Eager to put distance between herself and the unnerving portrait, Devin patted the ever-present Algee. The big dog looked past Devin and whined; the sound echoed off the stone walls, raising goose bumps along her arms. Fighting the urge to flee the gallery as fast as she could, Devin headed for the exit.
“Come on, boy. I can’t learn much about Castle Loch Haven if all I do is stand here and daydream.” With a last lingering glance back at the portrait, Devin turned and left the gallery, unaware of the steely gaze that followed her departure.
Chapter Two
Drowsy warmth filled her body as unbidden images drifted through Devin’s mind. She snuggled deeper under the soft goose-down comforter, away from the repeated knocking that penetrated her slumber and disturbed the sense of calm that surrounded her.
“Go away,” she mumbled, rolling over and burying her face in the cushy down pillow.
“Lady Noone, are you awake? The skiff will arrive within the hour.” Mrs. Goode’s voice carried through the heavy wooden door, piercing Devin’s head.
Sitting up abruptly, Devin scrubbed the back of her hand across her eyes to wipe away the sleep and tried to focus on the room before her. Dark-green velvet drapes hung from ornate wrought-iron curtain rods. Heavy wool rugs covered the stone floors to help keep out the cold. Embroidered tapestries graced the exterior walls, giving the room an old world look. A log crackled and shifted in the fireplace, drawing her gaze across the bedroom. Odd, she didn’t remember leaving the fire burning last night. She did remember Mrs. Goode showing her how to bank the flames so the room would stay a consistent temperature against the chilly night air. Then again, after her long plane ride, the main things she recalled was Algee’s unorthodox welcome and the strange feeling of being watched while she walked through the portrait gallery.
But no matter, today was the day she needed to pull herself together and behave as Rollie would have wanted her to. Like a lady.
Lady Devin Noone, to be exact.
“I overslept, I…” Tears filled her eyes.
Mrs. Goode bustled into the room and pulled back the drapes. “That’s all right, dear. You had a big day yesterday. Go on now and get yourself dressed. Breakfast will be served in the dining hall in roughly twenty minutes.”
Devin smiled appreciatively and headed for the bathroom, grabbing clothes on her way.
The hot water of the shower chased some of the cobwebs out of her sleep-fogged brain, allowing her to function fully for the first time since her arrival. Pulling her unruly damp auburn curls back into a loose ponytail, Devin left her bedroom and headed in the direction of what she hoped was the dining room.
Wandering through the hallway, she peered into rooms where knights once slept and ate, trained for war, and possibly died. After passing five bedrooms, three bathrooms, a nursery, and what she gathered were two more sitting rooms on the second floor, Devin arrived in the main hall on the first floor.
“Better make a note to buy a compass. It’ll be lunchtime before I ever make it downstairs,” she mumbled to no one in particular.
Breakfast wasn’t exactly what she had in mind. Poached eggs, kippers, bagels and lox filled the center of the table. Coffee, juice and tea complemented the meal. Food enough for an army. If she ate like this everyday, the clothes she brought with her from the States would only fit for a few months at most.
Mrs. Goode stepped through the dining room door. “Milady, is there anything else you require? If not, then I’ll be off to round up the staff.”
“No, thank you, Mrs. Goode. There’s enough food here to feed half a small country. Would you or the staff like anything before we leave?” Devin asked politely.
“Heavens, no, Lady Noone. The staff would never deign to eat with the mistress of the castle. It wouldn’t be proper. It wouldn’t—”
“I know,” Devin interjected. “It wouldn’t be right.”
She sighed in dismay. There was a lot here she needed to get used to and fast. Maybe there was a book in the Castle library that dealt with ‘Protocol for the Manor Lady.’ Somehow, she doubted she’d get that lucky. More likely than not, everything she needed to learn was going to be trial by fire.
