But not a one of them had been dead.
Dust and bone for centuries.
Mindy shivered.
Then she remembered the mint chocolate wafers she’d eaten, gobbling down the entire plate and—shame scalded her—even polishing off what remained in the package.
She wasn’t seeing ghosts.
She was living a chocolate binge—a sugar-induced nightmare.
Sure of it now, she puffed her bangs off her forehead and tipped back her head to peer up at the long gallery’s elaborate wood-inlaid ceiling. Calorie regret swung round into pure relief. Even so, she took a deep, ghost-banishing breath and began counting to ten, certain the spooks would be gone when she looked again.
Sadly they weren’t.
If anything, they’d moved closer.
The nearest pointed a walking stick at her. “Begone, wench! If you—”
“Be warned!” A second, much more fierce- looking ghost elbowed the cane pointer aside. The shimmering blue mist around them darkened, even crackling when he swept the other spooks with a heated glare. “We are here to warn the lass, no’ chase her away!”
Warn me? Mindy’s blood froze.
Her eyes rounded. “Ahh, errr . . .” Her objections fizzled in her throat. This was bigger than chocolate hallucinations and grumbling frequent flyers.
She pressed a hand to her chest, not sure she could breathe. She recognized the ghosts from their portraits with little gold nameplates at the bottom of each heavy gilt frame. The first one—the Begone ghost—was Geordie MacNeil, one of Hunter’s sixteenth-century ancestors. The other, the spook now aiming the sharp end of his sword at her, had to be Silvanus, a MacNeil chieftain of fifteenth-century fame. Legend claimed he’d outlived six wives and died not long before wedding a seventh, a great beauty who was said to have been more than half his age at the time.
No one knew much about Geordie.
And Mindy didn’t want anything to do with either of them.
“You don’t have to chase me anywhere.” She didn’t know how she managed to speak. She began backing away, still half hoping they were figments of too much chocolate. “I’m leaving just now and—”
“You’re no’ going anywhere.” A deep voice boomed from the back of the long gallery. “No’ until we’ve had a word with you. And then”—the blue haze parted to reveal Roderick MacNeil, another fifteenth-century laird, in all his formidable glory—“you can choose your path!”
Resplendent in full Highland dress, he sailed forward, kilt swinging about his knees, sword at his hip. He stopped right in front of her and gave her a sharp look before sweeping low in a gallant bow.
“Roderick MacNeil,” he thundered unnecessarily as he straightened. “I am MacNeil of Barra, chief of that illustrious race! These other lairdlings”—he made a broad gesture with his arm—“answer to me. I—”
“We’re all the MacNeil of Barra,” another objected from deeper in the whirling mist. “Leastways we were in our own day and time!”
Beside him, Silvanus swelled his chest. “So I said just yestere’en. There be no’ one o’ us more lairdly than the other. That be the way o’ it.”
“Hear, hear!” Geordie rapped his walking stick against a table. “One for all and all for one is our creed.”
Roderick spun around to glower at them. “If that is so, why must I tell the lass what we want of her?”
Silvanus huffed something unintelligible. Then he nudged the ghost hovering beside him until he, too, gave an inarticulate grunt.
Near the table, Geordie shuffled his feet, sending up eddies of sparkly blue mist. He didn’t appear to have an opinion otherwise.
“Spineless women!” Roderick jammed his hands on his hips. “A blind newt would see why I am Barra!”
At the very back of the long gallery, someone snorted. It was a deep voice, richly burred, and sounded more amused than riled. The voice was also more distant. Different enough for Roderick’s bushy red brows to snap together as he whirled to flash an annoyed glare at the farthest reaches of the haze-filled room.
But nothing except the mist moved there.
And only Bran of Barra’s mute, oil-painted face stared back at them, his grin wicked as ever. He, at least—and Mindy was grateful—hadn’t leapt out of his portrait frame like the others.
In fact, Mindy was quite sure that his portrait was just that.
A painted likeness, nothing more.
Even so, Roderick shook a fist at him. “You’ve been silent seven hundred years, Cousin. Dinnae think to thrust your nose in our business now!”
