by Lynn Kurland
Then Thomas frowned. Something was not right. He looked at Mrs. Pruitt and realized that she was Mrs. Pruitt. When Megan had first come to the inn, the proprietress had been a Mrs. Pruitt, but that Mrs. Pruitt had decamped for some unknown reason, signing the title over to Megan on her way out the door. Had that Mrs. Pruitt returned? Or had another come to take her place? Thomas looked at the woman, wondering if his bafflement was because of the time change or if hugging his knees to his chest across the Atlantic had cut off important blood flow to his brain.
"You're ..." he trailed off.
"Mrs. Pruitt," she said firmly.
"But," he said, "I thought Mrs. Pruitt had gone."
"My sister," Mrs. Pruitt announced.
He frowned. "Your sister? Don't you mean sister-in-law?"
"I don't," Mrs. Pruitt said.
"But," he said, wondering if arguing with a woman who held her pen like a sword was wise given the torrential downpour outside and the potential for finding himself once again in it, "you have the same last name."
"We married brothers," Mrs. Pruitt said, looking as if her previous estimation of his intelligence had been a sore disappointment to her.
"And your husband..."
"Dead, like the other one," she said with pursed lips. "Weak constitutions."
Given the apparently robust constitution of the woman facing him, Thomas could well understand why she found that so objectionable. .
"Should have wed me a Highlander," she said, lowering her voice and stealing a glance or two around the hallway. "Now there are lads worth the effort."
Thomas found himself with absolutely no desire to investigate further Mrs. Pruitt's matrimonial regrets and preferences, especially since she seemed to be looking around purposefully for someone Thomas was just certain wasn't there.
"Sleep," he slurred. "I'm starting to hallucinate."
"Hmmm," Mrs. Pruitt said, with a disapproving glance. "Well, best hie yourself up the stairs. Don't want any bodies littering me entryway."
Thomas made one final stab at getting an explanation. "But your sister—"
"Deserted her post without a backward glance," Mrs. Pruitt said with a disgusted shake of her head.
"And you don't regret—"
"That she left the place to yer sister Lady Blythwood, and not me? Not at all. I've full command of the area without concerning myself with funding the operation."
Thomas suspected the British Navy would have been proud to call this woman one of its own. He was ready to surrender already, and he was sure he hadn't forced her to pull out her big guns yet.
"Besides," she said, lowering her voice and looking about with another purposeful, if not covert, glance or two, "this leaves me plenty of time for me investigations."
"Investigations?" Was this really something he wanted to know?
"Of the paranormal kind," she whispered. "And believe me, the place is ripe for 'em."
Thomas was certain now that he had crossed some kind of line. Maybe it had to do with lack of sleep. Maybe it had to do with too much motorway stress. Maybe it had to do with the fact that he'd just signed in at a place where the proprietress was running her own Ghostbuster squad, be-kilted Scotsmen were appearing and disappearing near sideboards, and he was beginning to take both very seriously.
No wonder Megan had laughed so hard when he'd told her he was looking forward to a few days of quiet contemplation in the inn before he took stock of the situation up the road.
Mrs. Pruitt shoved a key at him. "Be off with ye," she said briskly. "Up the stairs and down the hallway. Go lie down before ye fall there."
He frowned as he took the key. Was he supposed to find some kind of hidden meaning in her last words? Was he supposed to give up before someone forced him to? Or was the woman really just trying to get him out of her way so her entryway remained tidy?
Maybe it was better not to know.
He made his way to the stairs, then paused and looked back over his shoulder. No bekilted Scotsmen loitering there. No ruddy-complected Scotsmen wearing mouse ears either. Maybe those were good signs.
He dragged himself up the stairs and down the hallway. He checked his room number against the number on the key, let himself in, and found that a bed did indeed await him. He dumped his stuff on the floor and considered a shower. No, sleep was more attractive. He stripped, crawled into bed, and sighed gratefully over something beneath him that didn't move.
