The Perfect Ten Boxed Set

by Dianna Love

  Duncan grunted at his solicitor’s blatant lie. He’d come into this very room shortly after Sheffield had arrived and found the bloody bastard trying to fondle the then ten-year-old Will Frasier’s jewels. Furious with Sheffield, Duncan had frightened the piss out of both his heir and the poor boy. His next inclination had been to pitch the old blighter headlong down the steps, but having accumulated enough blood on his hands for one lifetime, he’d contented himself with terrorizing Sheffield for the next two decades. The old fop hadn’t so much as dared look at another lad or venture above the second floor landing during the entirety of his residence.

  “I hope you find it to your liking,” Silverstein continued. “’Tis quite extraordinary. The tapestries on either side of the bed were produced in the late seventeenth century by one of your predecessors, Lady Katherine Stewart MacDougall. The bed is original to the castle. ‘Tis over-sized because Duncan Angus MacDougall, the first Laird of Blackstone, was a huge man. Supposedly, he stood six and one half feet tall, much like Robert the Bruce.”

  Duncan snorted. There was no supposedly about it. He did stand six and one-half feet tall and weighed seventeen stone, if anyone cared to know. And Tom knew better than to compare him to the Bruce. Hummph!

  Waving around the room, Silverstein concluded, “And the windows, Miss Pudding, offer a spectacular three hundred and sixty-degree view.”

  Pudding? Which one of his cousin’s mangy descendants had had the audacity to rut with a Sassenach—an Englishman? Matters had definitely deteriorated further than he’d surmised.

  “It’s lovely,” Miss Pudding murmured running a hand over the hunt scene carved into his headboard. She then gently pressed the mattress. “But please call me Beth.”

  “Beth it is, but don’t be distressed if most about call you my lady.”

  “Oh?”

  Silverstein smiled. “The honorarium comes with the castle. We tend to keep to the old ways as much as possible here. Within the next day or so, most from Drasmoor will be out to welcome ye.”

  “Ah.” She wandered to the open window. Staring out, she murmured, “It’s still so difficult to believe, Mr. Silverstein. That all this...,” her hand fluttered, encompassing the room and the view, “could be mine in just six months’ time. For so many years, I’ve not had so much as a pot to—”

  Hearing her voice crack then falter, Duncan moved closer to the now silent woman staring out his window. He studied her face as she tried unsuccessfully to blink away tears. What caused her to weep? From her silent shaking carriage, he suspected she wasna a woman who cried easily and he hoped for her sake that it wasn’t too often. ‘Twas not a pretty sight.

  She’d bitten her bottom lip to the point of scarlet and strange black streaks now stained the flat planes of her cheeks. When she shivered, he felt heat radiate off her and instinctively stepped closer, only to be bathed in a strange scent, an exotic mix of sweet and soft. He fought the unaccountable urge to reach out and touch her. How curious.

  “Shall we tour the rest of your domain now?” Silverstein asked from across the solar, “And please call me Tom. There’s no point in our standing on ceremony. We’re likely to have a long, complex relationship.”

  Duncan frowned at the comment, but the woman, Beth, silently nodded as she hastily brushed her tears away. She heaved a huge sigh and faced his solicitor, this time with a smile.

  “I’d love to see the rest of my home.”

  When she put the emphasis on the word home, Duncan Angus MacDougall grinned for the first time in decades.

  ~#~

  Alone and hungry, Beth wandered into the bowels of her keep to the kitchen.

  Here, at least, she wouldn’t have to worry about contracting some nasty disease. Someone had taken the time to scour the large whitewashed room to a high shine. Even the battered tin pots above the hearth glowed.

  There were no wall-mounted cabinets in the basement kitchen; just an enormous center table surrounded by stools, an ancient, multi-drawer spice chest and a few old appliances. The cavernous room’s only charm came by way of a six-foot high by eight-foot wide fireplace, complete with wrought iron hooks, a boar-sized roasting spit, angle irons and four separate side ovens. As she ran a hand over the embossed lions on one of the cast iron doors, she could almost smell fresh bread baking. Her stomach growled.

