserving the castle up the way. An interesting idea, but he wondered how the souls loitering in the keep would feel about their home being chosen for such an honor. He watched as the trio rushed from the dining chamber, their petards mightily hoisted. Ah, well, if nothing else, they would provide a chuckle or two for those who would be watching.
He left the Colonists to their tea and uneasy whispers and made his way to the kitchen. A flick of his wrist lit candles and lamps and stoked a hearty fire in the stove. He pulled out a chair, sat, and prepared to pass a pleasant evening pondering his next matchmaking task. He had just returned from a lovely pair of months at his home in the Highlands, but he couldn't deny the pleasure he felt at being back at the inn, ready to turn his considerable energies to the task at hand: a task that he suspected might tax even his substantial stores of cunning.
He had just settled back in his chair with a hefty tankard of ale when the back door blew open. Lamps flickered wildly, and several candles extinguished themselves altogether. Ambrose looked up with a faint bit of annoyance and relit the abused tapers with another flick of his wrist.
"Wet out," the other man said as he stomped the water from his boots and cast aside his cloak. He slammed the door behind him. "Never should have left France."
Ambrose looked at Fulbert de Piaget and couldn't help briefly agreeing with the last sentiment. But the man was, after all, his own sweet sister's husband, so Ambrose forbore any nasty remarks.
"Lovely holiday?" he asked politely.
"Could have been longer," Fulbert grumbled. "But I heard that the McKinnon lad was set to arrive soon, so I knew I'd best come back and lend some good sense to this venture."
The McKinnon lad in question was Thomas, Megan's brother. Megan herself had found very little favor with Fulbert before she had married his nephew (many times removed, mind you). Unfortunately, not even her marriage to Gideon de Piaget had improved Fulbert's opinion of her much. Even with his own wife having been a Scot, Fulbert never seemed to find much to recommend anyone related to anyone who had ever sported a plaid.
"Should have never allowed me nevvy Gideon to have wed with young Megan," Fulbert grumbled.
Ambrose ignored the expected slander and placidly took another drink of his ale.
Fulbert scowled. "I can scarce wait to learn what poor lass you have found to foist your grandson off upon."
" 'Tis a bit of a tale—"
Fulbert reached out and grasped a suddenly materialized mug of ale and downed it in one long pull. "Leave me to me fortifying before you begin—"
The back door burst open a second time, and Ambrose felt his jaw slide down of its own accord.
"Foolishness," Fulbert said, choking on his ale.
Ambrose, for once, had to agree with him. He looked at the newest arrival, who currently struggled to balance all the paraphernalia he was holding and shut the door behind him at the same time.
"What," Fulbert managed in a very strangled voice, "have you done to yourself?"
The third man beamed a rather gap-toothed smile at them and placed his burdens most carefully on the worktable near the door. Ambrose glanced at the pile and saw all manner of souvenirs there, things a body might have acquired in a... nay, he couldn't bring himself to think on where they had been acquired.
Then the man turned back to them and held open his arms wide so they could admire his clothing. Gone were Hugh McKinnon's manly plaid and rugged boots. Gone were the well-wrought saffron shirt, the sword buckled around his waist, and the cap tilted with a goodly amount of jauntiness atop his head. In its place were mouse ears, a red shirt, suspenders, blue trews, and, the most appalling of all, a tail.
"California," Hugh said proudly.
"Southern region?" Fulbert asked in horror, his hand to his throat.
"Aye," Hugh said, nodding enthusiastically and causing his ears to bounce wildly about. "Passing pleasant there. No rain. A goodly amount of sunshine."
Apparently the lack of clouds had caused Hugh's brain to catch fire. Ambrose could find no other explanation for his cousin's (by way of several intermarriages) sudden departure from good sense. He'd had his own trip to the Colonies and loitered where no sensible shade ever should have found himself, yet he'd returned home as quickly as he could
, hoping none of his proud and illustrious ancestors had been watching what he'd been forced to do.
For he, too, had made that harrowing journey to the western coast, and he, too, had ventured inside that theme park's gated enclosure.
But he certainly hadn't gone so far as to wear any of the cartoon creatures he'd found there.
