by Lynn Kurland
And if sweaty palms weren't trouble enough, his head had begun to pound again, and he found himself suddenly quite desperate for somewhere to sit down.
"Let's try that again," he said absently, looking around for a chair. "I'm Thomas McKinnon." He saw nothing but rock and dirt. Not useful. He looked at the woman, wondering if she could be prevailed upon for a seat.
She had tilted her head to one side. "Shall I fall to my knees and praise the saints for giving you such a lovely name? Or shall I merely clasp my hands to my bosom and thank you kindly for seeing fit to share such a name with my unworthy self?"
Thomas had to appreciate the comeback, even if her words were less than polite. A smart-ass. He never would have suspected it, given how peaceful she looked, but apparently still waters still ran deep. He certainly hadn't expected her to blurt out that she'd been waiting all her life for him, but a polite Nice to meet you would have been sufficient.
His head began to throb with a very annoying rhythm.
"I thought," he managed, forcing himself to keep his hands in his pockets and not clutching his aching head as he so fervently wanted to, "that I should come up and introduce myself."
"Why?"
"Why?" he repeated. "Well, because it's polite. Maybe you'd like to introduce yourself."
"Would I?"
Was that a star swinging through his field of vision? And another? Great, was he going to pass out in front of the most incredible woman he'd seen in his life?
"Could we knock this off?" he asked, wishing she would just cut him some slack so he could leave very soon and go faint in peace. "I think we have some things to work out."
"Do we?"
"Yes," he said shortly, more shortly than he would have under normal circumstances. "Apparently you're not aware of this, but I own this castle."
"Do you?"
This was going nowhere fast. "Yes, I do."
"Is that so?" she said, sounding exceptionally unimpressed.
"Yes, it is so," he said, exasperated. His head was starting to feel like a blacksmith's anvil. Pound, pound, pound. The stars were starting to swim in front of his eyes like dust motes. "I'm the one who paid for it," he managed.
"With what? Your hard-earned gold?"
He closed his eyes. "Yes," he said, wincing. "My hard-earned gold."
He realized she was silent only after he noticed he'd been standing there for several moments silently himself, just trying to breathe like a man who wasn't in agony. He took a deep, steadying breath and opened his eyes. One more try at coherent conversation.
"The castle was sold—" he began.
"By those who didn't have the right," she said flatly.
"They certainly thought so."
"They were wrong. It wasn't theirs to sell."
"And you think it's yours?" he began, then shut his mouth abruptly when he noticed that she was coming toward him. Even he, in his present state, which included a blinding headache, a complete lack of manners, and an apparent lack of common sense, could see that she was shaking with fury.
Fury was bad.
Even in his impaired state, he knew that.
"I paid for this keep," she said in a low, tight voice, "with my blood."
"Ah..."
"My blood, you fool!" She thrust out a trembling arm and pointed back behind him. "There, in that cursed guard tower chamber. My lifeblood was spilt there, mercilessly, and my murderer didn't even accord me the courtesy of lingering so that I might not die alone."
And then her fury changed into something else.
Tears began to stream down her face. Thomas found himself reaching out to her only to find there was nothing to hold on to. Please not tears. Not a headache so bad he was ready to puke and the sight of tears, too. He wasn't good with tears. His sisters had used them on him mercilessly to get what they wanted, and he'd inevitably caved in. Tears were bad.
"Ah ..." he tried again.
"So you see, Thomas McKinnon," she said, "I have paid indeed for this poor pile of stones you think is yours."
There was absolute silence for the space of several of the longest minutes of his life.
He was desperate for something to say, but all he could do was stare at her tear-ravaged, angry face and wish that he'd done something besides make a complete ass of himself. He struggled to find something that might be adequate to express his regret.
"Um," he managed.
She looked at him with contempt. "Well put."
"Ah—"
She leaned her face close to his. "Damn you for wringing the truth of it from me," she snarled.
And then she vanished.
Thomas stood alone in the middle of the empty hall. He wondered if he would ever again take a normal breath. He looked around and saw nothing. No ghosts. No witnesses to his idiocy. The place was empty, empty but echoing with the words of a woman he had never expected, a woman he had pushed much harder than he'd intended to.
And then he realized he was either going to pass out or be heartily sick. He left the hall before he could spread any happiness, joy, or what he'd eaten that morning. There was, unsurprisingly, the usual cluster of Highlanders congregated by the gates. Thomas was even less surprised to find Connor MacDougal waiting for him, a sneer on his face.
"Well?" Connor demanded. "Did Herself give it to ye proper?"
