The Ravenscraig Legacy Collection: A World of Magical Highland Romance

by Allie Mackay

  But just when he was about to treat himself to an almighty scowl - jabbing, sulfur-stinking lightning bolts and thunder cracks, be damned - he landed with a great whoosh at his desired destination: his own well-appointed bedchamber on his precious Isle of Barra.

  Regrettably, the room appeared occupied.

  “I didn’t think you’d ever return.” Serafina stretched voluptuously in his bed, her dark, heavily-kohled eyes a touch resentful.

  Bran knuckled his own eyes, hoping he was imagining her.

  But the Saracen beauty was there.

  Sitting up against the four-poster’s lavish bolsters, she toyed with the edge of a richly-embroidered sheet drawn coyly to her breasts.

  It was clear that those breasts, like the woman herself, waited naked beneath the bed covers.

  “Serafina!” There’d been a time, Bran would’ve flashed a grin and tossed off his plaid. Now, he just wanted her gone. “What are you doing here?”

  She ignored his less than enthusiastic welcome and licked a finger, trailing its wet tip slowly down her throat.

  “I’ve been lonely.” Her voice was a smoky purr, as seductive and languorous as the way she stretched her arms over her head, letting the bedsheet slip down to reveal the ripe swells of her bosom.

  A sensuous smile curved one corner of her mouth as she arched her back in a deliberate move to best display her lush, well-rounded breasts. Her large, dark-tipped nipples were drawn tight and thrusting in Bran’s direction.

  He stared, blood roaring in his ears.

  But it was annoyance, not passion that set his pulse racing.

  “Since when do you have time to be lonely?” He crossed his arms, staying where he was. “There are scores of men in the hall below, each one surely eager to-”

  “They’re all fussing and stalking about.” She threw back the sheets and slipped from the bed, standing before him in all her bare-skinned glory. Her shining black hair fell in a glossy skein to her hips and, Bran noted with irritation, she’d adorned her navel with a ruby.

  “Your friends in the great hall have forgotten I exist,” she complained, pouting prettily. “I could dance naked on the high table and they wouldn’t notice.”

  “I doubt that.” Bran strode across the bedchamber and opened the door, indicating she should leave. “I suggest you perform again. They’re sure to be appreciative.”

  “They’ve turned into eunuchs!” She tossed back her hair, sending a waft of her musky perfume beneath his nose. But she made no move to go. “I could offer them the pleasure of the gods and they’d still not quicken with interest. They all have their backs up about the noise and-”

  “What noise?”

  “If you’d been here, you might have noticed.” She cast him a sulky look, her red lips clamping tight.

  “Aye, well, I havenae been here, so tell me.” Bran snatched a plaid off a peg on the wall and swirled it around her nakedness.

  Her eyes flashed hotly, but she hitched the plaid in place, knotting it at one shoulder. “Everyone says it’s the moderns. They’re-”

  “Moderns?” Bran felt the floor dip under his feet. “There arenae any such folk in my tower.”

  “Perhaps not before you took yourself off, but they’re here now.” She looked pleased to impart such information. “There are scores and scores of them, stomping about the islet and making a racket all the living day. Hammering, sawing, digging and” – she put back her shoulders, spite in her eye – “if some are to be believed, even tromping through your hall!”

  “That cannae be.” Bran shook his head.

  “Oh, no?” Serafina put a hand on her shapely hip. “I do not lie.”

  “I didnae mean you had.” Bran puzzled, squeezed the bridge of his nose.

  A sick feeling spread through his gut. There were moderns running all over his islet. Like as not, they were also fussing about in the present day equivalent of his tower. Leastways, he imagined they would be once it stood again. That was their purpose, after all. Last he’d looked, they were making excellent progress.

  He’d been quite thrilled.

  He’d just never dreamed their goings-on would disturb his own.

  “You can ask Saor if you don’t believe me.” Serafina swept past him out the door. “He’s been up on the battlements these last days, watching it all unfold.”

  The words spoken, she flashed him another look of pique and then flounced away, disappearing into the shadows of the stair tower.

