by Lynn Kurland
“Next!” Connor bellowed.
No one seemed anxious to volunteer.
Connor rolled his eyes and went to stand in the middle of the bailey. Some men sauntered over to see what he was about. Others limped over as quickly as their feeble legs would carry them. Connor smiled to himself in satisfaction. Those were the ones he’d tormented in the lists earlier in the week, and there they were, still feeling the aftereffects. He really should make time in his undeath to run through the garrison more regularly. There was nothing like a little humiliation to really bring recalcitrant guardsmen to heel.
“Hide yourselves until I give you word,” Connor said jovially. “Someone comes. I am hoping for a foe worthy of my skills for a change.”
“A man can dream,” one of the men said wistfully.
Connor nodded. “Aye, but dreaming may be all I do this day. Is there one to stand against me in truth?”
Most of the men shook their heads, as if they simply could not contemplate such a thing. A few looked as if they thought they might be equal to the task.
Connor made a mental list of those misguided souls for use another time.
“Is it perhaps the madman from the other day?” a man asked nervously.
Connor grinned.
Several of the men fell back, their hands at their throats.
“If he is, he’ll regret his cheek,” Connor said, with relish. “If the lad is some other, then I’ll give him a tale to tell. But I want no aid. Not until I have souls about me with spine enough to do a proper bit of haunting.” He looked at them mockingly. “You spent far too much time dancing to the tune of Iolanthe MacLeod.”
“But, my laird,” one daring soul interrupted, “she was mistress of the keep until just a short time ago . . .”
Connor looked at him. It wasn’t a particularly unpleasant look, he knew that, but it was intended to promise things the man wouldn’t want to experience if he continued to babble on.
The man shut his mouth abruptly and slunk behind several wiser, more silent souls.
“Perhaps she did have a claim to this place,” Connor said, “but she left it behind and now ’tis mine. Unfortunately, before she left, she made women of you all. When you’ve learned to act like men again, then you can combine mischief alongside me. Until then, the haunting is mine.”
The men slunk away, their consciences obviously shaming them into silence.
He turned only to find that ridiculously dressed woman, Roderick St. Claire, standing next to him, a look of amusement on his face. Connor scowled and put his hand to his sword. Roderick held up his hands in surrender.
“Do not stab me,” he said, still smiling. “I’m just admiring your technique. I wish I had your commanding presence.”
“No doubt you do.”
Roderick walked with him toward the front gates. “Who do you think this is? V. McKinnon?”
“I can only hope,” Connor said with a yawn. “I’m in sore need of decent sport.”
“You mean to do this new McKinnon lad a serious injury, do you?”
“’Tis a fair repayment for Thomas’s irritation,” Connor said.
“I suppose,” Roderick said slowly. “But he’s gone now and the keep is yours. Why torment any of his hapless relations?”
“I wish none of them to have the idea that they would be welcome here,” Connor growled. “Damnable place that it is, ’twould be far worse with pesky, interfering McKinnon mortals loitering about.”
“Hmmm,” Roderick said thoughtfully, “I suppose. But it is entirely possible that this new McKinnon relative might be to your liking.”
Connor found that not even worthy of discussion. Of course, this new lad wouldn’t be acceptable. He was a McKinnon. Connor suspected that he wouldn’t even care for a MacDougal.
Connor turned away from the gate. What he needed was the proper location for a good scare. He paused in the bailey and looked about him. There were many places that vied for his attention, but in the end he decided upon the great hall. It was full of old, rotting furniture and several overturned stones. All quite useful in truly making a mortal uncomfortable as he endeavored to flee for safer ground.
“My laird,” one of the garrison lads said breathlessly, running up to Connor. “The mortal comes!”
Connor rubbed his hands together expectantly. “I will await him in the hall. Keep the other lads out of the hall and out of sight. I prefer the screams of terror to be thanks to me alone.”
The man nodded nervously, then bolted for parts unknown.
Connor looked at Roderick. “Have you stomach for this deed?”
“I’m honored to be included in the scheme.”
Connor looked at him to see if he jested or not, but could tell nothing from Roderick’s expression. Indeed, it was hard to tell anything at all about him. Roderick was completely out of Connor’s experience. He’d known no one in his time who would have permitted himself to be bedecked in the frilly bits that Roderick seemed to enjoy so greatly. But despite his obsession with lace, Roderick did occasionally manage to poke the stray, senseless guardsmen with his sword, and where sword skill seemed to fail him, he could produce words that cut as easily.
But now was not the time for cruel words; now was the time for a well-earned bit of revenge and that was Connor’s specialty.
He strode forward, entered the great hall, and looked about in satisfaction. A goodly bit of light there, ample to reveal him in all his glory when the time came.
He frowned up at the sky, sky he could see thanks to the lack of roof. He snorted in disgust. Thomas McKinnon had promised to put a top on the bloody great hall, but damn him if he hadn’t been so distracted by wooing a certain wench that he’d apparently forgotten all about it.
Yet another reason to be irritated with that entire family.
And yet another reason to hope that the lad coming up the way was indeed of the McKinnon clan.