Thomas looked up—as if having to look up at an adversary wasn't unpleasant enough in itself—at the MacDougal. "This is the thing, Laird MacDougal," he said, wondering how the ghost would feel if he puked at his feet. "You don't have any more right to this place than I do, so why are we arguing over it?"
He had the momentary satisfaction of seeing Connor MacDougal speechless, but that interval lasted long enough for him to sidestep the man and continue on his way down the road. He'd gone only about thirty yards before he heard the angry response from behind him.
"Don't think yer fancy words will win ye the day!" Connor bellowed. "I've still a sword, and you've a neck to be severed!"
Thomas held up his hand in acknowledgment and continued on his way without turning around. He nodded to the picketers, all of whom were swiveling their heads from his direction to the keep and back, their mouths hanging open in astonishment.
He made it to the road before he dropped to his knees and was heartily sick.
And when he found he could crawl to his feet, he did so and made his way back to the inn. Maybe he could sleep the headache off. Maybe he could find the key to Mrs. Pruitt's liquor cabinet and drink himself into a stupor. It really didn't matter that he didn't drink. He suspected that the combination of the havoc he'd just wreaked on an innocent woman and the blinding headache he was suffering merited some kind of dive into the swamp of vice.
Maybe it would erase the memory of what he'd just seen.
He'd made that beautiful, proud woman cry.
It wasn't exactly how he'd intended to meet the neighbors.
Chapter 8
The tidings spread like fleas in wet, humid grass. She'd known they would the moment she'd made the mistake of blurting out the truth. Never mind that most of the men had been at the gates, keeping a respectful distance. There were always several professedly innocent eavesdroppers loitering about in case she needed aid. Damned nosy old women, the lot of them. She had no doubts Roderick was at the heart of all the gossipmongering.
The only good to come of it was that Connor MacDougal had not only grunted at her and nodded his apology, he'd doffed his cap and made her a little bow.
But that was poor recompense for the loss of her privacy.
She supposed, though, that she only had herself to blame for her temper that had led to such loss, but how was she to have done anything else? She hadn't been able to remain silent. It had been all she could do to keep her wits about her when faced with Thomas McKinnon in the flesh.
She'd decided to wait for him in the hall because she thought it might make her seem more powerful. She also hadn't been hiding herself. She had fully inte
nded that he see her immediately.
But she hadn't anticipated how the sight of him would affect her.
He'd been taller than she had supposed, tall and broad and so beautiful she had been scarce able to look at him without wanting to sigh in appreciation. His voice had been deep, a soothing sound that washed over her and left her wanting to close her eyes in pleasure. His eyes were a pale, unearthly blue that had been so mesmerizing, she'd struggled to find wits enough to give him the uninterested responses she'd planned.
Ach, that such a lad had actually come for her.
That he had come for her.
It was so unjust—to finally find the man she had waited for all her life some six hundred years after her death.
The thought of that injustice had been enough to harden her resolve and sharpen her tongue. Perhaps it wasn't his fault that he hadn't arrived when she'd wanted, but it was far easier to be angry with him than to be desperately regretful that he'd come too late. So she'd been aloof and curt. To her mind, he'd been passing unpleasant and astonishingly disrespectful. He certainly hadn't lingered to beg pardon for his poor behavior. He'd stammered out a few apologetic noises, then walked off, ceasing, no doubt, to give her another thought.
But would he return?
Now, that was the question that plagued her—and that it plagued her infuriated her. Why should she care what a mortal did? She was unmoved by his broad shoulders and strong hands. He'd trampled over her heedlessly, and for that he should have been forgotten and thought well rid of.
And it was the thought of ridding herself of him that was driving her out of her keep and down the road to the inn, notwithstanding the lateness of the hour. It wasn't that she didn't frequent the inn, and at whatever hour suited her. She had, on more than one occasion. She had kin down the way. Every decade or so, there rose up in her a longing to be with family. Or, rather, family that she cared to see.
Fortunately, there were at least a few decent men in her family tree, and she found that quaffing a companionable cup of ale every now and again with one or another of them was a pleasure she could allow herself. And 'twas Ambrose MacLeod she sought that night, and not just for the pleasure of speech with him. He was a wily old warrior with unlimited ideas on how to rid oneself of annoyances.
An annoyance such as Thomas McKinnon, for instance.
She walked through the inn's immaculately tended garden and permitted herself a small flash of envy for the gardener. It reminded her too much of her own garden in the Highlands. How many happy hours had been passed there, tending herbs, plucking out weeds, growing things that could actually be eaten? Perhaps 'twas a simple thing, that tending of things the earth nourished, but she had loved it.
