Once Upon A Haunted Castle: A Celtic Romance Anthology

by Eliza Knight

  Beiste’s heart clenched painfully. He didn’t want to talk about them. About the loss. The pain that he felt every damned day because of it. So instead, he did the next best thing. He slid his hands up her arms and tugged her against him, lowering his face toward hers. He stared into her eyes. Searching. Wanting. Desiring. Needing her to take away his pain.

  “Lord, but ye are perfect. So beautiful. I need to kiss ye, Elle. I need to leave this place, these thoughts, and take ye with me. Will ye let me?”

  She nodded, her eyelids fluttering closed.

  Beiste wrapped her up in his arms and pressed his lips to hers, breathing in her floral scent, tasting the sweetness of her lips, glorying in the way her body molded so perfectly to his. The way her kiss, her touch, all of her, worked an enchantment to lessen his pain.

  But at what cost?

  What was he doing kissing her again? Bloody hell it felt so good…made him feel alive again. For so long he’d been lost. Dead. A man hidden by shadows, darkness that he wrapped around himself.

  How easily he’d opened up to her and allowed in the light…

  Damn cost! Damn pain! He wanted to be alive! He wanted to live again. Elle was making it happen, if only for a few fleeting moments. Could it be something that lasted longer? Could he allow himself to fall?

  Nay, dammit! He couldn’t. He couldn’t let himself forget the losses. He couldn’t allow himself to put her in danger. Everyone he’d ever loved had been stripped from him. He could not allow that to be her fate, simply by falling for her. Simply by—

  Loving her?

  Nay. This wasn’t love. Couldn’t be and, yet, it felt so very much like what he’d had with his wife. Maybe more so. He’d confessed things to her, but never had he felt that she was the light in his darkness.

  “Blast,” he growled against her mouth, tearing himself away. “I must go. We leave at first light.”

  “Be well, Beiste.”

  Her parting words were shadowed in her own emotion. And he didn’t want to dive down into those pools. Not yet. He couldn’t.

  *

  Beiste let out a growl and stabbed his sword into the rocky ground of the mountaintop. He stood in the center of what had been a camp. Cleared space where bodies had slept. Bones of animals they’d cooked littered the ground. Several campfires were fresh, but not lit. And not a single, damned Viking, outlaw or scrambling animal was in sight. The whoresons had eaten every last rabbit and tamped out their fires before rushing off.

  He let out a curse and stabbed at the ground again. Beiste knelt and placed his hands over the ashes, gripping a half-burned log letting the dulled heat sink into his palm—perhaps two hours at most. They’d just missed them.

  Probably had scouts that had spotted Beiste and his men despite not making any sounds. The number of rises in the mountain left plenty of places higher up in order to snoop. But why didn’t they engage? Why were they running? Every experience he’d ever had with the Norsemen had been violent. They didn’t run, they attacked. They didn’t hide from their enemies but made themselves known. The bastards were not acting as he expected them to. They were unpredictable and Beiste didn’t like that.

  “Dealing with damned shadows,” Beiste growled.

  “Look at this.” Gunnar held aloft a piece of plaid.

  “Cam’béal colors.” Beiste took the fabric in hand. It was small and torn. Either deliberately left behind or torn on something. “Could be any number of prisoners’, but could also be Laird Erik’s.”

  “Aye.”

  Beiste climbed back on his horse and circled the camp. “They’ve got horse tracks going in every direction, trying to confuse us. We’ll have to split up.”

  The whoresons could try and evade him, but eventually they would be caught. Come hell or high water, Beiste was going to get Laird Erik back.

  *

  Sleep evaded Elle.

  Confusion ruled every inch of her darkened chamber. She would have gladly welcomed a visit from the old laird, if only to ask for an explanation of his son’s behavior. And maybe even her own feelings.

  Every kiss had been divine bliss. Every caress made her yearn for more. But even beyond the physical side, were the emotions, the feelings. He’d opened his heart to her, let her inside to see his darkest fears. And then pushed her away.