Forty-five minutes later, Devin wrapped her arms around herself in an attempt at warmth as the skiff slowly approached the center of Isle Lake. Her feet felt frozen after only a short time in the damp, chilly weather. Her leather boots, more for looks than body heat, did little to keep her knees from knocking together and were no match for Scotland‘s cold, wet climate. Thank heavens Mrs. Goode had convinced her to put on her heavy woolen coat, gloves and a scarf.
Now wasn’t the time for her to fall apart. It had been seven long years since she had last given in to a lengthy bout of tears and she refused to let anyone see her break. Not then or now.
After her parent’s death, Devin had allowed herself a month to grieve, and then she knew if she didn’t pull herself together, she never would. The hurt still ran deep, and the loss of Rollie was devastating. How many loved ones must she bury before the Heavens deemed she had suffered enough?
On the short ride out to Isle Lake’s center, she listened with a heavy heart to the words of the priest and fought back tears. Almost all of the household staff had asked permission to attend the service and Devin saw no reason to deny their request. They were as much a part of Rollie’s life as she was, perhaps even more so. From the time she set foot on the dock, they’d come to her one by one, offering words of condolence and letting her know how much they had enjoyed serving Lord Roland. Rollie had been loved by so many, touched the lives of so many, and now, would never again have the opportunity to experience life the way he lived it: to the fullest, at full throttle. “All systems go, all engines full ahead,” he used to say.
After the final blessing, the priest handed her the urn of ashes and Devin slowly lifted the lid, allowing the contents to catch on the wind and take flight over the land. The tears fell freely down her cheeks, as many of the members of the household staff withdrew handkerchiefs to hide their own grief. Watching the ashes scatter, Devin said a silent prayer and final goodbye to the man she had loved as much as she had her own father, her dearest cousin, Rollie. When the last of the ashes were scattered, she closed the empty container and silently returned the urn to the priest.
An icy wind whipped across the skiff, scattering the ashes to parts near and far. Devin lifted her face skyward and sighed, her breath hanging in the frigid air. She shivered, wondering again how it was possible to stay warm in such conditions.
Then she heard it.
The music carried across the land and out over the lake. Icy tendrils of sorrow surrounded her. The notes drifted on the breeze, softly at first, yet with each passing second the sound of bagpipes grew louder, as the notes grew sadder…more forlorn and melancholy. Devin stood rooted in place. For a moment, it seemed as though the haunting notes called out her name, beckoned to her alone.
She turned and scanned the vacant shore for the elusive musician. The shoreline was dotted with townspeople, each one there to pay tribute to their Lord in their own special way. No one aboard the skiff paid any heed to her questioning stare, nor was anyone playing an instrument as far as Devin could see. All stood quiet, heads bowed in silent prayer.
Devin turned toward Mrs. Goode. “Where is the music coming from?”
Mrs. Goode looked at her quizzically. “What music, Lady Noone?”
“Listen.” Devin paused. The music had faded, only to be replaced by the gentle lapping of the water against the side of the skiff.
“Begging your pardon, milady, but I hear nothing.” The woman snuck a furtive glance toward the shoreline and made the sign of the cross over her chest.
“Never mind.” Devin shook her head, suddenly unsure of herself and confused by Mrs. Goode’s unorthodox reaction.
****
A loud buzzing sound filled Laird Kyle MacLay’s head. The air was charged; each step brought back flashes of recognition, scenes from long
ago, faces once familiar, long since forgotten. The noise inside his skull was deafening. Voices called out, shrill feminine laughter mixed with words of anger pierced his fog enshrouded brain. He pressed his hands to his ears in order to drown out the sounds, but to no avail.
A voice had awakened him from his slumber of oblivion, bringing him back to the surface, to the present. A feeling of lethargy tugged at his limbs as Kyle slowly became aware of his surroundings. He fought against the waves of pain and surveyed the room. Everything seemed to be in its proper place, as he remembered it to be, yet something was different. Something he couldn’t quite comprehend.
Kyle rubbed his hand over his face. His right cheek tingled. He fought to recall what had occurred. The red-haired American woman had reached out to his portrait and somehow managed to touch him. She had brought him back from the sleep of the dead, to rise and walk the halls of Castle Loch Haven once more.
