by Eliza Knight
Once Upon a Haunted Castle
Eliza Knight
Kathryn Le Veque
Terri Brisbin
Madeline Martin
Ruth A. Casie
Laird of Shadows
Copyright © 2016 Eliza Knight
Deep Into Darkness
Copyright © 2016 Kathryn Le Veque
Upon a Misty Skye
Copyright © 2016 Terri Brisbin
A Ghostly Tale of Forbidden Love
Copyright © 2016 Madeline Martin
The Maxwell Ghost
Copyright © 2016 Ruth A. Casie
Kindle Edition
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Laird of Shadows
About the Book
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
About the Author
More Books by Eliza Knight
Deep Into Darkness
Author’s Note
Part One: You might not like what you find…
Part Two: The dreary, deadly hour…
Part Three: ’Tis the wind… and nothing more
Part Four: Thing of Evil…
Part Five: Demon’s that is dreaming…
The Raven by Edgar Allan Poe
Kathryn Le Veque Novels
About Kathryn Le Veque
Upon a Misty Skye
About the Book
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Author’s Note
About Terri
Books by Terri Brisbin
A Ghostly Tale of Forbidden Love
About the Book
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Epilogue
Thank You for Reading
Books by Madeline Martin
About the Author
Connect with Madeline
The Maxwell Ghost
About the Book
Dedication
Acknowledgment
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
About the Author
Ruth’s Booklist
Laird of Shadows
Eliza Knight
When darkness falls… Only true love can save them…
Beiste MacDougall has only just found himself as laird of his clan after a brutal attack from Vikings leaves his father slain. On the night of his sire’s death, a beautiful woman comes to his castle begging for help, calling upon a vow their clans had made years before. Though he’d rather wallow in his pain, Beiste is tempted by the lass, the secrets she holds, and the chance at retribution she brings.
Lady Elle Cam’béal is desperate to save her brother and her clan from the vile clutches of her Viking enemies. But there is only one man who can help her, a handsome, provocative laird with a beastly temper. When he locks her in a chamber, she is visited by a ghost, and left with a secret that changes her destiny. Elle must figure out a way to accept her fate, but also forge a future of her own choosing.
As battles and treachery rain down upon them, Beiste and Elle find unlikely allies in each other, and a few stolen moments of passion that bring light from the shadows…
Dedication
To my own knight, who comforts me whenever I have a ghostly dream…
Acknowledgments
Thank you so very much to my amazing writing partners, Ruth, Madeline, Kathryn and Terri! Without you all, this book would not have been possible. And what a blast it was writing! Thank you to my traveling partners in crime, Andrea Snider and Brenna Ash who visited Dunstaffnage with me!
Chapter One
Scottish Highlands
1207
Thunder struck so violently that the walls of Dunstaffnage Castle seemed to shake and the floor vibrated beneath the feet of every person in the great hall. Several prominent members of the clan stood around the perimeter of the vast chamber, their eyes not locking on anything in particular. They sipped their whisky and avoided speaking the reason for their gathering, though ’twas on the tip of every man’s tongue.
“’Tis raining something fierce outside, my laird,” a passing servant said, pouring him yet another cup of dark, strong ale.
Laird Beiste MacDougall still wasn’t used to being addressed as laird, a title that had belonged to his father until just that morning.
He grunted, holding his cup to his lips and draining the contents in one long swallow. An hour or more had passed since his tongue had gone numb from drink. He planned to continue drowning his sorrow in ale until he fell asleep right there on that very table. Beiste stretched his legs out, tapping the bottom of the cup on the wood until it was filled again. His gaze roved from one man to the next, taking in his uncles, cousins. The women huddled closer to the kitchens, probably plotting his future. Aunties and cousins, he was related in some way to all of them, through his mother or his father.
And now it was just him.
His parents were gone.
His siblings were gone.
His wife and child, also gone.
He was all that was left of the MacDougall Clan. The elders would be harping on him soon to take a wife, but he couldn’t just yet. Maybe not at all. How could he risk failing another when he’d failed everyone who’d ever counted on him? Aye, he’d not been to blame specifically for the deaths of his siblings—all three had passed just hours after being born. But he was the first born and he couldn’t help but wonder if he’d somehow ruined the womb for them. Why had he survived and they had not? It had made him extra strong on the battlefield. Extra determined to be victorious at all things—after all, there was no one else to succeed him. He was the only chance at his father and mother’s line succeeding.
Of course, that contradicted his desires not to find himself attached to a new woman, to beget another child—yet, it was the only way to fulfill his duty to his family.