  Bran charged across the room the instant she vanished, unlatching and throwing back the shutters of the tall, arch-topped window beside his bed. He leaned out, bracing himself for whatever he’d see, but all that greeted him was a gust of cold, damp air and the sound of the waves crashing onto the rocks below his tower. The tides were running fast and a sickle moon edged the horizon with silver.

  It’d stopped raining and a wash of brilliant stars lit the heavens.

  He felt a fool.

  The night sea, he knew, looked the same in all centuries.

  And if a certain American he never should have kissed hadn’t turned his wits to mush, he’d have remembered that the windows of his bedchamber looked out onto open water.

  Up on the battlements, with Saor, was where he needed to be.

  His friend could fill him in on what had happened in his absence. Although he doubted even Saor would have satisfying answers. He, too, was a ghost, after all. And, like Bran, Saor enjoyed their raucous existence. Neither of them had ever bothered to think too strenuously on the ins and outs of ghostdom.

  They just enjoyed existing.

  As did every one of his friends who were now, according to Serafina, prowling about the great hall, their usual nightly merrymaking disrupted and disturbed because Mindy Menlove, in her time, was restoring MacNeils’ Tower.

  Sure of it, he hurried from his room and raced up the stairs to the battlements, taking the steps two at a time. He flung open the door, bursting out onto the walk-walk in the same moment Saor was ducking his head to step into the stair tower.

  “Damnation!” Bran leapt aside, just avoiding a collision.

  Saor jumped back, laughing. “Welcome home, you scoundrel!” He set his hands on his hips, flicking Bran up and down with an amused gaze. “You don’t look any worse for the wear, having succumbed to an Ameri-cain’s charms!”

  “I haven’t succumbed to anyone,” Bran denied, hoping the bright starlight didn’t show his flush.

  “But you did seduce her?” Saor’s smile flashed white.

  “I-” Bran shoved a hand through his hair, stopping just before agitation had him roar that not only had he kissed Mindy; she’d enjoyed an earthshaking release while grinding herself on his thigh.

  There were some things a man kept to himself.

  Her passion had branded him. She’d seared him in a worst way than any lightning bolt in the Otherworld could ever have done. Her sweetness was now etched on his soul. He could still see the wonder in her eyes; feel the ripples of arousal moving through the whole glorious length of her.

  And the memory was his alone.

  So he assumed his most chiefly stance and fixed his friend with a stern gaze. “How I appear and what I’ve done is my own concern and no one else’s. I’d rather hear why you don’t look as if the end of the world has come to our fine, fourteenth-century Barra? A certain Saracen beauty claimed as much when I found her in my bedchamber.”

  “Ah, well...” Saor went to stand by the wall, bracing his hands on the stone. “There has been quite a stir, ‘tis true.”

  “The moderns and their restoration work?” Bran raised one eyebrow, waiting.

  Before Saor could reply, the clatter of claws on stone interrupted them and Gibbie appeared in the tower doorway. Head down and tail wagging, he trotted over to join them. He sniffed along the base of the walling and then dropped onto his haunches beside Bran.

  “So you’ve seen them?” Saor spoke as soon as Gibbie settled.

  “To be sure, I’
ve seen them.” Bran flicked his wrist to produce a meaty bone for his dog. After giving it to him, he shot Saor an annoyed look.

  “A man named Jock MacGugan, a fisher by trade, has rallied the men of Barra.” Bran glanced at Saor, but when he only nodded, Bran went on. “They must have been working for a good while or at incredible speed. Last I saw, the seaward walls and the tower stood to a goodly height.

  “Indeed, there was no sign of the deep, dark pit you described and although there were quite a few piles of stone, each time I looked, they’d decreased in number.

  “As they did, new structures rose to replace them.” Bran adjusted his plaid against the wind, his stare on the horizon. “I believe to have recognized the watchtower and the chapel. ‘Twas a wonder the likes of which I ne’er thought to see, I say you.”

  “But we aren’t here to dash our wits about the rebuilding of this keep in a time that isn’t ours, are we?” Saor spoke like a wizened sage, his tone irritating.

  Bran glanced at him. “So it’s true?”

