by Cindy Miles
‘‘Aye,’’ Sorely said. ‘‘But those were passersby, hill walkers, stopping just long enough to explore the keep. Now that it has been restored and she’ll be staying on, mayhap the lass will warm up to us?’’
‘‘Especially since she’ll be here for so long,’’ Rob said. ‘‘No one’s ever stayed more than a sennight— especially if they’re receptive to us.’’
Ethan nodded. ‘‘Mayhap. But ’tis a lot to hope for. Mortals are a scary lot.’’ He paced, considering, then stopped and glanced at his kin. ‘‘Dunna show yourselves to her. Not yet. We dunna want to scare her off. We’ll wait and see if she can sense us whilst she explores the keep.’’
‘‘And if she senses us?’’ Aiden asked.
Ethan met his stare. ‘‘Then I’ll give her a few thoughts to ponder. Tonight.’’
Refreshed from a shower and full from Guthrie’s surprisingly good supper of potato soup and a hard roll, Amelia stood in the great hall. Staring. In awe and completely spooked. Guthrie had driven into the village for a game of cards and wouldn’t be home until the wee hours, he’d said. Leaving her all alone to ‘‘explore the fortress, or whatever it is you story-tellers do,’’ he’d added, with a cheerful slam of the great hall door. Although not dark outside, and it wouldn’t be, Guthrie had said, until well after eleven p.m., the interior of the castle—rather, the keep—had very little light at all, being that it had no windows. Only the faint glow from the wall sconces and overhead light fixtures gave off the tiniest bit of yellowed light. The hall sat empty. No TV, no stereo, no suits of armor, no crossed swords hanging from the wall. Nothing. Not even one of those medieval spiky ball things on the end of a chained club. Not even a dust bunny.
She walked over to the only splash of color, a long length of plaid, the interwoven colors brown, black, and a deep, deep red, casually draped across the high mantel on the hearth. Amelia reached up and grasped the end between her fingers and rubbed. Coarse and heavy, the cloth seemed very old.
All in all, the place reeked of centuries gone by, and of something Amelia couldn’t quite put a finger on. It seemed harmless enough, though. No boogeymen, no ghosts, no malevolent beings, all bloody guts and headless and festering wounds . . .
Yet the long shadows stretching from darkened corners and alcoves made her skin prickle into goose bumps, and she had the overwhelming urge to look over her shoulder and hurry. Constantly.
Perfect.
Where should she go first? She’d already seen the kitchen. Simple, neat, a place for everything. A long wooden table with a bench on either side, a walk-in pantry, sink, fridge, several cabinets. Cut-and-dry. No froufrou as ZuZu would say.
Amelia let her gaze roam over the hall once more, and just as she was about to head upstairs to check the other chambers out, she saw something she’d missed before. A single door, in the far corner.
‘‘Aha,’’ she said to no one, and headed for that nearly hidden entrance to somewhere. Her rubber-soled red wedgies, which were part of her Power Outfits ensemble she’d bought with ZuZu, who’d said, ‘‘If you want to be successful, you’ve got to feel and dress the part. Burn that hideous Dracula T-shirt, for God’s sake, and buy some decent clothes!’’ didn’t make a sound as she crossed the wood plank floor. She stopped in front of the ancient-looking wooden door. A long bolt locked it tightly shut. Wiping her clammy palms against the thighs of her jeans, Amelia smoothed the front of the gauzy red baby-doll blouse she’d traded her beloved Stoker T for and reached for the bolt.
Nay, woman.
Amelia jumped and squeaked, and turned around fast. ‘‘Who’s there?’’ Her heart pounded in her chest as she waited.
Not a sound came.
Sliding a glance slowly around the room, Amelia’s breath quickened as her gaze settled on every single shadowy fourteenth-century corner. When the hall proved empty, she took a deep breath and blew out a gusty sigh. ‘‘Ha! Like I thought. Nothing.’’ She meant it, too. Sincerely.
Flexing her fingers, she gripped the bolt and pushed up.
Stay oot o’ there, lass!