  Given Beth’s inexperience with operating a boat, Mr. Silverstein had thoughtfully arranged for a week’s worth of fresh food to be laid in. She examined the unfamiliar labels on the canned goods and sniffed the fruit and breads on the table before opening the squat refrigerator to find a quart of fresh milk—-its thick cream filling the top two inches of the bottle, a half dozen brown eggs, two chops and butter. Too tired to make anything elaborate, she snatched two eggs from their cardboard container.

  She scrambled the eggs then noticed a five-gallon glass container of yellow liquid fueled the stove. Shrugging at the oddity, she turned a porcelain knob and waited for a familiar click-click-click. When nothing happen she immediately flipped off the knob and stared at the white enameled, cast iron contraption. Even her fifth floor walkup’s stove had an electric ignition. Now what?

  Matches. After a three-minute hunt, she struck one and held it near a burner as she turned the appropriate knob. Nothing happened. She tried three more times before huffing in exasperation and dumping her eggs down the drain.

  Toast and an apple, then.

  She found an ancient toaster, but it took awhile before she could get its sides to flop open. “I could starve to death at this rate,” she muttered, dropping two slices of bread into it and shoving the toaster’s odd shaped plug into the wall outlet.

  “Oh, shit!”

  She jumped back as a shower of fluorescent sparks spewed from the wall socket. The fireworks continued as ribbons of acrid smoke oozed out of the toaster.

  “God damn it!” She yanked the toaster’s cord from the wall. When the sparks abruptly ceased, she heaved a sigh and heard a masculine chuckle. Startled, she spun around.

  Seeing no one, she lowered her hands and released her breath. “Next, you’ll be seeing ghosts,” she chided, feeling foolish.

  She was, after all, a city chick, well used to the wail of sirens, screeching tires, and things that go bump in the night. She shouldn’t be jumping, heart in her throat, because sparks flew and an errant wind whipping around outside decided to come down the roasting pit’s flue.

  She turned her attention back to the toaster. It felt cool. Gingerly, she touched the socket. Finding no heat, she thanked God for small favors, grabbed two apples from the table and shut off the light. Whatever caused the problem could wait for daylight.

  Chapter 2

  Totally incredulous, Beth stared at the electrician Tom Silverstein had sent to solve her kitchen’s wiring problem.

  “Am I understanding you correctly, Mr. MacBride? All the wiring is made of aluminum?”

  The electrician nodded. “Aye, all of it. ‘Twas commonly used at the turn of the century. The twentieth, I’m meanin’. ‘Tis all gonna have to be replaced. ‘Tis dangerous, ye ken?”

  She kenned all right, feeling lucky she still had eyebrows.

  She’d already discovered the plumbing in the keep was shaky at best, knocking and banging as she tried to purge the rarely used pipes. She’d concluded from the amount of rust and the thick scum lining the east wing’s claw footed tub, her predecessor had only bathed when the seasons changed.

  She heaved a resigned sigh. “How much will it cost to replace the wiring in just the main living areas?” She didn’t want to know or even speculate on how much fixing all the wiring would cost. She’d have to take care of the rest the same way she paid off her credit cards. A bit at a time. Right now, she simply wanted to use a hair dryer, leave a hall light on at night, and make toast without burning the place to the ground.

  She took comfort where she could. The electrician wouldn’t be knocking any holes in her newly acquired walls. The wiring ran in tubing al
ong the stone floors, walls, and plaster ceilings.

  “Dinna worry about the cost, my lady. I’ll work up an estimate and send it to Mr. Silverstein in a day or two. I’m sure we men can come to a meeting of the minds.”

  After a broken night’s sleep and a hard morning of cleaning, Beth had little patience for a patronizing pat on the head.

  She’d already found water-damaged paneling, six windows with broken panes, more that wouldn’t open, and she’d only examined half the keep. She shuddered to think what else lay in wait. She’d be dead broke in a month at the rate things were going, “maintenance” or no.

  And this was her keep, damn it. Not Tom Silverstein’s.

  “Mr. MacBride, I’ll be the one to approve or reject your estimate, so please send it to me. Meanwhile, is there anything I should do to keep from setting this place ablaze?”