As he tried to wind down, he wondered absently if the carpentry tools he'd sent over earlier had made it. He'd also sent his Everest gear. Though he supposed he could have stayed indefinitely in Megan's inn, he'd planned for the possibility of wanting to camp on his own soil. And he suspected, based on the pictures Megan had taken, that the castle wasn't all that hospitable. At least not yet. He hoped he was equal to the task of making it so.
After barely surviving the trip north, he was beginning to have his doubts about that as well.
He blew out a deep breath and consciously made the effort to stop thinking. Sleepy thoughts were generally unreasonable thoughts, and he wasn't served by entertaining them.
But even so, he couldn't resist a last bit of speculation. What would he find up at the castle? That he owned a castle at all was remarkable, no matter its condition. But could he turn it into something useful? Would he find it beyond redemption?
Would he find it empty?
That last thought came at him from out of nowhere, and it was almost enough to rob him of any notions of sleep. His father had basically told him Megan's inn was haunted. Thomas had seen with his own eyes some sort of apparition in the entry hall.
What did that bode for the castle up the way?
He rolled over, punched his pillow a couple of times, then settled back in. He closed his eyes determinedly and concentrated on sleep. Either his castle would be just a pile of stones, or it would be home to all sorts of ghosts. He'd just have to go up as soon as he'd slept off his jet lag and see what he found.
Which, he was certain, would be nothing. His sister had a very active imagination. His mother even more so. They were toying with him, those two, and had somehow brought his father in on their little scheme. He snorted as he kicked the blanket off him. The castle was just a castle, and mat was that His biggest worry would be keeping his hands warm while he rebuilt. Maybe his survival gear would come in handy more than he'd hoped.
With any luck, he'd have some of his keep habitable before really nasty weather descended. That was a worthwhile goal and one he could easily achieve.
But first, sleep. He sighed a final time, turned his mind away from plans and schemes, and considered the fact that there wasn't a mountain in the entire United Kingdom higher than five thousand feet.
So what was he doing there?
He certainly didn't have the answer.
He could only hope Fate didn't, either.
Chapter 4
The woman stood on the parapet and looked out over the windswept moor. She stared up at the early-morning sun and wished that it could warm her. The heaviness of her heart weighed upon her so that she felt as if she'd almost become part of the stones beneath her feet, stones that had been standing for centuries. She felt as if she'd been standing atop those stones for centuries.
Which she had been, actually.
She sighed deeply. Normally, she wouldn't have allowed herself to wallow in such misery, but today she was powerless to rise above it. What a miserable existence she led with no fine form to enjoy the sunshine, yet all her wits about her to wish for the same. Who would have known that losing her life so unwillingly would have brought her such grief?
She had long since resigned herself to her condition, of course, but that didn't make things any easier. She had kinsmen about her now, aye, 'twas true, as well as others who had sought refuge at her crumbling keep, but that didn't ease her heart. She couldn't look at mortals without longing for what they had.
If only she'd had more time during her life. If only she'd f
ound what her heart sought before her untimely demise. If only the bloody stones beneath her feet had been near the seashore, instead of deposited in the midst of what was surely the most uninspired landscape along the entire Scottish border!
That would have been misery enough had that been all she was forced to contend with. More was the pity that along with her regrets, she'd found herself bothered for over six hundred years by unwanted ghosties who seemed as determined to haunt her castle with her as she was that they not.
"You'd be miserable without us, my dear."
Iolanthe MacLeod gritted her teeth; should she ever manage it, this one would be the very first to go. She turned her head and scowled at the man standing next to her on the parapet. He currently stuffed some sort of disgusting substance up his nose.
"Snuff," he said, with a sniff.
"Dinnae lose it in yer cuffs," she grumbled. 'Twas indeed a very likely possibility, what with the yards of lace floating gracefully over his wrists.
"My dear girl, must you lapse into that primitive Scottish dialect?" he asked, continuing to poke foul weed up his nose.