Amelia jumped and looked around. ‘‘Guthrie? Is that you?’’ A long strand of hair fell from her clip, and she blew it out of her eyes. What the heck did oot mean, anyway? ‘‘Now,’’ she said, extraloud to prove to Guthrie or who/whatever that, while she was indeed a grade-A chicken, she would not let her overactive writer’s imagination get in the way of her castle exploration. Already, she was feeling inspired, and the only way to stay inspired was to roam the spooky old keep. Right? As she started for the spiral stairs at the other end of the great hall, her steps, unavoidably, became a tiny bit faster.
Without looking back, Amelia made it to the staircase leading to the upper chambers, and just as her red wedgie heel touched the first step, a shiver shimmied down her spine. She looked behind, over her shoulder and down, at the back of her waist.
The ties to her blouse lifted in midair, and one began to slowly tug out of its bow. As if someone were pulling it.
Not Guthrie.
With a strangled yelp, Amelia ran up the winding steps. She hit the second-floor passageway at almost full speed. Well, as full speed as one can manage in a pair of red wedgies. Later, she’d remind herself that she loved the rush of being scared out of her wits and that the whole experience, when recalled to mind, would make for some kick-butt suspense in her book that she had only three months to write. For now, though, she couldn’t get away fast enough.
Get away from what, exactly, she didn’t know.
With a brave, if she said so herself, glance over her shoulder, just to see if some blood-dripping, sword-wielding ghost in armor chased her, Amelia ran to her room, hurried inside, and slammed the door. Leaning her back against it, she drew in large gulps of air.
From the foot of the bed, where he lay curled up into a big, happy, black ball of fur, Jack lifted his head, looked at her, and meowed.
Amelia frowned. ‘‘Some help you are.’’
Jack stretched and yawned.
After several minutes of just leaning against the door, breathing and trying to slow her racing heart, she glanced at her watch. Already ten thirty p.m. Perhaps she shouldn’t try to cram all of her explorations into one night. What with the exhaustion of jet lag and the five-hour time change, she was beat. Besides, she had three months, for God’s sake. It’d be much wiser to space it out, savor the experience, and absorb each and every detail. She nodded to herself in agreement.
Amelia pressed her ear to the smooth, cool wood and listened. Not a sound came from the other side. With a deep breath, she eased from the door, crossed the room to the bed, and scratched between Jack’s ears. ‘‘I should have gotten a dog. A big one.’’
Not taking any chances, Amelia searched the room until she found the only thing she could drag and wedge against the door: an empty trunk. She pushed it hard against the only entrance into her room, and then locked the door.
Taking several minutes to unpack, and finding no closet to speak of, Amelia neatly stashed her clothes in the lone empty trunk that now had a duel use as a garment keeper/doorstop. Good thing she’d brought her liquid wrinkle release, anyway. She laid out her pajamas, kicked off her heels and clothes, and then scooted into the small bathroom and brushed her teeth. Finished, she realized just how cool it was in Scotland in the summertime. Especially in the keep. Drafty, really, as she kept feeling a brush of coolness against the skin of her neck. Discarding her bra with a firm fling, slingshot style, Amelia pulled on her favorite black yoga pants and black tank, and then dug through her bag once more and pulled out the book ZuZu had given her. Maybe she’d read up on the legend of the Munro Keep. Get herself in the mood to write.
Settled into bed, with the covers pulled up to her waist and Jack curled up at the foot, Amelia cracked open the book to the page ZuZu had dog-eared.
The Bluidy Munro, ’tis rumored, haunts the old stone walls of the keep, yearning for a chance to swing his clay-more and hack off a few more
heads . . .
Amelia pulled the coverlet up to her ears. She wasn’t taking any chances.
Chapter 3
Ethan stared down at the sleeping form and frowned.
Why did it have to be a woman?
Amelia. Bedcovers pulled up to her ears and a book gripped tightly in one hand, she breathed deeply as she slumbered. He turned his head sideways and squinted at the text. Haunted Scotland.
Odd lass, in truth. Comely, but verra odd. And so far, verra receptive to his presence. Then again, so was old Guthrie, and the scores of others through the centuries who’d wandered upon Munro land and ventured into the keep. As soon as he tried to make contact, to see if they were receptive enough to his presence to help him and his brothers, they’d hightail it. Fast. No one, save the castle keeper, had ever stayed as long as the American planned on staying. Not even the new owners. The rest had run off, terrified of the ghosts. Fearing the legend was true. Centuries went by before anyone even dared step foot into the keep of the Bluidy Munro. And of all people, it had to be a damn lass.