“Hear, hear!” Geordie rapped the table again.
Others rattled their swords and hooted agreement. Some tossed back their plaids and stood proud. All sent agitated glances down the room at the fourteenth-century chieftain’s portrait.
Mindy could have kissed him.
He’d provided just the distraction she needed to start inching backward. Regrettably, she was having difficulty getting her legs to cooperate and managed only to bump into the doorjamb.
“Ho, lass!” Roderick’s voice roared from just behind her. “Where do you think you’re heading? We haven’t yet discussed our plans for you.”
Mindy whipped around to find him towering over her. He stood with his legs planted apart and one hand resting masterfully on his sword hilt. Obviously adept at intimidation, he was using every inch of his big Highland body to his most fearsome advantage.
Mindy blinked.
When her jaw started to slip, Roderick grinned. “Didn’t know that ghosts could move so quickly, eh?”
A ripple of hearty laughter from the other chieftains proved they appreciated his wit.
“I . . .” Mindy’s tongue seemed stuck to the roof of her mouth. She tried not to quake when Roderick’s grin vanished and he leaned toward her, coming so close that his curly-bearded chin almost tickled her own.
His gaze burned into hers, hot, blue, and terrifying. “Are you ready to hear us out?”
Mindy bit her lip to hold back the squeak that she was sure would be her only reply.
“Well?” He drew his sword with a real-sounding zing. “I’ve ne’er chanced to use this on a woman,” he mused, eyeing the blade, “but there’s always a first time. . . .”
“That sword isn’t real.” Mindy didn’t know where the words came from. Maybe it was a touch of refuse-to-die airline bravura. She had been trained to face crash landings with a smile.
Nerves of steel and a saint’s calm had been drilled into her for years.
In this case, it was likely desperation.
Either way, her daring had been a mistake because as soon as the words left her mouth, Roderick’s eyes flashed dangerously. Stepping back, he flipped his sword high in the air, laughing as he caught it on the downfall and presented it to her, hilt first, to examine.
“See how real—or unreal—you find the blade, my lady.” His voice thrummed with challenge. “I vow you’ll change your mind about speaking with us thereafter!”
“I don’t need to touch it.” Mindy ignored her trembling knees and lifted her chin. He’d made her angry now. “You’re a MacNeil. That counts more with me than if your sword is real or isn’t. As a MacNeil”—she almost choked on the hated name—“you’ll find a way to harm me regardless of the weapon you choose.”
To her surprise, his brows snapped together and he spluttered.
He almost looked embarrassed.
But the moment passed quickly and he folded his arms, giving her his worst glower yet. “So-o-o!” He drew himself up to his full imposing height. “If that is the way the wind blows, you’ll no doubt do our bidding.”
“And what might that be?” Sheer annoyance kept Mindy’s voice from cracking.
“We”—Roderick swept his ghostly friends with a regal glance—“want you to restore the tower to us.”
“I’m selling the castle.” Mindy was sure they already knew this. “Besides, you have it anyway. You live here, don’t you? Glaring
out of your portraits at everyone who dares to pass through the long gallery and—”
“You’re no’ telling her proper-like.” Silvanus appeared at Roderick’s elbow with a swirl of plaid and a scatter of whirling blue sparkles. “Tell her—”
“I’m getting to that part!” Roderick glared at him.
Mindy wasn’t sure, but she thought Geordie sniggered.
He must have, because Roderick speared him with a dark look before turning back to her. Taking a deep breath—if ghosts could even do the like, though it seemed that indeed they could—he sheathed his sword and then once more planted his hands on his kilted hips.
“Hear this, lady, and think well before you reply,” he began, watching from beneath his brows. “We would have you restore MacNeil’s Tower to its original glory and”—he paused for dramatic effect—“we want you to return the castle to its rightful home.”
Mindy stared at him. “The castle’s rightful home?”
Roderick nodded meaningfully.
The other chieftains did the same.