  Saor shrugged. “No doubt Serafina exaggerated for you to say our world is nearing its end. What is true” – he drew his plaid more closely about his shoulders, as if the admission chilled him – “is that we’re being disturbed by the building noise.”

  “That cannae be.” Bran scratched his beard. “Too many centuries lie between.”

  “So I would have said, too.”

  “But you no longer do?” Bran was sure he didn’t want the answer.

  Saor gave it anyway. “Nae.” He shook his head. “Not after trying to eat my evening meat in peace and no’ being able to take a single sip of ale without having my ears filled with hammering, bangs, and the garble of voices when no one was there. I’d hear speaking around me, but without me being able to see anyone or understand a word of what they were saying.”

  “Perhaps you were ale-taken?” It was a small chance, but worth suggesting.

  “Humph! You’re no’ listening. The chaos was too great for me to take the merest swig.” Saor placed a hand over his heart. “Some men have even caught glimpses of the moderns. Those that have done say they move amongst us as if they were the ghosts and us the living.”

  Bran stared at his friend, disbelieving.

  But it was clear that Saor was speaking the truth.

  “How can that be?” Bran couldn’t wrap his mind around such an absurdity.

  This was his world and it should be impossible for a modern to enter it.

  “Dinnae ask me.” Saor shrugged again. “I can only tell you the men are complaining. Some have even been heard to talk of leaving.”

  Bran’s heart sank on the words.

  He didn’t doubt it.

  His hall was a place where high-spirited men came to enjoy openhanded hospitality with free-flowing ale, excellent victuals, and as much revel as they desired – or not. Clean pallets or warm beds were provided for all, fires kept going, and never a question asked or eyebrow raised, tolerance and congeniality being the measure of the day.

  Guests could come and go as they pleased. No one was ever turned away.

  As much as it swelled Bran’s heart to know his tower would soon stand fully restored in Barra of the present day, it pierced him as greatly to think that the building mayhem might send his friends fleeing.

  “That’s just the half of it.” Saor’s tone was earnest.

  Bran looked at him sharply. “There’s more?”

  Saor nodded. “You’ll recall our three chiefly visitors who put Serafina in such a dither?”

  Bran started to say that he not only remembered them, he now knew their names, when Saor turned back to the sea. He glanced about as if he expected the three ghostly chieftains to climb up over the night-darkened curtain wall.

  “They’ve been seen again.” Saor kept his voice low. “But they haven’t returned to the keep. It’s out yonder, they’ve been sighted.” He made a sweeping gesture that took in the choppy, white-capped water. “They appear in a galley, flashing back and forth across the bay, sending up great clouds of spume and whooping like madmen.

  “Some say they’re the reason the moderns are working so fast and furious on the tower. That the three chieftains have threatened the workers and-”

  “They’re MacNeils.” Bran found himself defending them. “They’ll no’ be making trouble for Barra men. They-”

  “Oh-ho! You speak as if you know them.” Saor’s eyes sharpened.

  “I ken all MacNeils.”

  “That’s not what I meant and you know it.”

  Bran tipped back his head and glared up at the heavens. “If there are gods and ancients up there, I’m asking them to tell me why I e’er chose a nosy bugger like you for a friend!”

  “So you do know them?” Saor grinned.

  Bran stifled the urge to punch him in the nose. “Nae, I don’t know them. I know of them. Their names are Silvanus, Geordie, and Roderick. Serafina had the right of it when she judged them to be MacNeil chiefs of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries.”

  “How do you know their names?” Saor’s dark brows drew together. “Seeing as you haven’t met them, that is.”

  A muscle began to tick in Bran’s jaw. “Mindy told me.”

  “Mindy?”

  “So I said, just.”

  “That’s a lassie’s name if e’er I heard one.” Saor poked Bran’s arm. “An Ameri-cain lassie, I’m thinking!”

  Bran ignored the arm poke and focused on summoning his most fierce scowl. “Aye, that she is.”

  “Ho!” This time Saor slapped his thigh. “The maid from Ravenscraig Castle, belike?”

  Bran nodded curtly.

  He didn’t bother glancing at Saor. He knew without looking that his friend would be amused.

