by Lynn Kurland
"Is this your ancestral keep?" she asked coldly.
"Nay, but I'll take it just the same—"
"Have you a right to it through battle? Were you slain here?"
He chewed on that one, then spat out a curt nay.
"The keep is mine," she said. "I paid for it with my own blood."
"Your virgin's blood?" he sneered.
She was certain none save Duncan knew the truth of her murder, and perhaps even he didn't know the precise way of it, but the men fought as if they did. Connor rallied a handful of his own lads about him, but the rest of the keep's inhabitants were demanding justice for the insult to her. Even Roderick had pulled forth his sabre and was looking at it carefully, as if trying to decide how the obviously unfamiliar weapon might best be wielded.
Iolanthe stepped back several paces and considered where she might go now. The battle would likely go on all day. There would be many mortal wounds inflicted, though obviously none would die from them nor feel the pain of them.
It made for a very long day on the field.
Besides, it was beginning to rain—perfect weather for a fine day of fighting. 'Twas best that she leave them to their business. They would enjoy their play and have a great deal to talk about around the fire that night.
In time, Connor would give her a gruff noise and a curt nod that would pass for his apology. She would accept and put his words behind her.
But she wouldn't give him her keep.
And she would parley with the man lying in the mud.
She passed the afternoon standing on the parapet. She supposed she had the skill of the stonemasons to thank for even that small place to stand. Unfortunately, haunting the walls didn't soothe her. She forced herself to wait until dusk was falling before she made her way down to the great hall, ignoring everyone she saw on her way there. She went to stand on the front steps and looked out into the bailey.
It wasn't as if she wanted to look.
But she couldn't help herself.
The man was stirring. As she watched, he heaved himself to his feet, sneezed heartily, then slowly made his way out through the barbican and down the road, rubbing the back of his head. Perhaps that was all she would see of him. He would likely hie himself back to his beloved Colonies and be grateful to be returned.
Somehow, though, she had the feeling that wouldn't happen.
Change was in the air. She stood and examined the feeling. It was like ... She closed her eyes and let the memory wash over her. It was like the Highlands at the end of summer, when suddenly out of the north came a breeze with a hint of chill clinging to it.
Aye, a mighty change was in the air, and she was as powerless to prevent it as she would have been to hold off autumn.
A mighty change.
She could only hope it would be a good one.
Chapter 7
Thomas pulled his shirt over his head and winced as it made contact with the back of his skull. It certainly wasn't the worst concussion he'd ever had. He'd had a couple of bad falls over his long career of climbing up things he probably should have let alone, and his head had paid the price. He wondered if it was just more than his thick skull that was wounded. It was pretty damned embarrassing to have passed out because of a cluster of ghosts coming at him with fake swords.
He had come to the conclusion that the swords couldn't have been real. If they had been, he would have either woken to find himself cut to ribbons or never woken again at all. The next time he was faced with a blade almost as tall as he was, he wouldn't flinch.
Which was all good and fine for the future, but it didn't help his gargantuan headache or the sharp sting to his pride. He supposed that in all fairness, getting back to the inn under his own power had been something of an accomplishment. But two days in bed afterward? Never mind that he'd been drugged against his will. His performance was pitiful.
He left his room and made his way gingerly down the stairs, feeling several decades older than the thirty-four years his driver's license claimed he was. He paused to stifle an enormous sneeze in his sleeve, then started across the foyer.
"I'd be remiss if I didn't tell ye that ye don't look up to any walking about today."
He turned to look at Mrs. Pruitt with narrowed eyes. She'd been the one to do it, the traitor. How could she have so calculatingly crushed up painkillers and slipped them into his juice? It had to have been the juice. It had tasted a little on the bitter side, hadn't it?
"I'm fine," he said, "thanks to all that rest you provided for me."
She didn't look in the slightest bit guilty. "Ye needed it."
He only grunted and wondered what kind of damage would result from asking her for an aspirin.
"They'll do worse than leave ye out in the rain the next time," she said ominously.
Why she couldn't have warned him before his first trip up to his castle, he didn't know. Then again, perhaps he should have known better. This was the woman who worked at the inn so she could keep up with her paranormal investigations.
"They?" he asked.
"Ye know of whom I speak." She nodded wisely. "Them's that's up the way."
"I don't suppose you'd care to enlighten me further?"
She only puffed herself up, resettled her girth, and began buffing anything remotely shiny on the reception desk.
Apparently, no further enlightenment was forthcoming.
"Breakfast?" she asked, scrutinizing an inkwell.
"No thanks."
She frowned in displeasure.
Who knew what he would find in his eggs, put there by his well-meaning innkeeper? No, it was better that he escape while he could.
He turned toward the door, putting all thoughts of aspirin behind him. He'd lived through worse headaches than this without the aid of drugs. Besides, with Mrs. Pruitt at the dispensary, who knew what he'd get to dull his pain or how long it would put him out for? .
"I'll be back for supper," he said over his shoulder.
"One could hope," she said darkly.