A sick feeling began to spread through Mindy’s middle. “I’m not sure I know what you mean.” The lie made her heart pound and dried her mouth. She had a very good idea what he’d meant and the thought paralyzed her.
Still, she went for a bluff. “The Folly is in wonderful shape as it stands and—”
“The Tower is an abomination and shall remain so until it’s returned to Barra!” Roderick’s voice rose on every word. “You must take the castle back to Scotland for us. Stone by bleeding stone.”
Mindy’s eyes flew wide. “That’s impossible. I—”
“It was possible to get the castle here!” Geordie shook his cane at her. “Taking it back should be no greater bother.”
A chorus of ayes and foot stompings agreed with him.
Roderick folded his arms and grinned. “Well? What say you to our proposal?”
Mindy couldn’t answer him.
The floor was dipping wildly beneath her feet. She was sure the walls were weaving. And a brilliant flash of dazzling blue light at the back of the long gallery was nearly blinding her. Blinking, she saw with horror that the blaze was Bran of Barra’s portrait frame.
Worse, the builder of MacNeil’s Tower no longer wore his roguish grin.
He was staring right at her, his proud oil-on-canvas face wearing a scowl more frightening than all his chiefly descendants put together.
If he, too, jumped down and whooshed up to her, she just might faint. After all, if the artist hadn’t used poetic license, his sword was the longest of the lot’s. Just now the blade’s pommel stone burned with the same fiery blue as the portrait frame. He’d also unsheathed the sword and—it was very obvious—he stood clutching the blade’s hilt in a white-knuckled grip.
He looked more than ready to use it.
Mindy shuddered. Her palms dampened.
But then the blue blaze vanished as quickly as it’d appeared. Once again, the long-ago chieftain smiled as if enjoying some private joke. His sword safely returned to the painted scabbard at his hip.
If he’d really been glaring at her, he was only oil and dust now.
Mindy blinked and shivered again, not surprised to find that the ghostly chieftains had pressed close. They’d circled her and now eyed her quizzically. Some had thrust the pointy ends of their swords into the blue mist at their feet and were leaning on the blades’ hilts.
None of them seemed to have noticed the illumination of their forebear’s portrait.
Their entire focus was on her.
“So, lass!” Roderick lifted a hopeful brow. “Will you agree to carry out our wishes?”
Mindy took a deep breath. She still couldn’t believe she was conversing with ghosts. “I told you, I’m selling the castle. You’ll have to find someone else. I’m moving to Hawaii as soon as the deal is inked.”
Roderick’s face fell. He went still as stone.
Geordie’s jaw slipped. “Inked?”
“She means when she’s sold the castle.” Silvanus shot him an annoyed look, then turned back to Roderick. “But she’ll no’ be doing that, will she, now?”
Roderick gave a heavy sigh. “I was afraid it would come to this.”
“Come to what?” Mindy was sure she didn’t want to know.
“Our alternative plan should you prove disagreeable.” Roderick stole a glance at the others, then cleared his throat. “We’d hoped you’d be more reasonable.”
“I only want to leave here.” Mindy was beginning to wonder if it wasn’t the chili-hot sardines and garlic toast she’d eaten for lunch that had summoned them rather than the chocolate mint wafers.
Sardines and garlic seemed a more likely possibility.
It was a remote chance, but enough to keep her chin lifted. “That means”—she straightened her shoulders, as well—“I’ll soon be out of here and you can be sure it won’t be to fly to Scotland.”
“A pity, that.” Geordie looked down at his walking stick. “I dinnae think I’ll care much for this Hah-wah-ee.”
The others nodded in prompt commiseration.
Mindy felt sick.
She turned to Roderick. “What does he mean he won’t care for Hawaii?”
“What he said, just.” Roderick’s tone was pure resignation. “If you’ll no’ be taking our castle back to Barra where it belongs, we’ve no choice but follow you wherever you go when you leave here.
“You’ve already seen how quickly we can move.” A touch of pride lit his eyes. “We can also sift ourselves anywhere. So-o-o, if you won’t comply with our—”
“You’ll follow me to Hawaii?” Mindy stared at him. “Are you saying you’ll haunt me?”
