Once Upon A Haunted Castle: A Celtic Romance Anthology

by Eliza Knight

  Elle wriggled to get free, tears still streaking down her face.

  “Enough,” he said again, keeping one arm all the way around her to hold her own arms still. With his free hand, he wiped at the tears tracking down her cheeks. His gaze roved over her, perhaps settling a little too long on her lips. Would he kiss her? Did she want him to? Aye, she did. If only to escape the pain that gripped her chest.

  “I have failed him,” she moaned, grabbing hold of his leine shirt.

  Beiste caressed her face, staring into her eyes. “Och, lass, I know what that’s like.”

  “How?”

  But instead of answering her, he brushed his lips over hers. Elle sighed at the sudden but gentle touch. She’d never kissed a man before and she was glad for the distraction. The sensation sent a ripple over her skin, up and down her arms, heating her middle. The same awareness she’d had when he looked at her naked intensified. How odd and, yet, how utterly spellbinding.

  Just as suddenly as he’d kissed her, he stopped, frowning down at her.

  She opened her mouth to say something. To say she was done crying, to say she needed to dry her hair or go for a walk, but then he was kissing her again. His mouth settled over hers, possessively. He cupped one side of her face, his arm wrapped around her loosened enough that she was able to move, to flatten her chest to his, to sink against him and pray he held her steady. He was warm, tender, not at all the usual beast that he was.

  This time, when her hands started to tremble, it wasn’t from weakness or fear. Nay, it was from a new sensation and feeling altogether. An excitement. Passion. Intrigue.

  Elle sighed, leaning closer, her hands fisting in his shirt. She tilted her head, wanting more of his thrilling kiss. More of the madness it brought her, the interruption from her pain. Beiste responded with an intensity that sent a shock jolting through her. He swiped his tongue over hers, nibbled at her lips until she was sighing with pleasure, a limp mass of heated flesh and desire.

  “Bloody hell,” he growled, separating himself from her.

  She gazed up at him in confusion, his face full of thunder.

  “What…?” she asked, somewhat bemused.

  “I shouldna be doing that,” he said through bared teeth. Beiste climbed to his feet, taking with him the heat, the thrill. “I failed to find your brother, to find Bjork, but I am not done. I will continue to search for him.”

  Elle swallowed, feeling grateful that he wouldn’t stop his search, but also extremely confused about what had just happened. Had he enjoyed the kiss? He seemed to, but then was just so angry about it. She touched her lips as he retreated from the room. For a first kiss, she’d thought it had gone rather quite well until he’d started growling again.

  The blasted man was so confusing. Och, who was she kidding? She was just as equally confused.

  *

  Beiste stormed out of the castle, down to the lower bailey. His blood pumped hotly, thickly, through his veins. Thank the saints for his thick plaid and sporran, else everyone in the castle would see just how hotly his blood was pumping.

  One tiny kiss from Elle Cam’béal and an inexperienced kiss at that, and he’d been ready to shed his clothes. To bed her right there on the damned floor. To make love to her. To take her to the heights of pleasure she’d never experienced. And to bury himself, his pain, his past, all between her thighs, in a moment of sheer, blinding passion.

  Beiste hadn’t made love to a woman since he’d lost his wife three years before. A long time for any man. And it was apparent his body was ready to get back into the game, even if his mind was not.

  “Gunnar,” he bellowed. “Bring me the new recruits.”

  He was going to beat the men to bloody hell in the name of training and his own sanity. Exorcise his demons. Push past the feral need that had gripped him since opening the door and letting the dripping wet vixen into his castle.

  A little over two hours later, sweat covered his entire body, dripping in rivulets. He’d stripped out of his shirt, letting the cool air stroke briskly over his heated skin. Muscles tired, men lying on the ground all around him, sore, a little wounded, and all of them just as winded as he.

  But, still, he kept staring up at the castle, his mind wandering back to that delicious kiss. The images of just what he wanted to teach her. He was fairly certain she’d never kissed a man before. Or else anyone she’d kissed had been just as inexperienced as she. There was something heady and powerful about that. That he could be the one to introduce her to pleasure.