Connor paced restlessly about, studying the nooks and crannies of the hall, trying to decide where the best spot might lie. Indeed, he placed himself in several locations and leaped out experimentally.
He decided finally upon the dais at the back of the hall where Thorpewold’s original lord had no doubt sat on many occasions to dine on fine victuals. Connor went to stand on that raised bit of floor with his back to the hall door—or what had at one time been the hall door. He would remain invisible until the proper moment, then turn around and leap with his fiercest battle cry. He bounced on the balls of his feet a time or two, preparing for what he was certain would be one of the more rewarding moments of his afterlife.
Would the lad coming up the way scream in terror and faint? Would he dash his head against a rock and bleed to death slowly? Would he turn and flee, his womanly screams floating pleasingly in the air behind him? The possibilities were tremendously appealing to contemplate.
“I think I hear footsteps approaching,” Roderick said from where he sat on a rock that marked the place where the high table had once stood.
Connor flexed his fingers in anticipation.
“I see a shadow,” Roderick whispered.
Connor stretched his arms over his head a time or two, preparing to draw the mighty sword strapped to his back. There was, he had to admit modestly, nothing quite like the sight of him, standing at a handful of inches over six feet, clutching his sword, also a bit over six feet, and both of them with death on their minds.
He’d witnessed his share of men soiling their plaids and fainting before he could hack off their heads. He’d never cared overmuch for that reaction, truth be told. What sport was there in a clean swipe of the blade without a bit of screaming involved beforehand? So unsatisfying.
He put his hands behind his head and grasped the sword hilt. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes briefly to still his racing heart, then drew his sword . . .
Or he would have, if Roderick’s gasp hadn’t distracted him so thoroughly.
“Damn you,” Connor said with a growl. “You
interrupted the drawing of my sword!”
Roderick seemed incapable of speech. He was staring in astonishment at something behind Connor.
Connor mulled that over for a bit. Perhaps the McKinnon lad was large and fierce, possessing more daring than Connor had dared hope. It was possible that there might be a battle where mettle and courage might truly be put to the test. It had been so long since Connor had actually had to exert himself to preserve his honor and his life, he half wondered if he might have forgotten some of the particulars associated with a good brawl.
Or perhaps Roderick gaped for another reason, another more disagreeable reason. Was the McKinnon lad so feeble that he inspired that reaction in whomever saw him? Was he a mealy-mouthed, milquetoasted girl of a man who couldn’t withstand the faintest bit of adversity before becoming senseless?
Connor decided he preferred the former. Let the McKinnon be strong of arm and willing to fight to the death. It would make the screams so much more rewarding.
Connor drew his sword with relish, then spun around, ready to bellow his war cry and make himself visible to the accompaniment of McKinnonly shrieks of terror.
Only the body standing there wasn’t a lad.
He was a lass.
And a beautiful one at that.
Connor was so surprised, he hardly knew what to think. His sword, however, seemed to suffer from no such indecisiveness. It continued in its downward arc, pulling Connor with it. He stepped forward to correct his balance, only to realize that he had forgotten about the raised dais. He stepped off the edge, hard, and stumbled. His sword continued forward. Connor found himself with no choice but to follow it.
His sword landed on the dirt with a thud.
Connor went down to his knees.
He opened his mouth to complain about the indignity of it all, then made the enormous mistake of staring at the woman again.
And he realized, with a start, that he couldn’t frighten this ethereal creature if his life depended upon it.
Damn it anyway.
It wasn’t that he didn’t want to. He would have given his right arm to have popped off his own head, tucked it under his arm for a good throaty scream or two, or used it to adorn the tip of his sword and then wave it about to induce a suitable swoon. Even a gasp of surprise or a hand set to fluttering about the throat would have been satisfactory, and that he could have induced with just a frown.
But he couldn’t.
He remained on his knees where he’d fallen and gaped at the apparition who had come into his great hall as confidently as if she owned the place.
By the saints, she was a beauty.
And he was notoriously picky about his beauties.
He stared at her in wonder. He had expected a McKinnon lad; he had gotten an angel. Obviously, there had been a terrible mistake. This wench was surely no McKinnon. He was quite sure there had never been a McKinnon spawned who was this fair.
Her hair was a riot of curls, falling down her back in a cascade that rivaled the falls near his home. It was the color of flame, but darker, as if evening firelight had been captured and given to her for her use alone. Her face was flawless, her skin porcelain, her features straight from his most memorable dream.
He knelt there, not twenty paces from her, completely invisible to her, and wondered why it had taken eight hundred years into his afterlife for him to find a woman who rendered him speechless.
Astonishing.
The woman moved confidently about the great hall, leaving him unable to do anything but stare after her in admiration. He would have leaned on his sword, but it was too tall and already unusably flat on the ground, so he contented himself with sitting back on his heels, where he wouldn’t find himself flat on the ground.
Who was this wench?
By the saints, a single moment, a heartbeat snatched from eternity had changed him forever. He could hardly believe the change in himself, but when he tested his resolve, it remained steady and firm.
He was tempted to show himself to her, but quickly decided that he wouldn’t. Not yet.
Lest she find him lacking . . .