  Part of her had wondered if by kissing her, he was taking himself back in time. Remembering his wife. But then the other part of her, the part that saw into his eyes, the way he held her gaze, the intensity there, she knew he was kissing her.

  Beiste was rough and gruff on the outside, but underneath, she could see the true heart inside of him. And what was more terrifying, she wanted to explore that heart. See how deep he’d let her go.

  Elle shivered, running her hands along her limbs.

  Was this some magical spell? A trick of the fairies? Their way of convincing her she was meant to protect the lands of both families as the glaistig?

  Well, she wasn’t going to fall for that. Nay!

  If she was doomed to walk the earth for eternity, then she’d damned well choose who she was going to love.

  Problem was…she couldn’t stop thinking of Beiste, his kisses, his mesmerizing eyes and the sweet gifts he continued to give her.

  When sleep finally came to her, she dreamt of him, too…

  Chapter Seven

  The sound of horses thundering close to the gate jerked Elle from her momentary reverie. She lifted her head from where she’d bent to pick a sprig of rosemary in the herb garden.

  Beiste. Erik.

  The men had been gone for eight days. During that time, she’d finally ventured from her room to explore a bit of the castle grounds, finding most of her peace in the gardens among the fragrant herbs, flowers and vegetables. The only thing she’d not been able to do that she desperately wanted was to take a ride. She longed to feel the wind in her hair. The sleek muscles of a horse beneath her as they moved as one across the landscape. But before she could even reach the stables, one of the guards always stepped into her path, claiming that denying her a ride was for her own safety. Master’s orders.

  Well, he was probably right with the enemy still being out there, but still… That didn’t make her want it any less.

  Elle had been forced to find other pursuits to occupy her time. Anything to distract herself from thoughts of Beiste and fears for her brother.

  But the sounds of riders, that was unmistakable. Even if she stuck her head into the dirt, she’d not be able to escape it. The ground fairly rumbled from the force of the horses’ pounding.

  Lifting the hem of another gown she’d been gifted with, she ran around the side of the castle toward the bailey.

  The gates were opened by men and she chewed her lip, bouncing on her feet in her anticipation. Erik had to be with him this time.

  As the men filed through, she searched their faces, looked for her brother’s slight body amongst them. With each passing horse, her stomach knotted tighter and her jaw clenched harder. Her face grew as pink as the rose gown she wore.

  When Beiste rode through the gate last, her fears came to a head.

  No Erik.

  No prisoners.

  No signs of blood on their garments—no battle?

  The expression on Beiste’s face said it all. Their mission had been a failure. Bjork was still out there. Her brother was still out there. With every passing moment, the chance of him surviving decreased.

  Elle felt as though she might explode. Anger pummeled her insides. Turned her blood hotter than a flame. She should never have left him! This was her fault! Why had she entrusted a virtual stranger for the care of her brother, for his return? Beiste didn’t even know what her brother looked like, let alone the places in which he would hide. She’d been a fool to give a task that clearly belonged to her, over to another.

  “Ye didna find him,” she said, unable to hide the upset in her voice.

  She didn’t wait for him to reply, but whirled on her heels
and ran toward the castle, up the stairs. Nearly two weeks had passed since she’d left Castle Gloom. Time was not a luxury she possessed. Her brother needed her and needed her now.

  Elle pushed through her chamber door and whirled in a circle. What was she even doing up here? She didn’t own anything, not even the gown she wore. At least the boots and mantle were hers. Flinging open the wardrobe door, she rifled through the contents until she found her own gown that Mrs. Lach had been kind enough to have washed and Elle had herself repaired the tears. She quickly stripped out of the soft wool gown she’d been given and pulled on her own.

  There was only one way to get her brother back and that was to sacrifice herself.

  She grunted, finding the irony of it all too deep.

  A blood sacrifice. Only, she’d be giving herself over to the Vikings in order to save her young brother.

  She’d stand atop the mountain that looked down upon Castle Gloom and she’d shout for Bjork to come out of the shadows.

  “Where are ye going?” ’Twas the voice of the ghost laird.