" 'Twas guid enough fer me grandsires," she said, "so 'tis guid enough fer me—and a far sight too guid fer ye!"
The man shuddered delicately. "It's just so barbar—eeek!"
Iolanthe watched as the man was hoisted from behind by shirt collar and trouser band, lifted entirely overhead, and, without ceremony, flung over the wall.
"An' keep off tha roof, ya frilly bugger!" the thrower called down into the bailey. He brushed his hands briskly and looked at Iolanthe. "Good morning to you, lady."
Iolanthe smiled benevolently at one of her father's cousins. Duncan MacLeod was a formidable warrior, and she was ever grateful for his aid. He had looked after her as best he could during her lifetime, teaching her how to wield both a knife and a handful of curses in various tongues. After her death, he had come to her and volunteered to be captain of her guard. She hadn't argued with him. How ridiculous her father would have found such a thing—she being a mere woman, of course.
That she was didn't seem to bother Duncan MacLeod any. He seemed happy to guard her peace and defend her honor when the need arose. Perhaps she couldn't rid herself permanently of her other hangers-on; at least Duncan saw to them whenever required.
"Ever you come when I most need you, Duncan," she said pleasantly.
"You're powerful jealous of your broodin' time," Duncan said. "A pity we canna rid ourselves of the bugger once and for all."
"Aye," she said, with a nod.
"I never cared for those Victorian lads," Duncan said with disapproval. "Too much time 'afore the lookin' glass, seeing to their shirtfronts. Ruins a man for anything useful."
Iolanthe nodded and turned back to her contemplation of the moor. Lord Roderick St. Clair of Herefordshire was now off her roof, and she could turn her attentions back to her grim thoughts. She did her best, then realized her cousin was still standing beside her. She turned to him with a frown.
"Is something amiss?"
"Aye," he said slowly. "I've tidings."
"Tidings? Of what sort?"
"There's a group headed up the way."
Iolanthe frowned. "Tourists? Still? Is it not autumn yet in truth?" They had been coming, the gawkers, for what seemed like decades. Though her keep had fallen in and out of fashion, and the accompanying stream of visitors ebbed and flowed accordingly, there had always been a number of mortals about, peering into her nooks and crannies. But the summer was waning, or so the leaves had begun to tell her, and she supposed it was beginning to grow cold out.
"Nay," Duncan said carefully, "they're not tourists."
"What, then?" she asked.
"A small collection of English, with papers and quills for writin'. They've a look about them that bespeaks serious business."
Iolanthe sighed. What, by Saint Michael's sweet soul, could anyone want with Thorpewold? Not only did the keep proper lack the most basic of comforts, it lacked a bloody roof! No one had dared live in the place for what had seemed like centuries.
But papers and quills. That was unwelcome. For all she knew, the fools had come up to purchase the keep. Would that she could have sold it to them and been on her way. She would have gone. Gladly.
Not that it was anything but habit and her own foolish dreams that kept her where she was. Mayhap if she'd been faced with a permanent resident, she might have stirred herself to dwell somewhere else.
"How long has it been, Duncan?" she mused, trying to distract herself with thoughts of a less troublesome nature. "Since we had houseguests?"
Duncan squinted up into the sky, as if he used the clouds to help him count.
"One ... two ..." he began, then shook his head. "Nay, perhaps 'tis three..." He began to use his fingers now, so truly it must have been a very long time. "Nay, 'twas some two hundred odd years back. You remember. 'Twas after that bloody awful spell with the English when they outlawed the wearing of the plaid."
Iolanthe nodded. "Aye, you have it aright, Duncan." She thought back to the houseguests in question. It seemed but a moment ago, but apparently it had been decades, no, centuries. She could still remember the lieutenant who had commandeered her keep as if he actually had a right to do so.
"Ruddy arrogant wretch," Duncan said, as if he knew of whom she thought. "Comin' in here and takin' over..."