Mayhap he shouldn’t frighten her quite so much?
A snore erupted from beneath the coverlet, and then the woman muttered something Ethan could not understand. With a shake of his head, he peered about the room. That the girl had shoved the trunk against the door and had gone to sleep with every lamp blazing left light aplenty in the chamber— enough for him to do a bit of exploration himself.
Moving over to a long table in the corner, Ethan considered the gear the girl had set atop it: A thin, flat black square, along with a book of parchment and pens. Aye, he’d recognized those, the pens, since Guthrie used one oft. On the chair beside the long table, her satchel. He itched to look through it, to see what marvels the modern lass had stashed within its flowery depths. Mayhap, he thought, he’d be better off not knowing.
Turned on their sides and thrown casually on the floor, her shoes. Garnet in color, with what looked like braided twigs for the sole. Again, he shook his head.
The next thing that caught his eye needed no explanation, no matter that he’d never seen anything of the sort. At least, not so little of it. Hanging off the edge of the bed, it was indeed a strange garment. One he’d surely investigate further at a later time. One solid piece of black cloth, a loophole for each arm, no doubt to help bind the girl’s heavy breasts—
‘‘Damnation, Ethan, what have you there?’’ Sorely said, suddenly next to him. He bent his head over the black swath of lace. ‘‘Saints.’’
Ethan thought the very same thing.
‘‘By Christ, man,’’ Aiden said, emerging from the garderobe. ‘‘The undergarments in yon bathing chamber aren’t big enough to fit a bairn’s arse.’’ He shook his head. ‘‘I vow the lass has no modesty.’’ One side of his mouth lifted. ‘‘I like her.’’
‘‘Look you how she slumbers,’’ Sorely said. He glanced at Ethan. ‘‘ ’Tis time, aye?’’
Ethan nodded. ‘‘Now, keep quiet. We dunna want her to awaken.’’ If she caught the three of them ogling her underclothes, ’twould be much hollering, no doubt.
It was then the cat, curled up at the foot of the bed, sensed their presence. Its ears lay flat against its shiny black head, and a low growl sounded from its throat.
"S-shush, Jack. You big scaredy-cat,’’ the girl said, her voice sleepy and muffled.
Ethan’s eyes darted to the heap beneath the bedcovers. He stared, waiting for her to rouse fully. Not that she could see them in their present state . . .
With one hand, the girl pulled the coverlet down to her waist, but her eyes remained closed. Soon, she relaxed, another tiny snore escaped, and then her breathing became long and deep. Her black tunic, sleeveless as it was, had ridden halfway up her stomach, exposing a goodly amount of soft flesh.
‘‘By the rood, she’s bonny,’’ Aiden said, mostly to himself.
Ethan frowned. ‘‘Shut up or you’ll wake her.’’ He didna want to take notice of her bonniness. ’Twas too much of a distraction. By the cross, his men already acted like idiots in her presence, and she’d been in the keep naught for a solid day.
‘‘Ethan?’’ urged Sorely.
With a deep breath, Ethan fastened his gaze on the girl’s face, slowly released the air in his lungs, and then closed his eyes . . .
Murderer!
Amelia sat straight up in bed. Drenched in perspiration, her heart thumping hard, she shook her head to gather her whereabouts. After a few deep breaths, a quick glance at her bedside clock, which read six a.m., she settled down and considered. Scotland. Fourteenth-century keep. Ghosts.
A very big warrior.
‘‘Now that was some dream,’’ she said. Amelia recalled what she could before it all faded away. Unsure of the century, although by the looks of the seasoned warriors and their weapons, she was pretty sure it had been hundreds of years before—medieval, maybe. Two groups of men, each wrapped in a different fashion of plaid, fought each other with very big swords. A body lay on the ground, covered in one of the plaids. One older man fought a big, younger, handsome man. The younger one had turned briefly and stared straight at her.