  He made a thick “humphing” sound at the back of his throat and puffed out his chest. “Aye. Dinna plug anything else in. And dinna leave any lamps on when ye go to sleep. Wouldna do to have ye wake and find yerself and the castle afire, now would it?”

  “Ah.” She wanted to cuff his surly ears.

  When Silverstein returned for her boating lesson, she’d request a different electrician. The job would take weeks—if not months—-to complete, and she couldn’t hold her tongue around this man for that long.

  She walked down the stairs and into the bailey with him. Waving goodbye, she smiled benignly and warned, “Do be quick as you pass under the portcullis, Mr. MacBride...wouldn’t do to wake and find you skewered to the ground, now would it?”

  ~#~

  Duncan had never heard a woman curse so much in his life—or death, come to think on it.

  He’d followed Beth for most of the morning as she tore through his keep with the speed of a waterspout, tearing down window covers and poking into corners and cupboards like some crazed ferret. He paid close attention to what she found fascinating and to what offended her thin, aquiline nose. He had to concede she recognized craftsmanship when she found it. But the more dust, decay, and fractured furniture she found, the more colorful her language became.

  Still rattled by her presence, he retreated to his solar and flopped down on his side—-the left side—of his great bed. In the wee hours of the night he’d come into his room and been relieved to discover she’d chosen the right side.

  He’d settled next to her. Fingering a silky strand of her hair as she slept, he thought about the curse that had sent him into this place of neither life nor death. He again pondered the curse—-the prophecy—etched into his grave marker by that witch, the mother of his third wife. He’d been so relieved to find the carved words—-to learn there was hope—he’d memorized every letter.

  Only by ain token trice blessed...had to mean his wedding ring...would one come to change ye fate.

  Could this mouse, this new heir, be the one spoken of? Was she strong enough? Had he simply made a dreadful mistake by trusting the last unattached woman? At least the titian had taught him a valued lesson; he’d never again let his weakness for flame-colored hair lead him by the balls. He still couldn’t believe he’d thought himself in love with the witch.

  Well, he harbored no fear of repeating his mistake with this one. Miss Pudding was as plain as porridge. But she did have good skin. And a nice mouth.

  She slept so soundly; with such stillness, in fact, he’d been forced to touch her twice during the night to be sure she still breathed. She’d grumbled briefly, but soon settled back into the deepest slumber he’d ever witnessed. Odd.

  And odd didn’t begin to describe her morning ablutions.

  He studied the parade of bottles and glossy black cases on the dresser a past descendant had added to the room. Never in his wildest dreams could he imagine going through all that Beth did of a morning.

  He should have felt guilty watching her, but once she’d begun, he’d not been able to pull his disbelieving gaze away. No whole man could have.

  She had bounced out of the bed with a smile and immediately stripped to her skin—-nice, smooth, milky white skin; so pale it made the rosy nipples of her small, high breasts and the chestnut thatch between her legs stand out in delightful contrast.

  She then proceeded to use two of the bottles from her collection to wash her hair, another to wash her face, and yet another to clean her long limbs and lithe body. All in tepid water since she’d not taken the time last night to light the fires below. She then did the most amazing thing.

  She ran a sharp, blue handled blade under her arms, over her smooth muscled legs and ever so carefully about the edges of her downy thatch. It had nearly been his undoing.

  By the time he caught his breath, she had dried herself, and started to ever so slowly cover herself in a rich, vanilla- scented cream. Watching the seductive display had been his undoing. He’d forced himself from the room.

  When curiosity again took the upper hand, he returned to find her standing before the mirror dressed in purple leggings and a thick matching sweater. Her wet, shoulder length hair had been pulled back into a loose knot at her nape. He’d crossed his arms and leaned on the doorframe wondering what she would do now.

  For a brief moment she appeared a wee bit sad as she stared at her reflection, then she reached for yet another bottle. She went through four before she picked up one of the glossy black cases. Then the morning’s most bizarre event occurred. She began painting a portrait.