“Every last one of us, aye.” Roderick glanced at the others, who all bobbed their heads. “We’ll follow you to the ends of the earth if need be. And”—he made her a solemn bow—“we’re prepared to do so for all your days.”
Mindy felt her eyes widen. “That’s madness. I- it’s blackmail!”
Roderick spread his hands. “It is a drastic measure, to be sure. Nor something we do lightly.”
Mindy didn’t care. Images of cold mist, sheep, and constant rain flashed across her mind. Lukewarm toast and plates of steaming haggis, followed by black pudding—blood sausage—and rivers of tea when she was so a coffee person.
Long dark winter nights and summers that weren’t.
Everyone knew Scots considered seventy degrees a major heat wave.
They drove left on roads that could only be called threads. Everyone you met claimed to be descended from Robert the Bruce. And—horrors—they sold fried Mars bars in the fish-and-chip shops.
Mindy felt under assault.
Her stomach began to hurt. “I don’t want to go to Scotland.”
“You can leave after you’ve done our bidding.” Roderick waved away her objection. “We’ve been here, in this wretched Pen-seal-place, for centuries. We wish to go home.”
“And to take our castle with us,” Silvanus put in, eyeing her sternly. “We’ve watched o’er these walls all these many years, honor-bound to safeguard each stone. Now”—he put his hands on his hips, looking most decisive—“it’s time for you to help us undo a great wrong.”
“The choice is yours.” Geordie lifted a finger significantly.
“You’re not giving me a choice.” Mindy’s heart sank on the words.
Roderick flipped back his plaid, his grin triumphant. “We are giving you more. You will be spending time in Scotland, lass. Scotland! You’ll see the grandest isle in the Hebrides, our own sweet Barra.”
“Many would fall to their knees in gratitude.” Silvanus’s deep voice rang with pride.
“Hail Barra!” A round of cheers filled the long gallery. Everywhere, chests puffed and plaid folds were flicked and smoothed. Bearded chins lifted, while swords—and one walking stick—were thrust high in the air.
The ghosties enjoyed victory.
Mindy glared at them.
&n
bsp; She didn’t doubt for a heartbeat that they’d follow her to Hawaii.
They were MacNeils, after all.
One MacNeil had already made her life a misery. She wasn’t about to see what a whole band of them would do if she crossed them. It didn’t bear consideration. However she turned it, she lost.
She didn’t have much choice except to do what they wanted.
She was doomed.
Bran knew he was in trouble when he cracked one eye to peer across his bedchamber at his sword. The eye crack had to be his thousandth since he’d sought his bed for the night. He refused to torture himself by counting how many times he’d tossed and turned. How often he’d punched and plumped his pillows didn’t bear thinking upon, either. Yet no matter how penetratingly he stared through the darkness at his blade, he couldn’t detect anything unusual.
More specifically, he couldn’t catch the faintest glimmer of blue in the Heartbreaker’s pommel stone.
The fabled gem appeared insultingly innocuous.
Yet Bran knew what he’d seen in the bailey.
And although the blazing heat that had scorched his side left no brand scars, his sword hip felt as if the skin should be blistered. He’d also swear that his veins ached from the fiery blast that had swept through them, igniting his entire body.
His head pained him so fiercely that even pressing his hands against his temples didn’t ease the throbbing. And if he didn’t know better, he’d think he’d swallowed a whole pailful of ashes.
His mouth was that dry.
Most damning of all, he could still see the American’s startled blue eyes staring at him. Closing his own eyes helped him naught. If anything, each time he did manage to start slipping into a deep, much- needed slumber, he saw more than the woman’s eyes.
He saw all of her.
And he saw her naked.
Fully unclothed in all her wondrous glory, she stood a few feet from where he’d propped the Heartbreaker against the wall. Tempting beyond reason, she shimmered in a shaft of glowing blue light that hid her most intimate secrets even as the luminous swirl of color taunted him with just enough glimpses of her curves and shadows to set him like granite.
Some Like It Kilted Page 4