  Ballocks! What in bloody hell was he thinking? She wasn’t a lightskirt! She was a lady. A virgin for blood’s sake. Not a lass to be trifled with. Not a lass he could bed and forget. Nay, the only way he’d be doing anymore kissing, let alone bedding, with Lady Elle Cam’béal was if she was Lady Elle MacDougall. And that bloody well wasn’t going to happen. He wasn’t ready to marry again. And he never would be.

  “Och,” he growled, shoving his way through his men. “I’m going for a swim. The lot of ye stinking bastards might as well join me.”

  They followed him to the shore, diving into the chilly water and scooping up sand to scrub away the sweat from their bodies.

  “Son…”

  Beiste jerked his head out of the water where he’d been dunking to give his hair a wash.

  “What the…” He looked around, swearing he’d just heard his father call out to him.

  Damn it to hell. His father was dead. Sent off over the water on a great funeral pyre before Beiste had gone after Erik and Bjork.

  “Son.” The voice was stronger now.

  Beiste swiveled in the water, not seeing anyone around him. His men had climbed to the shore, going back to their duties.

  Still, there was nothing.

  “Beiste, my son.”

  “Get out of my head,” Beiste growled, marching swiftly through the water toward the shore.

  As soon as he stepped onto the sand, a shadow fell over him. He felt a prickle wind its way up his spine. But still, there was no one there. He drew his sword, turning in a circle.

  “Who is there?”

  He half-expected to hear his father’s voice again but, instead, the lad he’d brought back from Castle Gloom climbed from behind a bush.

  “What are ye doing back there? Always hiding.” His voice was a little gruffer than he would have liked, but he was still irritated with the apparent voice in his head and his desire for a certain half-Scot, half-Viking minx.

  John was wringing his hands, a task he’d taken to doing anytime he was around Beiste. “I’m sorry, my laird. I but…wondered if I might have a swim to get clean, too?”

  “Och, aye. I should have thought of it sooner. Jump in.” Beiste finished dressing while the lad scrubbed himself the same as the men had.

  When he climbed out, he had a smile on his face. Again, Beiste had a flash of knowing. The lad looked so familiar to him, yet he knew they’d never met before, he was certain. Perhaps, his merchant parents had come by the castle, once.

  “Are ye hungry, lad?”

  “Aye.”

  Beiste clapped him on the shoulder, catching him as the mighty thwack sent the lad tumbling forward. “Sorry about that, forgot how tiny ye were. Come, let’s get ye something to eat in the kitchens. Ye can sleep in the stables tonight with the other grooms.”

  John beamed up at him, straightening his shoulders. “I love horses.”

  “Oh, do ye now?”

  “Aye.”

  “Can ye ride?”

  “Aye. My father taught me.”

  “Then ye’ll be a good addition to Master Collins.”

  “I want to thank ye for taking me in.” The boy ran a hand through his wet mane. “Do ye often take in strangers?”

  “Nay,” Beiste said with a frown. “Not often.” Save for lately. But he kept that truth to himself.

  Chapter Six

  When the sun set that evening, Beiste could have sworn it was hours early, that darkness had won out over the l
ight. Or perhaps, that was simply his mood.

  The day had passed by quickly, despite his internal struggles, with preparations for their Viking hunt. The men and horses were rested and upon first light, they would, once more, journey toward Castle Gloom. Only this time, they would be searching the mountains for the villainous Bjork.

  Beiste entered the great hall, prepared to sit at the table and eat the evening meal, but Elle was not present. His stomach rumbled as fiercely as his temper. Why did she toy with him? He’d specifically given orders for her to join him for dinner in the great hall, so that all within the clan would see she was accepted by him, not a prisoner. Besides, having had thoughts of her and her luscious lips all day, imagining her body pressed to his, he thought it best to see her in person, to push those thoughts from his mind. Perhaps he’d over exaggerated the softness of her skin, the deep knowing wells of her beautiful eyes, or the lush curves of her body and plush red of her lips. His mind seemed to have made her into a goddess throughout the day and he needed to prove himself wrong.