The loss of his first wife and child…he blamed himself entirely for their deaths. When his wife insisted on going with him on campaign, he should have said nay. Should have told her to remain at home. But he’d been weak with desire, with what he was certain was love. He’d allowed it and she’d become pregnant. She hid that fact from him, not
wanting to distract him with the news or be sent back to the castle. By the time he’d figured it out, it was too late. Her horse spooked, tossing her to the ground. Her labor pains came swiftly after and there’d been nothing he could do about it. His own selfishness had caused the death of his beloved. Of his poor bairn son who had squealed in his arms for only a few breaths before passing on.
He’d vowed from that moment on that he’d not be taking another wife. Not with the shroud of death that cloaked him. Anyone close to him died and, so, he kept everyone he cared about at arm’s length.
Duty to his clan first. And, aye, he was fully aware of the contradiction that made.
Fierce pounding sounded through his skull and he rubbed at his temples. But he realized the incessant banging wasn’t blood pummeling the inside of his skull, but the main doors to the keep.
“Who in bloody hell is knocking?” he growled, slamming his cup down. Anyone worth their weight would simply enter.
A tingle crept over the back of his neck. Was it Death himself?
“I will go and see,” Gunnar, his master of the gate, said. He bowed to Beiste and walked toward the door.
“Nay. I’ll go.” Beiste pushed himself out of the chair, his feet feeling heavy.
Gunnar nodded, waiting.
Despite the numbness of his tongue, Beiste’s head was surprisingly clear. Then he took a step forward. Mayhap not as clear as it should be.
No matter. With a hand on the sword at his hip, he trudged beneath the archway into the main vestibule, aware that every eye in the great hall had finally found its mark. Him.
He ignored them all. Ignored the questions in their gazes.
The banging continued until he wrenched open the door.
Standing in the pouring rain of the bailey was a woman, a cloak covering her from head to toe. Only the tip of her pointed nose and the rosiness of her lips shone in the torchlight from the vestibule. Her figure was slight, her shoulders trembling. She was soaked through to the bone.
What in bloody hell? Beiste swiped a hand over his face, frowning fiercely. Perhaps his quest for numbness had affected his eyes. He was seeing things now. Mayhap it was best if Gunnar did deal with this. ’Twas a certainty now that the ale he’d imbibed had the ability to make him feel less drunk than he was, or at least to make him think he was less intoxicated.
Beiste closed the door and turned around to go up the stairs. He needed to sleep. ’Twas one thing to get drunk from grief and pass out in his cup at the trestle table, another thing entirely to find himself talking to ghosts.
But the banging returned.
Och, bloody hell! Beiste whirled on his feet, prepared to tell his demons to take a hike down a long and winding path.
When he opened the door this time, the woman glared up at him with wide, green eyes. Intense. So vivid. He fisted his hands to keep from reaching out to touch her.
“Are ye real?” he asked, realizing his question was an odd one and gave way to his inebriated state. But all the same, he needed to be certain.
“As real as ye are,” she hissed. “Will ye let me in or force me to catch my death?”
Beiste cocked his head. Was this a trick question? “How did ye get past the guards?” He stuck his head out the door, raindrops pelting his skull, to see his men still walked the walls as though they’d not just let a strange woman into the castle.
Her shoulders straightened. “I’m here to speak with the laird. Let me pass.”
Beiste crossed his arms over his massive chest, attempting to put fear into the woman with his sheer size alone. “Ye didna answer the question.”
She didn’t even seem to notice how much bigger he was. If anything, her glower deepened. “I’ll only be answering to the laird.”
Beiste bit his tongue. He was the laird, but this chit wouldn’t know it yet. The storms had been so bad since his father passed that he’d not yet sent out word to their neighbors. Besides, the elders would want to do so, formally inviting all those in their holding to come forward and give their blessing and allegiance.
“Do come in,” he said gruffly, affecting a sloppy bow meant to mock her sharp tongue. He stepped back, allowing her space to enter.
“Thank ye.” She swept past him as though she owned the place, hands in the voluminous skirts lifting the hem away from her feet, head held high. But she stopped abruptly and turned to face him, brow furrowed, lips pursed in consternation. “Something is not right.”
He studied her as she pushed the cloak back, revealing dark hair with hints of red.
“I quite agree.” She was really quite beautiful. Enchanting even.
“There is…” Her lips clamped closed. She shook herself, as though trying to shove off whatever reservations she now suddenly had about being inside his fortress. “Bring me to the laird. I must speak to him.”