  Like an artist, she wielded first broad brushes then fine, and using pigments—-both solid and liquid—-she re-created herself.

  Having turned her ordinary gray eyes into rather appealing smoky pools, she surprised him by suddenly gasping. The tool that had made her lashes sooty hit the floor as she spun around facing him.

  Startled, he watched as her gaze darted around the room. He, too, began looking about, expecting to find something sinister. Seeing nothing, he moved to her right and waited.

  She shuddered for a brief moment, huffed, and faced the mirror once again. Her gaze continued to dart about the room on occasion as she painted her full lips a soft rose, but nothing further disturbed her.

  She then left the solar to tear his home asunder.

  ~#~

  Standing in the bailey, a hand shielding her eyes, Beth asked, “What do you think, Tom?”

  She grinned at the glare bouncing off the first and second story windows. Her castle would definitely make an awesome bed and breakfast.

  “Lovely. Ye’ll be blinding every seaman from here to the Isle of Mull by week’s end. Are ye sure, lass, ye dinna want any help? There are day workers aplenty. I could send one out to do this for ye.”

  “Oh, I’m sure.” She didn’t want to be tripping over any more people than was absolutely necessary after making her monumental discovery this morning.

  Her castle was haunted.

  Her new and decidedly friendlier electricians, Bart and Will Fraiser, would start work tomorrow morning and that would be disturbing enough.

  She smiled at Tom. By mid-morning she knew, without a doubt, they were in need of a frank discussion if her living at Blackstone was to have any chance of success. “Why did you lie to me?”

  Tom’s face flushed. “I’ll never lie to you, lass!”

  “Ah, but you have—when I asked if Blackstone was haunted.”

  “Nay. You asked if I’d seen a ghost and I answered truthfully. I’ve never.”

  “I’ve seen him, Tom.”

  At first, she’d only catch startling glimpses of him, like a mote floating in the corner of her eye. Heart thudding, she’d spin around...and find nothing. Finally realizing she only saw the tall, translucent creature if she happened to be looking in a mirror, she started watching for him in anything reflective. And did. She’d become quite good at focusing in on the specter as he hovered behind her, becoming more fascinated with his blue-black hair and beard, steel blue eyes, and heavily muscled physique with each consecutive sighting; hence, all her shiny windows. On tho
se rare occasions when he stood very close, she’d also catch a whiff of cold, fetid air.

  “Who is he?”

  A concerned scowl suddenly replaced the flush of embarrassment on Tom’s face. “Has he done or said anything to frighten you, lass?”

  “No. He’s only startled me a few times.” She wasn’t about to tell Tom she was quite certain her decidedly masculine ghost had watched her bathe yesterday. She felt embarrassed enough.

  “Good.” Tom placed a hand at her waist and directed her to the patch of lawn surrounding Blackstone’s ancient well at the center of the bailey. “Come, have a seat in the sun. The telling of Duncan Angus MacDougall’s tale and mine will take some time.”

  ~#~

  Duncan put down his heir’s peculiar lists—things she wanted to repair and purchase—and scowled out the great hall’s window to where his solicitor and Beth sat.

  “What on earth can they be talking about for this long?”

  They had nothing in common and certainly couldn’t be discussing him. ‘Twas forbidden until he’d made himself known to the heir, and he certainly wasn’t ready to do that. Not yet, anyway.

  Being aware of his presence would, no doubt, send Miss Beth screaming back to America, which wouldn’t do, not at all. He had yet to test her mettle, didna know if she was the one. If he found her wanting—-and he suspected he might for she was so...odd, then she could stay or go as she pleased.

  He again scanned the list entitled Order From Home. Murphy’s Oil Soap was self-explanatory, but what is Soft Scrub? Ah! That must be the cleanser she uses when bathing. He smiled, his mornings looking decidedly brighter. She wanted a case of it.

  Reading the second sheet—B and B Provisions, his frown returned. She wanted ten sets of Egyptian cotton sheets and triple the number of towels, all in white. Seemed excessive, even for a woman who bathed daily. And why would she want one hundred bees’ wax candles, twenty down pillows, and five down comforters? They had electricity and used only one bed.