  “Mrs. Lach, where is the lady?” he demanded, trying to roar out the question.

  His housekeeper looked perplexed, pursing her lips and wiping her hands on her apron. “She is not coming down, my laird. She’s said she willna be having supper this evening.”

  “Why?” he snapped, losing some control on the temper he kept tightly leashed.

  “I dinna know. I didna ask.”

  Beiste grunted, turned on his heel and headed for the stairs. Mrs. Lach might not have asked, but he damned well would. When he gave an order, he expected it to be heeded. Men died for less.

  Upon reaching her door, he paused, hand in mid-air. He’d not spoken to her the entire day. Not since their kiss. And from that, he’d left in a disgruntled temper. Probably hurt her feelings in the process. ’Twas no wonder she chose to remain in her chamber. He’d not meant to hurt her feelings and she should know better. Shouldn’t she? Women were supposed to be the ones who empathized with others, understood them, not the other way around. Why was he even having these thoughts? Aye, she should have come down at his invitation, no matter the way in which they’d parted. In fact, he was certain it was rude of her to have denied his request for her presence.

  With that thought in mind, he raised his hand and pounded on the door.

  “Who is it?” she called from within in a singsong voice. She’d been waiting for him, he was almost certain of it. A game she was playing.

  Beiste rolled his eyes, wanting to simply walk in, but after what had happened that morning…seeing all that white, creamy flesh. Being unable to control himself, reaching for her, pressing his hard frame to her soft curves…zounds, but his body was reacting to it again. Growing hot, hard with need. He wanted her. Needed her.

  Like he’d never wanted or needed another.

  Not even his beloved.

  Saints, but was he betraying his wife’s memory by having these thoughts, feelings, reactions to another? Nay! Men lost wives and took new ones all the time. That wasn’t so new and different. Besides, on her deathbed, his sweet wife had begged him to move on. To love again. But he couldn’t. Never.

  Aye, he felt guilty for it. Guilty for what would happen should he allow his feelings for this young chit to sink in and truly take hold. He’d be the death of her. Just like everyone else.

  “Come to the great hall,” he demanded to the wooden planks of the door.

  “Nay, thank ye,” she called, not bothering to open it.

  Beiste let out a low growl of frustration. “’Tis not a request.”

  That had her opening the door, fast enough to cause a breeze to swirl around the hem of her blue wool gown. His wife’s gown…

  Beiste was silent. Speechless.

  He’d told Mrs. Lach to give the clothes to his guest, but he’d never imagined they would look so fine on her.

  “Ye…” His mouth grew dry and he couldn’t finish speaking. She looked even more beautiful than he remembered. The color of the wool brought out her eyes.

  “I thank ye for the demand, sir, but I am not hungry. And I dinna feel like celebrating when my brother is likely starving or beaten somewhere.”

  Beiste narrowed his eyes, trying for intimidating. “Do ye plan to starve yourself along with him? What good are ye to your people if the both of ye end up dead?”

  She frowned, delicate hands going to her hips, mouth pursed. Lord, but that was dangerous. He wanted to kiss her. Again. And again. And again.

  Take her swiftly into his arms and claim those pouty red lips for his own.

  Nay! Not for his own. Bloody not his!

  Beiste scraped his hands through his hair, over his trimmed beard, deciding perhaps it was best for her to remain up here with the door closed and temptation at bay. “Suit yourself,” he fairly growled, then whirled on his heel. Before he’d made it three feet, he tossed over his shoulder, “The gown is verra becoming on ye.”

  The nearly inaudible gasp she let out made his chest swell and that only irritated him more. He stormed down the corridor to the stairs, taking them two at a time until he was back in the great hall, slamming himself into his chair.

  He waved to the servants to begin bringing the trenchers out. Every bite, he swigged with a sip of ale, tasteless, though he knew from experience his cook was very talented. His mind was on the woman upstairs. The enemy. The mystery of the sword. He’d not felt he could ask her about it without first returning her brother to her. And every time he was with her his thoughts took a decidedly different route.