"Hugh," Ambrose said, feeling faint with dismay over what he was seeing, "what have you done?"
Hugh suddenly shifted from foot to foot uneasily, causing his tail to sway in a most unsettling manner. "Nothing I shouldn't have," he said.
"I meant your clothing ..."
"Ah," Hugh said, looking vastly relieved. "Well, you see, I saw them being worn so nicely there, and I couldn't resist obtaining a set for myself—"
"Hugh," Ambrose said sternly, realizing they had been speaking about far different things, "what have you been doing? Other than dressing yourself as a mouse? I sense something else is afoot."
Hugh ducked his head, looking very guilty. "He is my grandson, after all," he muttered.
"Hugh..."
"Several times removed, of course."
"Hugh!" Ambrose exclaimed.
"And a fine, braw lad he is. Strong, clever—"
"You were to leave him be!"
"I didn't say anything to him," Hugh said defensively.
"Did he see you?" Ambrose demanded.
Hugh suddenly seemed to find the footwear he was sporting enormously interesting, for he studied it with great intensity. And remained silent.
"A disaster," Fulbert said grimly. "I could have told you that before we even started."
Ambrose was tempted to agree, but he was, after all, a MacLeod, and MacLeods did not give in so easily. It made no difference what Hugh had done, for Ambrose greatly suspected that young Thomas would chalk whatever he'd seen up to a sour stomach. He would never believe he'd seen anything resembling a ghost.
Which left them in something of a quandary concerning Thomas's future bride, but that was something to be solved later.
Ambrose cleared his throat purposefully. "What's done is done," he said.
Fulbert shook his head with a grumble. "This feels all too familiar for some reason."
"As you both know," Ambrose said, ignoring the dissention in the ranks, "we've a grand work set here before us."
Fulbert took a long pull from his mug and refrained from comment.
"Assuming," Ambrose said, casting a stern glance Hugh's way, "that things haven't been befouled already."
Hugh gulped and looked horrendously guilty. Ambrose could only hope that his cousin hadn't done irreparable damage to the scheme. Then again, if Thomas's own father hadn't been able to convince him to remain in the Colonies,
Ambrose was quite certain no chance sighting of Hugh would do the like.
Ambrose could only hope his cousin had been sporting a kilt and not his current costume.
He put that thought aside and turned his mind back to the task at hand.
"Thomas arrives on the morrow," he continued.
Fulbert yawned. "Just thinkin' on it is wearying."
"Then mayhap ye should think on somethin' else," Hugh growled.
Fulbert paused and glared at Hugh. "What is it you mean by that?"
" 'Tis Scots' business," Hugh said, sticking out his chin stubbornly. "Ye'll only set the plans awry."
"I'll not leave it all to you two," Fulbert said stiffly. He stood and cast his mug into the fire. "You'll have need of my good sense at some point. See if you don't."
And with that, he vanished.
Ambrose sighed. He looked at his cousin, the former laird of the clan McKinnon, and waited for his thoughts on the matter. Fulbert would no doubt return at the worst possible moment, but there was nothing to be done about it. They would simply have to press on as best they could.
"Herself up at the keep'll be passing furious," Hugh offered with a shudder. "No matter what we do."
"Very likely."
"Don't like it when she's passing furious."
"Then I suggest," Ambrose said, "that we keep ourselves busy here and let those who venture up to the castle do so at their own risk."
Hugh nodded heartily in agreement, downed the last of his ale, and vanished with all his newly acquired gear.
Ambrose sat back, crossed his feet at the ankles, and contemplated the next pair of days. Of course, he had no intention of remaining behind when there might be a show up the way, especially when Herself caught wind of what was up. Passing furious was likely a very mild approximation of the fury that would explode when his kinswoman learned she was going to have a permanent houseguest.
Or landlord, as the case might be.
Well, that would likely sort itself out in time as well. Ambrose finished his own ale and stood up. Rest was likely in his best interest. He would need all his wits about him if he was to be of any use to either Thomas or the lass up the way.
He extinguished the lights and left the kitchen.
Chapter 3
Thomas turned the car's ignition off, then very carefully leaned his head against the steering wheel. He should have listened to his sister. He would tell his father that the next time he talked to him. Megan gave good advice. At least when it came to advising those befuddled by jet lag and too much ego.