  Saor’s chuckle proved it. “I’ll wager my sword she’s from that Penn-seal place.”

  “She hails from Bucks County.” Bran almost choked on the words. “Bit place called New Hope.”

  “Right! But…” Saor leaned close, waggling his brows. “Where in America is this Bucks County?”

  Bran clamped his mouth in a hard, tight line.

  Saor flashed a triumphant grin. “So she is from Penn-seal-landia. Sakes, man! Your time is nigh-”

  “My time was nigh centuries ago, I’d mind you.” Bran glared at him. “That being so, you can hoot and jig all you wish. It willnae be changing a thing.”

  Bran folded his arms, signaling an end to their discussion.

  “What does your lady have to do with the three MacNeil ghosties?” Saor proved he was a master at persistence.

  Or a fool.

  Not caring which, Bran grabbed the loon’s arm, gripping hard. “She isn’t my lady. But I did learn from her why the three chieftains are here.”

  He released Saor as quickly as he’d seized him and then waited until he brushed his sleeve into place before continuing. “They’re the reason for the restoration,” he announced, taking some small satisfaction in seeing Saor’s black-bearded chin drop. “It would seem that some foul aberration of a latter-centuried MacNeil had my tower dismantled and carted off to America, to New Hope in Penn-seal-where’er. Thon three ghosties - and, like as not, all else that were here at the time - went along with the stones.

  “You ken, I’ve e’er kept my own council, preferring to use ghostly skills to preserve Barra as I knew and loved it in my day. So-”

  “You missed the greatest disaster in MacNeil history.” Saor was rubbing his neck, looking stunned for once.

  Bran shrugged. “So it would seem.”

  “And the three chiefs, Silvanus, Roderick, and Geordie, was it?” Saor recovered quickly. “What of them?”

  “I just told you.” Bran started pacing. “They accompanied the stones.” He whipped around and jabbed a finger at Saor. “But they weren’t happy about it. So they pressed Mindy to have the tower returned to its rightful home, here on Barra.

  “That’ll be why they’re beating up and down the bay, causing a ruckus.” Bra
n glanced out at the sea. “They’ll be celebrating.”

  The notion made his heart squeeze and he vowed, silently, to lavish his best wines and feast goods on them if ever their paths crossed.

  He owed them much.

  Even if the restoration din was presenting difficulties. The troubles would pass, he was certain. One didn’t live seven hundred years and not know that. Problems that loomed tall as mountains one day, often proved to be less than a spit in the ocean, the next.

  As for Mindy…

  He refused to think about her.

  He did put back his shoulders and clear his throat. “Those three chiefs will be glad to be back home where they belong, and our tower with them. I say they can make as many flourishes through the bay as they wish.”

  At his side again, Gibbie barked agreement.

  Bran reached down to rub the dog’s ears. “Tell our friends to bide their patience with the building racket. The gods know why we can even hear it, much less catch glimpses of the goings-on, as you say, but I’m sure the disruptions willnae last forever.

  “And” – he knew this was important – “reassure them all that I’ll no’ be going anywhere. My hall will remain as e’er. I’m no’ a man for change.”

  Saor nodded and made for the tower door. But before he ducked inside the torch-lit stairwell, he glanced back over his shoulder. “I have your word?” He sounded skeptical. “You’ll no’ be going the way of our old friends Alex, Hardwick, and others? Following some fetching Ameri-cain lassie into her own time?”

  Bran looked down at Gibbie, curling his fingers in the dog’s coarse fur. When he glanced up again, he didn’t hesitate. “Nae, I willnae.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.” Saor gave another swift nod, and then thumped down the stairs.

  But as soon as the sound of his footsteps faded, a cold nose bumped Bran’s hand and he looked down again at Gibbie. He saw at once that his old friend knew what Saor did not. It was the same truth that, even now, was still making his side hurt as if a thousand red-hot fire needles were jabbing into his most tender places.

  He would go to Mindy in her brash, characterless modern day world.

  “Eh, Gibbie?” He stroked the dog’s head. “We’d get by somehow, wouldn’t we?”