Tiny bursts of light popped inside his skull as he tried to recall more. She was here, but would he be able to convince her to help him? Of that, Kyle wasn’t certain.
But wait. Lord Roland could help him convince the American woman. After all, she was Rollie’s cousin from Maryland. Rollie would know what to do. Kyle took a step forward, then stopped in his tracks and slumped weakly against the stone wall of the gallery. Rollie promised to help him, and then unforeseen circumstances had taken Rollie away. Kyle fought down the lump in his throat at the memory of the kind man who had welcomed him, a ghost, within the castle that once had been his own, even offered to aid in his journey to the other side. Poor Rollie.
This wasn’t the time for dwelling in the past, too much lay at stake in the present. His thoughts drifted back to the American woman. Was it possible he could be wrong? Had Rollie been mistaken as well? Kyle fervently hoped not. All his instincts told him she was the one. The only one left to aid his quest.
He stared through the window at the skiff returning across the lake, to the lone red-haired woman staring intently at the shoreline. She’d heard him. He had no doubt of that one single fact. The music had reached her ears and touched her soul as he knew it would.
“Ah, lass, pray let me be right about you, for Rollie’s sake as much as my own.” Kyle turned and surveyed his own portrait on the gallery wall. It had been so long since he’d felt the touch of a woman, a soft feminine hand against his flesh. The memory lingered at the edge of his consciousness. There, but not totally there. He closed his eyes and tried to let the memories fill his mind. There had been a time when conquest was all he wanted. All he needed. Not the conquest of battle, but the conquest that came with youth and exuberance. Conquest over the fairer sex was the sweetest of all, he recalled.
His father had reprimanded him time and again, warning of the duties that came with the title of Laird. Duties that did not encompass tots bred out of afternoons of boredom. An heir was imminent once he had secured his bride, one who would do him and the town proud.
But Kyle paid little heed to his father’s words, instead scouring the countryside for willing flesh; for a female to warm his bed at night and be gone on the morrow. He had found sex everywhere. His title opened doors for him when and wherever he wanted, and more often than not, with whomever he chose. Then his father had passed on, and the title became all that more real. The pleasures of the flesh became more fleeting. A respectable match was what he needed, not a willing bed partner, though a combination of the two would have been preferred.
Kyle had duties, responsibilities that left little time for anything but securing his lands and seeing to his tenants. The MacLay name was well respected throughout the Scottish countryside. The old Laird was known as a fair and patient man, as was his father before him. If presented with a problem, the Laird would work with the tenant until a suitable solution had been reached for both parties, whether it be in the fields or in the walls of the castle.
Another thing that came with the title was the news that he was to be wed to Elsbeth Morehead. A match made while Elsbeth was still in the cradle. Kyle inwardly detested the news, but knew he must do his duty to his family and people. When he met Elsbeth, things changed. She was soft where he was hard. She was gentle where he was coarse. She was a cool summer’s breeze on a hot, fetid night. Though not a love match, they suited one another and Elsbeth would birth many fine sons to carry on the MacLay lineage.
But he would not touch her till they were legally wed. He’d made a vow to his father, and a solemn oath to her parents that she would remain a maiden until she came to him as his bride, a virgin until the marriage bed.
Everything had changed in one fateful night. Under Kyle’s own nose, he had lost her to his most hated rival. Laird Duncan McPherson had taken Elsbeth from the castle on the very night before their wedding. He fought against the memory, eager to put time between him and the past.
Kyle started. Awareness that the new Ladyship was crying came to him from a great distance. He followed the sound to the solar and squinted, as her face swam in and out of range before him.
“Milady,” he spoke hoarsely, grabbing the end of the sofa for balance.
Devin lifted her head, made a fast swipe at her tear-filled eyes with the back of her hand, and stared at the man whose presence filled the room. His steely-eyed gaze rocked her to her toes. “I beg your pardon.”