“Victoria! Victoria McKinnon!”
The woman turned. “What?”
Connor felt himself start to list to the left. It was only his quick hands that saved him from keeling over completely.
Victoria McKinnon?
McKinnon?
The man who had been in the keep several days earlier, the capering one, came into the great hall and stopped. He smiled.
“What do you think?” he asked. “Your brother didn’t exaggerate, did he?”
“I think I might actually have to call Thomas and be nice to him,” Victoria McKinnon said. “It’s amazing . . .”
Connor could scarce believe his ears. Thomas? Her brother? Nay, ’twas not possible! A woman this beautiful, sprung from that line? It could not be so!
But what else was he to believe? How many men named Thomas McKinnon claimed to own Thorpewold Castle? How many women named Victoria McKinnon had brothers named Thomas? He shook his head in stunned and quite unpleasant consternation. Vee McKinnon was obviously a shortened name for Victoria McKinnon.
Thomas McKinnon’s sister.
“Well,” Roderick drawled from behind him, “now you know who she is, aren’t you going to do her in?”
Connor pushed himself upright, grasped his sword, then turned slightly and flung the blade into Roderick’s chest with all his strength. The shade fell backward with a gurgle.
“You’ve got to come now,” the man said to Victoria.
“But I’m not finished,” she protested.
“Be finished.”
To her credit, Victoria McKinnon gave her keeper a look that would have made many a man back up a pace and shut his mouth. But apparently the man who capered about when others weren’t looking was made of sterner stuff than one might think.
“There’s a situation down at the inn,” the man said.
Victoria McKinnon rolled her eyes, grumbled, then tromped off with the man out of the great hall.
Connor heaved himself to his feet and followed the pair unsteadily to the door of the ruined keep. He put his hand on the crumbling rock and watched as the kin of his enemy walked away, none the wiser about the terrorizing she had just avoided.
“My laird?”
“Aye?” Connor wheezed.
“My laird, what will you have us do?”
Connor watched Victoria McKinnon walk down the path and through the barbican. He found he couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, and couldn’t look away.
“My laird?”
Connor marshalled his steely self-control and turned to face the men suddenly gathered behind him. “I’m working out a proper haunting,” he managed.
Many there scratched their heads.
Connor frowned fiercely, apparently fiercely enough that his men found it intimidating, for they backed away respectfully.
“This haunting will take a bit of time to do properly.”
Roderick gurgled loudly from the back of the hall.
The men dispersed, leaving Connor alone with his thoughts.
Well, his thoughts and Roderick’s complaints.
Connor walked out into the bailey and stared off down the path to the road.
A McKinnon wench.
He should have known.
He got hold of himself and his ridiculous thoughts. He’d been dazzled by her beauty, but now he knew better. She would be easy to frighten into never again returning to the keep. Indeed, ideas on how to terrify her were already clamoring to present themselves to him. All he had to do was sit back and choose the one which would be the most effective.
Aye, he would frighten her and rid his hall of her. He would do it and have not one regret—no matter her beauty, or how the mere sight of her caused something inside him to sigh . . . in relief, or terror; he could not say.
He turned and strode back into the great hall. He wrenched his sword from Roderick’s chest, with
the appropriate comment on the fop’s frailties, then resheathed his sword with a mighty thrust and set his heart aright inside him.
Aye, he would do her in and be glad of it.
In spite of her beauty and because of her parentage.
Chapter 5
Victoria walked swiftly down the little road that led away from the castle. This wasn’t what she wanted to be doing. What she wanted to be doing was standing in that great hall again with the sun streaming down inside and that feeling of medievalness washing over her. “This had better be good,” she warned Fred.
“It is.”
“Don’t tell me: more ghosts.”
“No, Michael Fellini, irritated by his accommodations.”
“Oh,” Victoria said breathlessly. She said it breathlessly because she had now increased her walking to a flat-out sprint. The last thing she wanted was to have the star of her show in a snit because he didn’t care for the wallpaper.
By the time she reached the front door of the inn, she was gasping for breath. She was going to have to get more exercise, or join a gym, or something. Apparently the occasional sprint for the subway just wasn’t doing it for her.
“Fellini’s whining loudly,” Fred noted. “Can’t you hear it?”
Victoria decided that more breath-catching could happen later. Right now she had to stop hell before it broke completely loose.
She threw open the door to the inn and strode inside in her best director fashion. Then she came to a teetering halt, confronted by things she hadn’t seen coming.
Well, some of it she should have seen coming. Michael stood there wearing his most formidable give-me-what-I-want-or-I’ll-call-my-agent expression. Cressida Blankenship, her star actress, stood there, a single tear trailing artistically down her cheek as she contemplated the key to what was no doubt an equally inadequate room. Mrs. Pruitt was scowling fiercely at the both of them.
But what she hadn’t expected was to find the geriatric jet-setter who stood to one side, surrounded by piles of designer luggage and carrying over her arm a clear plastic knitting bag full of funky colors and several pairs of knitting needles in materials ranging from steel to rosewood. Victoria recognized the needles—and the woman toting them—only because that woman was her grandmother.