  So used to his presence, Elle didn’t even bother to search for the vision of him. “To make a sacrifice. Isn’t that what ye want?”

  There was a whisper of cold touch down her arm and she glanced up to see his face, wrinkled and transparent, concerned all the same.

  He nodded. “Ye’ll need the sword.”

  “Do ye know where it is?” she asked, not having seen it since she’d arrived nearly two weeks before.

  “Aye.”

  “Take me.” She followed the ghost through a door in her chamber that led into Beiste’s own room. The sword was placed carefully on metal hooks, mounted on the wall above his headboard. “He has no idea what that sword represents,” Elle mused.

  “Ye will tell him, eventually.”

  “Nay, I dinna think I’ll have the chance.” Elle reached up, running her fingers over the jeweled hilt. How many times had her own father, brother, done that very same thing. Somehow, with the sword, she felt a connection to them, if only in memory.

  When no reply came from the old laird, she looked to her side to see she was, once more, alone. Elle reached for the heavy sword with both hands, taking it off the metal hooks and hoisting it into the air. The blasted thing weighed a ton. A sword for a mighty warrior. As strong as she liked to think she was, the sword was nearly as tall as she was. Escape would be made harder. When she’d left Castle Gloom, she’d been lucky to have a horse right away, not a prospect she expected to have this time around.

  Elle searched through the chest at the foot of Beiste’s bed, her heart pounding, sweat breaking out along her spine. She’d spent too much time up here. He was bound to come searching for her soon. Or at the very least, perhaps clean himself up in his own chamber.

  At the bottom of the chest, she found what she was looking for. A scabbard that could be strapped onto her back. She adjusted the straps to fit, slid the sword into the sheath and then hooked it in place. It weighed heavily, but would make her travel easier. With the hilt rising above her head and the tip nearly to the back of her knees, she’d need to be careful not to cut herself while running. Which she needed to do right now.

  Elle stepped out into the corridor, fearful that she’d run right into Beiste, one of his guards or a servant. Fortunately, all was silent, except for the old laird who was back.

  “This way,” he whispered, waving a luminous arm.

  Elle followed him down the stairs, through winding corridors that grew darker and darker, until he pointed to a secret door she never would have known existed, that led into the woods.

  “Be safe, my dear,” he said.

  She smiled up at him. “Thank ye for your kindness, in this form and in the past.”

  “Is Fate a kindness?” His figure faded before she could answer him, but his words remained in her mind, left her questioning just that.

  Elle pulled her mantle up over her head and ran deeper into the woods.

  *

  Beiste handed his reins to John who’d hurried from the stables after Elle had fled.

  “Who was the lady?” John asked, his gaze downcast, but the interest full in his voice, his cheeks flushed with color.

  Beiste dismounted and patted young John on his head. “A guest of mine.” He trudged toward the keep, needing very badly to speak with his guest.

  But the lad chased after him. “What is her name?”

  Beiste stopped in his tracks, hands on his hips and faced the scamp. “Dinna concern yourself with women, lad. Ye’ve many years to go afore ye need worry over them.”

  “I dinna, my laird.” John was wringing his hands again. “I, well, I thought I recognized her voice.” The lad sounded almost forlorn.

  Beiste squinted his eyes, staring at his features. The way his shoulders sagged. He supposed the lad could recognize her voice if he’d been at Castle Gloom. Maybe he was looking for the comfort of someone familiar. But then, the lad met his gaze again. Though his shoulders were slumped, his skin taut with tension over his face, his eyes were strong, fierce. There was a determination behind them that Beiste had not seen before. Suddenly, a thought struck him. Could it be? Had he been so incredibly wrong this entire time?

  “Bloody hell,” Beiste growled. Only one way to find out. “Erik?”

  The imp’s eyes widened and he turned to flee, but Beiste grabbed him by the scruff of his neck and whirled him around.

  “Answer me, lad. Are ye Erik Cam’béal?”

  “Aye,” he squeaked.