Handsome? No, scratch that. Average men were handsome. This was by far anything but an average man. More like knee-numbingly sexy. She obviously had seen him on some movie because she certainly hadn’t met him in life. As a matter of fact, she didn’t think she’d ever seen such a man in her life. There were good-looking guys all over the place. Her brothers were very handsome. Butt-heads, but handsome. But those were her brothers and she was prone to take a biased opinion where her own family members were concerned. No other man that she’d seen or met came even a shade close to possessing the breath-robbing factor her dream man emanated. All that from a reverie? God, she was pathetic.
Well, pathetic or not, she didn’t want the vision of that wild Highland warrior to leave her. Perhaps she could use his likeness in her book. Historicals weren’t her genre, but she could certainly borrow a sexy warrior for a main character. Squeezing her eyes tightly shut, Amelia called forth the memory before it scattered into so many bits of dream dust and disappeared.
Big. No, make that huge. Very broad shoulders, an even broader chest, draped in a rough-looking plaid of various reds, browns, and blacks, and a pair of thick, well-defined calves that disappeared into a set of crisscross-laced leather boots. Dark hair hung in thick long hanks, nearly to the middle of his back, a narrow braid hanging from each temple. A wide silver band encircled each chiseled bicep. Something was etched into the metal, but she couldn’t tell what. Dark brows—the right slashed through the middle by a silvery white scar—furrowed over the most amazing pair of pewter-colored eyes. Beneath the right eye, at the outer corner and almost at the cheekbone, another scar, white and crescent-shaped. Lips— Lord have mercy, the lips. Both full, the bottom one fuller than the top. Strong, firm, masculine lips. And gripped in both hands, a very, very big sword . . .
I’m called Ethan . . .
Jack hissed, leaped down, and darted under the bed.
Amelia tried hard not to follow suit. Was she hearing things? Had she really imagined the deep-voiced brogue? As far as that thought went, had she imagined all of the weird things that had raised the hair on her neck and made her shove a trunk in front of her door the night before?
She hoped not.
Ethan? Characters had spoken to her in the past, had even dragged her from sleep before. Who’s to say Ethan wasn’t one of her new potential characters, and that he was indeed speaking and dragging? She’d wanted inspiration, was desperate for it, even, and she was certainly getting a whopping dose of it now. Too bad the dream had been so short-lived. Maybe she should write it all down before she forgot.
Slipping from the bedcovers, Amelia crossed the floor to the table, grabbed her laptop, fluffed a few pillows against the tall oak headboard, and settled back into bed. She powered up, opened a new file, and quickly typed everything she could remember about the dream, including a full des
cription of the gorgeous warrior. Jack, who’d eased out from under his hiding place, jumped up on the bed and curled up next to her, heaved a kitty-cat sigh, and started his outboard-motor purring. She scratched between his silky black ears.
‘‘Jack old boy, you’d better tighten up that soft backbone of yours. I have a feeling we’re in for a long, spooky summer, and you can’t just go dust bunny diving beneath the bed every time you get scared.’’
Jack snored.
Amelia stared at her computer screen until her vision blurred. Nothing else would come to her. She tried to imagine the sexy warrior, along with the other men, in a bloody confrontation over . . . something. Her mind, as was its nature over the past year, drew a complete and utterly ridiculous big fat blank.
Maybe she just needed more inspiration. Or a good workout to get the circulation flowing in her brain. Since she was wide-awake and it was too early for breakfast, she might as well. Then she’d shower, have a bite to eat, and then maybe explore the castle grounds. According to ZuZu, there were acres and acres to investigate.
Happy with a solid plan that would take up at least a quarter of her day, Amelia shut off and closed the laptop, then dug through the clothes chest until she found her black sports bra. It was big, binding, and came nearly to her belly button. Hopefully, she wouldn’t give Guthrie a heart attack if he happened in and caught her doing her tae kwon do routine.
After giving her teeth a good brushing, she gargled some mouthwash, bound her hair in a knot, pulled on her lightweight yoga shoes, and squeezed past the trunk she’d pushed against the door of her room. Out in the dim light of the corridor, Amelia stood and listened. Hearing nothing whatsoever, she eased down the stony passageway, soundless, in case the ghosties were sleeping, and made her way to the great hall.
‘‘What in the bluidy hell is she doin’?’’ asked Sorely.