And with that cheery send-off, he let himself out the front door. He stood on the stoop and stuck his hands in his pockets. He rocked back on his heels and examined the day. No rain; that was a bonus. He supposed maybe he should have taken another day of rest, but he just couldn't. At least the past couple of days he'd been unconscious, except for that brief period of misery when someone had woken him every hour on the hour to make sure he hadn't slipped into a coma.
He'd had little time to think about his ignominious defeat at his own castle.
Scared by ghosts. It was pathetic.
In all fairness, he hadn't been scared, he'd been surprised. He'd stumbled backward, like any man with any sense would have, then tripped and gone down and into unconsciousness. The rest of the day had passed in something of a haze. He vaguely remembered a lively discussion of how he should be finished off, then the sounds of an enormous battle raging around him.
He wondered absently if his mother had had any idea what he was getting himself into. Did his sister?
Thomas set off toward the castle before he could give the true ridiculousness of his situation any more thought. He'd been looking forward to something of a repeat of his housebuilding experience. He'd planned to get in touch with the rocks that made up his castle. Rekindling some of his interest in history had seemed like a bonus as well.
He just hadn't been expecting to have history come alive in quite this way.
What he'd anticipated was a year of hard physical labor with no distractions, a year to get his head together and decide what he most wanted from life. He was thirty-four, and it was past time he settled down. He was wasting his life chasing after the almighty dollar and finding himself dating expensive, unpleasant women. A year of introspection with something to show for it in the end had seemed like such a good idea at the time.
He really hadn't planned on having company while he was doing it.
It took far less time to reach the castle than it had before. Maybe i
t seemed that way because it had taken him so long to get back two days ago. He ignored the eerie feeling he got every time he put his foot on the gravel road. Maybe the bump had taken more out of him than he thought.
He had almost reached the castle when he looked up, then sighed. First it was ghosts. Now it was the preservation society with pickets.
He halted several yards away and read the signs: Damn Yankees, Let Our Ruins Remain, Hammers Harm Our Heritage were the best of the lot. When they saw him coming, the protestors broke into a spontaneous rendition of "God Save the Queen."
The peace and quiet of his house on the coast sounded better by the minute.
Thomas jammed his hands in his pockets and continued doggedly on his way toward his tormentors. "No power tools today," he announced as he approached.
The three stopped with their screeching, but they didn't look convinced.
"I'm just here to look around," he said.
"But you'll return another day to render our ruin remodeled!" exclaimed one.
"Without a doubt," he agreed pleasantly.
They hoisted their signs and looked like they meant to do business with them this time.
"Want to come along to the castle?" he asked politely. "Just to see the ruin in its ruinous state before it's restored?"
The ratlike leader sat down and put his head between his knees. The other two looked so unsettled by the prospect that Thomas began to wonder if they hadn't seen more than they cared to themselves. He frowned thoughtfully. It looked like his choice was either ghosts or preservationists. If he had to choose at the moment, he would take the ghosts. At least having a few restless spirits around would spare him from any more patriotic songs being warbled his way.
He walked away, still leaving the trio in various stages of collapse. One hurdle overcome, one to go. He sighed as he walked toward the little stone bridge. There were two dozen Scots standing guard at the barbican. Thomas recognized the leader immediately. Even knowing the sword was just for show wasn't all that comforting. Maybe his imagination was too good. He could easily imagine having faced that in battle and subsequently having found himself without any guts. Literally.
He stopped a few paces away and sized up the other man. The Scot glared back at him.
"Good morning," Thomas said politely.
The man snarled a curse at him. "A good mornin' would be you dead with yer head on a pike outside me gates."
Thomas realized immediately that he was in over his head. Bonding with the guy by discussing the Lakers was out, as was inviting him to toss the old pigskin around for awhile. What would the village barkeep say if he came in for a pint or two with a local ghost carrying a huge sword?
Get out, and don't come back, was Thomas's guess.
Well, he'd faced down some fairly nasty individuals in the business world and found the best way to deal with them was to be brief and direct. He suspected the man before him might understand that. After all, what could be briefer or more direct than cutting off your enemy's head and displaying it outside your front door?
"Thomas McKinnon," he said, not bothering to extend his hand. "And you are?"
The man drew himself up and looked incredibly insulted. "Connor MacDougal," he said stiffly. "The MacDougal."
"Ah, Laird MacDougal," Thomas said, inclining his head just the slightest bit. "A pleasure."
"A pleasure would be opening ye up and pulling out yer innards whilst ye watched."
All right, so pleasantries were going to be wasted on this one. "You'd enjoy it, I'm sure, but I doubt I would. Is this your castle I've bought?"
"Aye," he said. But his eyes shifted.
Several of the men standing near him shifted as well. Ah, a liar. Thomas filed that away for future use.
"I thought the MacDougals were Highlanders," Thomas said easily. "I wouldn't think you would find your home so far south."
"He has it aright, my laird," one of the men near him began miserably.