  Beiste saw red. Anger sliced through his limbs. “Do ye know we’ve been riding all over the godforsaken land looking for ye?” Why hadn’t anyone bothered to tell him the laird they were looking for was a wee lad? Beiste could have bellowed, could have pummeled a man into the ground. But, somehow, he managed to rein in his temper.

  “They said ye were looking for the Viking.” Erik’s voice had grown stronger, though there was still a bit of a quiver.

  “And ye! Your sister came here begging for my help.”

  “So the lady is Elle.” John—er Erik’s—head swiveled toward the castle, completely unconcerned with having put men’s lives in danger.

  “Are ye hearing me, lad?” Beiste said through gritted teeth.

  “Aye. Let me see her.” There was no question in his demand, but an order. From a lad.

  Beiste laughed. “Ye may be a laird, young pup, but ye’re on my land. And the only reason ye’ve a castle to your name is because of my family.”

  Erik’s gaze burned back on his. “My castle. Ye claimed it. Ye’ll return it to me.”

  “Aye, but not until ye’re ready.”

  That had the little scamp growing red in the face, his own teeth bared, giving Beiste the impression that when he was a man, he’d be a mighty one to be reckoned with. “What right do ye have?”

  “I am your overlord. I have every right.”

  “I want to see my sister. Now.”

  Rather than cause a scene, Beiste rolled his eyes and said, “All right. And I suppose ye’ll not want to be sleeping in the stables anymore?”

  Erik straightened, hands fisted at his sides. “Nay.”

  “Why did ye lie to me?” Beiste leveled his gaze on the lad, daring him to lie again.

  “For my protection. For Elle’s.”

  “But ye didna need protection from me. I was the one helping ye.”

  Erik shrugged. “How was I to know to trust ye just yet?”

  Beiste sighed. “Ye’re right. I’d have done the same thing. Come now. Let us get the two of ye reunited.” And to cease the frigid glares Elle was certain to toss his way.

  Och, frigid… Devastated was more like it.

  When he’d come through the gate and seen her staring at him as though he’d truly betrayed her, it had torn at Beiste’s heart. She’d been the only thing keeping him going the past sennight while they searched the mountains. He dreamt of her at night and fantasized about her during the day. Wanted to make her hap
py, to take away the pain that had been caused to her over the past weeks. Not to be the one to give her more.

  Beiste led Erik into the castle and up the stairs to Elle’s chamber. The door was ajar, but still he knocked with the back of his knuckles, not wanting to push into her chamber the way he had before—when she’d been in the bath. Blast it… But he could still see her in that tub. This was not the time, nor the company, in which to start thinking of sweet Elle soaking wet and naked.

  When she did not answer, Beiste knocked again. “My lady? I’ve a visitor for ye.”

  Still nothing. Where Beiste hesitated, Erik did not. The young pup pushed past him and shoved the door wide.

  “Elle! Do ye not care to see me—” Erik cut himself off short at seeing the room was empty.

  Beiste frowned. “She’s not here,” he grumbled, stating the obvious.

  Having not been home the past eight days, he wasn’t certain where else she’d be, but he knew someone who did. “The housekeeper ought to know where she is.”

  They trudged back down the stairs to the kitchens, finding the heated room to be all a bustle with preparations for the noon meal.

  “Mrs. Lach?” he called.

  She stepped from the buttery. “Aye, my laird?”

  “Have ye seen Lady Elle?”

  Mrs. Lach carried a tub of lard to the center table. “She’s in her chamber, my laird.”

  “Nay, she’s not.”

  The housekeeper frowned, issuing an order to one of the scullions. “I saw her go up there myself. Havena seen her come down.”

  “She’s not there, I assure ye.”

  “Check the gardens.”

  And so it went. They searched the gardens, the stables, every chamber in the massive keep, every well, storehouse and hut. Every crofter’s hut. No sign of her.

  “She’s gone,” Erik said accusingly. “What did ye say to her to make her leave?”

  “I didna say naught.” Beiste had a feeling it wasn’t what he’d said necessarily—but the lack of what he’d been able to do for her. His failure to return her brother, except, dammit, he’d already done just that! Over a sennight ago!