"Ah, but for how long?" she asked, smiling in spite of herself. "Do you not remember, my friend, how we paraded about before him in our best colors? Saints above, how many times was it he came at us with a sword, only to find himself thrusting at nothing?"
"Aye," Duncan agreed with a smile. "Fine sport, indeed."
The lieutenant hadn't stayed but a fortnight, thanks to their efforts. Thereafter, there had been very few mortal souls indeed who arrived with intentions of staying for any length of time. Apparently, rumors of the castle being haunted had been believable enough to keep them at bay.
Aside from mere visitors, there had been the odd exorcist and the occasional ghost hunter come to test his mettle against them. Iolanthe had taken a great deal of pleasure at not providing those sorts with any bones to take away and gnaw on, as it were. Each had left, disappointed.
She'd had peace for longer than she could remember, and likely longer than Duncan's fingers could aid them in counting. She'd known it couldn't last. It never did.
"Well," she said, straining to see along the road, "we must divine what mischief is afoot, Duncan. Let them pass unhindered. After you've given the word to the rest of the garrison, meet me in the hall."
"Aye, I will."
And, with that, he was gone. Iolanthe glanced again over the countryside and allowed herself a final regret that the ruins of her keep did not rest along the seashore. How pleasant a view that might have been over the past six hundred years.
And that was, in truth, the reason she remained where she was. The seashore was meant to be walked along while holding hands with the love of one's heart. Or so her great-grandmother had told her. Iolanthe had never had cause to disbelieve her. Megan MacLeod had known of what she spoke, being an undisputed authority on all things tender and ardent. Even after all these centuries, Iolanthe still hadn't found the heart to view the strand alone. So she remained at Thorpewold, landlocked and miserable.
She sighed and turned away. She walked down the stairs, stepping across thresholds that had once sported doors, down steps that were worn and grooved with the passing of countless feet. Thorpewold had not always been so poor a keep. It hadn't been much to speak of when she'd arrived and lost her life there, but there had been lads over the next pair of hundred years who had put the place to good use against the English. She'd been happy to aid them in that cause whenever possible.
But keeps had ceased to serve their original purposes, and border keeps even more so. She'd watched her adopted home fall into disrepair and been powerless to stop it.
Had the souls walking up the road come to change all that?
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She contemplated what that might mean for her—the annoyance of having mortals underfoot at all hours—and decided that she wasn't for the idea. She'd send them back the way they'd come without hesitation.
Iolanthe entered the great hall and stopped to admire the fine view of sky afforded by the lack of roof. She glanced about her and saw two dozen Highlanders standing against the walls, their swords bare in their hands and their eyes glinting with the light of battle. She wished, as she wished each time she saw the men who were loyal to her at the ready, that she'd somehow managed to escape her fate, had gathered such men about her, and returned to father's keep to give him her thoughts on his matrimonial plans for her. She suspected he might have noticed her long enough to listen to her with these lads at her back.
But there was no time now for regrets. She could see the hapless mortals coming toward the great hall, thanks to the lack of a front door. Now was the time to listen to them spew forth their plans, then convince them that such planning was in vain when the fate of her hall was at stake.
Three was their number; a woman and two men. Iolanthe immediately identified them by their miens. There was the Gray Lady, whose hair greatly resembled a helmet; the Fat Scribe, with all manner of pens and paper tucked under his arms and held in his hands; and another man whom she instantly compared to a rat. She was quite sure she saw his nose begin to twitch.
"Marvelous," said the Rat.
"Perfect," said the Gray Lady, patting her hair affectionately.
The Scribe said nothing, but arranged his things so he could more easily scribble upon his papers.
"Cannot be touched," said the Rat firmly. "Look at the walls, the window openings, the stairs! No, no; it cannot be touched."
"We'll have to stop the sale," said the Gray Lady, elbowing the scribe in the side. "Make a note of that, Gerard."
"Well," said the Scribe, squinting down at his paper, "I daresay the sale has already gone through."
"We'll stop it," the Gray Lady said, raising her fist to the sky.