"Shut up, Donald," Connor MacDougal snarled. He glared at Thomas. "The keep'll be mine in the end. Believe all ye like that ye'll stay here, but I swear I'll see that ye don't. If what's awaiting ye inside doesn't have the spine to rid us of ye, I will."
And with that, he vanished. Thomas had no idea if he was really gone or if he was still hanging around beyond Thomas's ability to see him.
Which was, oddly enough, an ability he'd never suspected he would have.
Thomas took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and walked up the path the remaining men left for him. He felt their eyes on him, but he ignored them. If they weren't blocking his way, that was enough for him. Whoever wanted to make trouble for him later could, when he'd had a chance to work out a good strategy for dealing with it.
That would come later. Now, as he made his way into the inner bailey, he focused all his mental energy on what potentially awaited him inside.
A grumpy, grandfatherly ghost who would need a little buttering up, a listening ear for endless stories of battle, and a guarantee that the keep wouldn't be changed too much? Or perhaps it was a man even more fierce than Connor MacDougal, and Thomas would spend the next year of his life constantly fighting for supremacy. There were myriad possibilities between those two polar opposites, so maybe there wasn't any use in speculating further. The bottom line was, he owned the castle now, and he intended to make it habitable. He would do his best to be cordial and pleasant, but he wasn't going to leave. The sooner the ghost inside realized that, the better off life would be for both of them.
He walked briskly across the courtyard, his purpose and determination energizing him. He'd already faced down one extremely unpleasant Scot. Another man of the same temperament wouldn't faze him.
He stepped over the threshold of the great hall, his loins girded for battle, his tongue practically tripping over all the things that were on the verge of coming out of his mouth.
He came to a sudden and very unexpected stop.
Well, the hall was definitely occupied. And it was occupied by a single person.
But that person definitely wasn't a man.
Thomas very rarely found himself without something to say. He could always come up with something clever or disarming or inoffensive. But right then, he found himself absolutely speechless.
The morning sunlight streamed down into the hall, thanks to the lack of a roof. It fell in soft strands of light onto the dirt and stones of the floor. He could even see the swirling motes dancing, thanks to the faint hint of breeze that blew through the crumbling hall, bringing with it a hint of fall.
That same sunlight fell softly upon a woman who stood in the center of the hall, unmoving, unspeaking. Her hair was dark, almost as dark as his, and it fell down past her shoulders in a riot of curls. Tall and slender, she was dressed in a simple peasant's gown of dusty purple that looked as if it had been dyed the color of heather.
He looked at her face and found himself rendered motionless. All he could do was gape at her and grope mentally for words to describe what he was seeing.
Lovely? Yes, she was, but in a wild, reckless way that probably would never have graced the cover of a fashion magazine. Beautiful? Perhaps, but in the same way an unyielding, unforgiving mountain was. He felt, looking at her, the same way he'd felt when he'd had his first up-close look at Everest. It had been overwhelmingly beautiful. And at the same time, it had scared the hell out of him.
This woman did the same.
She was ... haunting.
There was a stillness about her that immediately became his stillness. The longer he stared at her, the more he found he couldn't look away. She was simply stunning.
He felt stunned. He stood facing her and wondered, absently, if he would ever move again.
This was not at all what he'd expected, but somehow, he suspected this was why he had come.
She was looking at him, but she said no word, made no move to indicate that she was even going to say anything. Thomas wondered how it was you began a conversation wit
h a woman who was, well, standing alone in the middle of a great hall dressed in something that was likely fairly fashionable several hundred years ago.
All his preconceived notions of how the next year of his life—hell, the rest of his life—was going to proceed went straight out the window. He'd planned on restoring his castle. He imagined that he would probably hike up whatever England had to offer, then maybe take a little time during the winter and head toward the Alps. He'd envisioned a final year of selfish living before settling down and beginning to look at a more mature way of life. He hadn't expected to find his castle occupied by the most arresting woman he'd ever laid eyes on, who was, from what he could tell, a ghost.
He strove manfully to gather his wits about him. The game had changed, drastically, and he was scrambling for a plan. What he wanted to do was ask her for a date, not tell her that he'd just bought her castle out from under her. It was for damned sure that he had no lines in his very exhaustive supply of lines to use on the woman in front of him to make her find him charming and unthreatening.
Introductions. Introductions couldn't go wrong. He cleared his throat.
"I'm Thomas McKinnon," he said.
She didn't reply.
He frowned. Couldn't she hear him? Was he imagining her? Was he fighting not to go down on his knees and profess undying devotion to a woman who couldn't even understand anything he said?
He tried again. "Thomas McKinnon."
No response.
"Can you hear me?"
She lifted one eyebrow. "Aye, I hear you well enough."
His palms were sweaty. He could hardly believe he was talking to someone who might or might not have been real, and just the sound of her voice had made his palms sweaty. Thirty-four years of maturity had been inexplicably stripped away to leave a gawking, sweaty-palmed sixteen-year-old in its place. He hadn't been a geek at sixteen. What had happened to him in the past thirty seconds?