Beiste grunted, re-crossing his arms. “Nay.” He was curious to see what her reaction would be to him denying her.
Her eyes flashed on him with disdain. He had the feeling she were assessing him, that he was not standing up to whatever magnitude she theoretically measured him against. “I am not asking.”
Beiste’s eyes widened at the haughty tone that brooked no argument. ’Twas on the tip of his tongue to put the lass in her place but, instead, he decided to give her exactly what she wanted.
“Come,” he demanded, stalking toward the stairs.
His father’s body still lay abed, where it would remain until the rain ceased and they could put it out to sea on a great pyre as he’d requested. An ancient and worthy burial for a man who’d been as great and fierce as all the ancient kings, including Beiste’s own grandfather.
Beiste didn’t bother to take a torch with him. He could climb these stairs in the dark and he kind of wanted the haughty wench to trip behind him—as uncharitable as that was. Though to be fair, he didn’t want her to get hurt, either. He kept a keen sense on her, so if she did, in fact, trip as he wished, he could quickly catch her, too. He might be a beast at heart, but he wasn’t cruel unnecessarily.
Surprisingly, up the three flights of stairs they went and she never once faltered. Not even on the sixteenth stair that had risen in the middle creating an unsettling foothold for anyone who traversed it. Nor on the twenty-seventh where a large chip had been broken from the tip of the step when someone dropped a heavy boulder on it during the construction. That had been some twenty years before when the Norsemen had ruled heavily in the area. Only recently, with his father, they had worked to bring Scotland together as one unified country.
Dunstaffnage was the most well-fortified castle for hundreds of miles around. Mirroring the Norse skills and use of stone to build fortresses that were impenetrable, it featured walls ten feet thick in places, rising high and mightily into the sky.
At the third floor, he nodded to the guard standing outside his father’s chamber. The man glanced curiously behind him at the woman he’d let in, but said nothing. Beiste was fully aware how odd it was to bring a stranger to see his father’s body. But he didn’t care. He wanted to see the shock on her face. For her haughty nature to dissipate.
He opened the door, the scents of illness and death washing over him in a hazy, thick wave. Beiste swallowed, suddenly hating his own plan. His father’s soul, freshly gone from his body, would no doubt frown upon him.
Behind Beiste, the lass gasped. He turned in time to see her cover her mouth with the back of her hand, her eyes widening and meeting his.
“He is gone,” she murmured. “Ye didna tell me.”
Beiste swallowed and cleared his throat, feeling it constrict with emotion at seeing his great father brought down. “This morning.”
Tears welled in her eyes. “I am too late.”
“If ye wished to speak with him, then aye.”
She dropped to the floor at his feet, her hands covering her face, shoulders shaking.
“Are ye crying?” Beiste asked, suddenly uncomfortable. He’d never had to comfort a woma
n before and found himself completely at a loss. An intense need to escape made his hands and feet tingle.
She glanced up at him, tears streaming over her creamy cheeks. Green eyes glistened in the torchlight. “Ye have the disposition of a beast.”
He shrugged. “I am aptly named.”
She wiped at the tears with her wet cloak, not succeeding in soaking them up, but rather spreading the wetness more over her skin. “I am lost. We are lost.”
“I am not lost,” he said.
“Not ye, ye fool!” Rage filled her tone, so much so he took a step back before realizing what he’d done.
No one had ever spoken to him that way before, well, save for his ma and da. “I’ll caution ye to guard your tongue.” His voice was brusque, but seemed to do little to deter her temper.
Fisted hands punched at the floor. “And who are ye to caution me?”
Beiste was about to tell her he was the laird’s son. Though he had been, it was time for him to claim who he truly was. “I am Laird MacDougall.”
The lass blanched. Slowly, she pushed back up to her feet, standing at her full height, and met his gaze. “I must apologize for my…temper.”
Beiste ignored her, instead more intent to find out just who this guest was. “Who are ye and what business did ye have with my father?”
“I am Elle Cam’béal.”
The name was familiar to him and he racked his fuzzy brain trying to dredge up the reason. “Am I to know ye?”
She frowned, glancing toward the still body on the bed. Beiste looked, too. The familiar ruggedness of his father’s face was showing, his body still as full and bulky as he’d been in life. He could have been sleeping. The ravages of death had yet to set in. The deep gash in his chest was bandaged, covered with a plaid blanket. His death had been swift. Less than twenty-four hours from his return from the road. They’d yet to find out who had attacked him as the men he’d ridden with had all died in the skirmish.
“I had hoped ye might. But I can see he never mentioned my family.”
“And they are?”