It had all started with a bumpy commuter flight to Kennedy, followed by an evening flight to London on which he'd chosen to travel coach. He'd come to several conclusions from that alone. A man who was six foot two had never been meant to sit in a seat in which his knees were actually partway into the seat in front of him. There was also something very unwholesome about having strangers sitting on either side of him fall asleep and use him as a pillow. No, the next time he would fly business class. At least that way he'd arrive at his destination without feeling crunched and drooled on.
He'd called Megan once the plane had landed bright and early five hours into another time zone. Megan told him to take the train to Thorpewold. She'd promised that her husband Gideon could find any number of people willing to pick up the car he'd bought in London and drive it north for him. But had he listened? Of course not. He'd taken a taxi to the car park and picked up his keys. He'd gotten into the car, buckled up, then reached for the steering wheel.
Only to discover it was on the other side of the car.
That should have been a sign.
His subsequent drive-on-the-left baptism-by-fire had come in morning rush-hour London traffic. Nine hours and numerous stops for map deciphering later, he'd thought he might have gotten the hang of things. Even despite his jet lag, he was managing to keep on the correct side of the road, and he'd only had a handful of near misses with curbs and the side mirrors of parked cars.
And then the sky had suddenly opened up and poured out a kind of rain he was sure hadn't been seen since the Flood.
He'd ignored the deluge and pressed on. A close encounter with some sheep and another with a pair of angry bicyclists had left him seriously doubting his skills.
Thank goodness the most dangerous stretch of road he would have to negotiate in the near future would be the one between Megan's inn and his castle—and he suspected the morning light might reveal the distance to be quite manageable on foot. Even if he got soaked to the skin, it would be better than creaming any of the natives before he could introduce himself.
He peeled himself out of the car, retrieved the luggage necessary for the next twenty-four hours from the trunk, then trudged doggedly toward the front door. He let himself inside the house, grateful to be out of the inclement weather. He noticed out of the corner of his eye that the place was indeed as old as Megan had said it was. Well, he'd have a good look later. At the moment, all he wanted was a hot shower and a bed. It didn't have to be a comfortable bed. It didn't even have to be a flat bed. He wasn't even sure he needed a mattress. He'd slept in enough strange and/or precarious places over the years that the amenities really didn't matter. He just needed someplace to crash.
&
nbsp; He shut the door with his knee, then turned around to face the entry hall. His immediate impression was of age and patterned wallpaper. Then he blinked. There was the registration desk, obviously. A woman of substantial stature and soldierlike carriage stood at attention. But that wasn't what was so startling.
To her left, leaning against some kind of sideboard, was an older gentlemen in full Scottish dress. Plaid, sword, sporran, snowy white shirt with no frills, and an enormous silver brooch pinning the plaid to his shoulder. The man's face was rugged, but a twinkle in his eye spoke of good humor.
Thomas gaped at him. The man folded his arms over his chest and looked back just as boldly. Thomas dropped his bag, rubbed his eyes, then blinked away the residual fuzziness.
Now the man was gone.
Thomas paused to consider. Jet lag? He didn't think so.
He looked at the woman behind the desk.
"Who was that—" he began, then shut his mouth. Yes, that would certainly make a good impression. Hi, I'm your guest, and wasn't that a ghost I just saw leaning against one of your antiques?
Maybe he was just more tired than he thought. Shower. Bed. Or maybe just bed. He could clean up later. Unconsciousness was probably the safest place for him right now.
He grabbed the strap of his bag and stumbled toward the desk.
"I have a reservation," he managed.
"Yer name?" the woman asked crisply.
"Thomas," he said. "Thomas McKinnon."
"We've been expecting ye," she said. She thrust a sheet at him and slapped a pen down next to it. "Sign in. I'm Mrs. Pruitt. I'm in charge whilst Lord and Lady Blythwood are in London."
Ah, Lady Blythwood. That was his sister. She'd married Gideon de Piaget, Lord Blythwood. Thomas shook his head wryly. Megan, an honest-to-goodness titled person. She really should write all those people who had fired her over the years and let them know. It would have been very satisfying.