  Where the bloody hell had Erik Cam’béal gone? Was he with Bjork? Buried along with any other casualties? Running the hills and hiding much like young John had been?

  When he’d finished eating, Beiste waved Mrs. Lach to him. “I need another trencher.”

  She nodded and returned swiftly with one. He filled it with food, poured another cup of wine, and stood up, heading for the stairs. If the lass wouldn’t come down, then he was going to bring her food. Couldn’t have her starve even if she insisted she wasn’t hungry.

  Juggling the trencher and cup on one arm, he knocked with the other.

  She opened the door a moment later, peeking out at him through the two-inch crack.

  “I brought ye supper.”

  The door opening widened and she stared at the fare with hunger in her eyes. He’d known she was famished, no matter if she wanted to make a martyr of herself. The lass had an appetite like no other female he’d seen and he found he liked watching her eat.

  “Ye like to see me fed,” she mumbled, as if reading his thoughts.

  “’Tis my duty to see that all in my charge are well-cared for.”

  “Is that what I am? In your charge?”

  Beiste sighed, so much for keeping temptation at bay. He just couldn’t stay away. Nudging past her to place the food and drink on the table, he said, “Ye’re my guest, as I’ve stated. Ye have free reign of the castle and grounds. And aye, as long as ye’re under my roof, ye’re in my charge, my responsibility. I will be certain ye are well. Beyond that, my father made an oath to your family. I will see that the oath is kept.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said softly, twirling a long tendril of her hair around her finger. “I’m verra grateful for all ye’ve done. I dinna know why I am so angry. Ye’re not my enemy.”

  Beiste came closer to her, unable to help touching her cheek. She was soft, warm. He jerked his fingers back, only wanting to touch her more.

  “I’m not.” His throat was tight. He wanted to kiss her again and if she—

  She looked up at him, eyes wide, lips parted. Lord help him. He ground his teeth to keep from wrapping his arms around her.

  “I confess, I’m lost, my laird,” she said.

  Lost. Lost just like him. Mind floating in a chaos of emotion, confusion, need. “Call me Beiste.”

  “Beiste…” She swallowed, the little nob in her throat rising and falling. “Thank ye.”

  “Ye dinna need to th
ank me.”

  “I do. I only hope that one day I can repay the kindness. Restore something ye’ve lost.”

  His chest clenched, fingers tightened into fists as the pain of his past came to the forefront, reminding him of why he couldn’t have her. “I have lost everyone.”

  “Not everyone.” Her lips hitched slightly in the corners. “There are many within these walls who love ye, who respect ye.”

  Saints, but he was finding it hard to speak. No one had been able to elicit such emotion from him and he’d barely uttered more than a few words. But the words, the darkness and deepness of them. They were the very essence of his soul, the very thing he feared. Why had he felt compelled to confess to her? Och, but it hadn’t been a choice. The words had slipped out before he’d even had a chance to rein them in. This was her. All her. She had the ability to open him up wide without his realizing it. No one else before her had this effect. Why was she so different? How was she able to get inside of his head?

  Beiste swallowed around the thickness of his throat and when he spoke, his words sounded gruff, muted almost. “Aye. Ye’re right.”

  “But that’s not what ye meant was it?” she asked, her eyes imploring, searching his for some meaning he couldn’t grasp.

  “Nay.”

  “Your father and mother, they are looking down on ye now. Just as I hope mine are looking down on me.”

  “Aye.” Saints, but he needed to leave. He was getting hot. His chest tight. He felt backed into a corner and, yet, it seemed the only way out, the only way to escape his pain, his demons, was through her.

  “Who else have ye lost?” She shook her head, her fingertips momentarily brushing his arm. “Dinna answer that. ’Tis none of my business.”

  But once more, his lips were moving before his mind could stop him. “My brothers and sisters. My wife and…child.”

  “Oh…” Elle breathed out, her eyes glistening with unshed sentiment. “I’m so sorry to hear that. I had no idea.” She stepped a little closer, her fingers brushing his arm. “The loss of loved ones so dear, that is a pain that does not wane. ’Tis unexpected. A hard pain to live with.”