His gaze never wavered as he fought to remain upright, his hand still clamped tightly on the sofa back. Easy man, he chided himself. Don’t falter now.
“You came.” He moved toward her.
Devin backed away from his advance. The delicate teacup she held hit the silver serving tray with a resounding crash. Pieces of floral patterned china rained down on the carpet in her haste to get away.
“Oh, no,” Devin cried out, scrambling for the linen napkin, hurrying to soak up the amber liquid before it ruined the plush wool rug.
“Lord Rollie won’t be pleased, lass. That set was in his family for over a hundred years,” Kyle remarked through gritted teeth, gesturing toward the soggy mess.
“Really, and how would you know what my cousin owned?” The American woman threw a wary glance in his direction as she dropped to her knees to blot at the spot.
He offered up a nonchalant shrug. “I knew all about the man.”
“Look Mr…whoever you are, I think it’s time you left. This is a private home and I’m not quite sure how you got in, but I’d appreciate it if you would leave now.” She motioned toward the door with her free hand.
“Kyle MacLay, previous owner of Castle Loch Haven,” he replied calmly.
“What did you say?” Devin turned toward him, her gaze caught on his face, not quite sure of what she had just heard. The carpet was now forgotten for the moment.
“Laird Kyle MacLay, at your service, lass.” He bowed low before her.
“Look, if this is some kind of sick joke, I am not impressed.”
“No joke, milady. I would never deign to make light of Lord Roland’s demise,” he said seriously, as far as Devin could.
“Laird MacLay?” she whispered, her heart thundering in her chest. Staring at the man before her, she noted he did bear a striking resemblance to the portrait in the gallery. “But it’s impossible. He’s been dead for centuries. Oh…I…you...”
Devin backed away from the man now standing very close before her. Way too close for comfort. She tried to retreat, yet there was no escape. The small of her back hit the hearth at the same time her boot heel caught the tip of Algee’s tail.
The big dog skidded across the stone floor in his haste to seek security beneath a damask covered table on the far side of the solar. His whines climbed in intensity by the second, the sound grating on Devin’s senses.
“Cowardly canine,” the man muttered, staring at the quivering dog, barely visible beneath the tablecloth.
“He’s not a coward. You scared him,” Devin corrected, then paused, remembering this man was still an intruder in her new home, regardless of the circumstances.
; Reaching behind her for balance, Devin grabbed the fireplace poker and swung the instrument forward, brandishing it back and forth between her hands like a broadsword. “Hold it right there, mister. I’m not afraid to use this if I have to.”
“What’s the matter, lass? I’m positive I heard you say yesterday you weren’t afraid of me.” Lord MacLay smiled broadly.
So she thought she could defend herself against a ghost with only a fireplace tool. She had guts; he had to hand it to her.
She openly appraised the man whose presence filled the room. Devin had never been one to tuck her tail and run at the first sign of trouble. Then again, it wasn’t every day you were offered the opportunity to view a ghost up close and personal. Her stomach fluttered nervously, as she fought to remain calm. Pure undiluted power exuded from him, surrounding her like a hot summer breeze.
Tall and broad shouldered, his lean body concealed by a loose white tunic and very, very tight black pants. That she did notice instantly. His hair, a light brown flecked with gold, was tied into a short ponytail secured with a leather strip. His hands, she saw, were strong and calloused. There was a raw and untamed look about the man, pure sexual energy fighting to break free from the tight confines of his flesh.
He stared back at her, assessing her. His gaze seemed to penetrate her defenses, allowing him to seemingly access all her secrets in a glance.
Devin thought back to the portrait in the gallery. This man wore the same clothes, yet in the picture the man there held a set of bagpipes.
She held his steady gaze, barely able to believe this was really happening to her. When he moved a step closer, a slow steady stalk, she was certain was meant to intimidate her, Devin shivered under his heated look, yet refused to back down, raising the poker higher before her.
The Laird's Lady Page 3