She paused at the back door that led into the kitchen, feeling suddenly that she might be making a very great mistake. Perhaps Thomas McKinnon would simply go. Would it not be better to consider him beneath her notice? Then again, perhaps 'twas too late to turn back now. Besides, there would be those awake and happy for a bit of conversation.
She took a deep breath and walked through the door.
A single candle burned low on the table. The simple light fell on the drooling visage of the man she suspected she might come to loathe, given enough time. He was rude, aye, but not only was he rude, he was a drinker as well. She glared at him in disgust. Could this not be any more undesirable a houseguest? He would pound away with his hammer all day, then drink himself into a. stupor and snore all night.
Nay, 'twas far better that she got rid of him before he disturbed her peace any further.
"Tommy, my lad, if you want to drink yourself senseless, you'd best fill up your glass."
Iolanthe looked quickly to her right to find that another soul had entered the kitchen. Either she had been concentrating so hard on her thoughts that she'd not marked him, or he'd walked through that dining chamber door as easily as she could have.
Which, given the identity of the man, was entirely possible.
The man took no note of her but sat himself down at the table. A tankard of ale appeared in his hand, and the kitchen brightened considerably when a flick of his wrist lit candles and stoked the fire in the hearth.
Thomas McKinnon didn't lift his head. "I couldn't bring myself to open the bottle."
The older man facing him clucked his tongue sadly. "Ach, but what a sorry state you're in."
Iolanthe watched Thomas lift his head, stare at the man facing him, then close his eyes. He swallowed with apparent difficulty.
'Tell me I'm hallucinating."
The man facing him laughed heartily. "Poor lad. Rough go of it?"
Thomas opened his eyes. "You have me at a disadvantage, I'm afraid. You obviously know who I am, but I have no idea who you are."
"Ambrose MacLeod," the older man said. "Chieftain of your clan during the glorious sixteenth century."
Thomas took a deep breath, then put both his hands on the table as if to steady himself. "Why is it I seem to be seeing so many Highlanders so far from home? What is it with this place? Everyone seems to congregate here."
"We've business hereabouts, if you like."
Iolanthe snorted before she could stop herself. The only business the old fool before her had was befouling the lives of all those about him with marriage and other such undesirable unions. He'd grown soft and sentimental in his death. In life, he had been notorious for hatching wild and impossible plots to mete out revenge and rid himself of troublesome enemies. Would that he would use some of that kind of stratagem for her benefit.
She cleared her throat purposefully. If Ambrose marked her, he didn't show it. Iolanthe folded her arms over her chest and leaned back against the door. She glared at Ambrose, but apparently he was more skilled at ignoring others than she'd given him credit for. He merely concentrated on the lout facing him.
Then something struck her, something she'd heard but not truly listened to. Ambrose was chieftain of Thomas's clan?
Thomas was a MacLeod? How could that be?
"I saw you in the hallway that first day." Thomas looked anything but bleary-eyed now. He was sitting up, bracing himself with his hands on the table.
"Aye."
"And you're a ghost."
"Aye, lad. That, too."
Thomas seemed to chew on that for quite some time. "My mother is a MacLeod," he said finally. "She sees things others don't."
"As do you, apparently."
"Unfortunately."
Iolanthe pitied the poor woman, with such an ill-mannered son as this. Well, at least the mystery of his lineage was solved. She wondered how she should feel about having this lout as a kinsman.
"You'll accustom yourself to it all in time," Ambrose said. " 'Tis a blessing, actually, that seeing."
"I think the jury's still out on that." He frowned suddenly. "Speaking of seeing, do you know anyone who wears mouse ears and travels?"
Ambrose sighed heavily. "Hugh McKinnon. Sorry to say it, lad, but he's a laird back in your father's line—"
Hugh appeared next to Ambrose, beaming. "A good e'en to ye, grandson," he said, bobbing his head a time or two. "Now, Tommy lad, forgive me that I couldn't present myself to ye, understand, for at the time—"
"Hugh," Ambrose said with a sigh, "we've business to attend to."
"Aye, I can see that," Hugh said, sitting down and making himself comfortable. "I'm sure you'll want me in on it."
"And I'm just as certain we won't," Ambrose said.
"But—"
"Perhaps you and Thomas can share a cup of ale at a later time," Ambrose said.
"But—"
"A much later time." .
Hugh looked as if he planned to protest again, but apparently something in Ambrose's eye convinced him he shouldn't. He grumbled something under his breath but rose just the same. Iolanthe watched as he bowed with a flourish and popped his cap back onto his head. "I'll come to ye later, grandson. When we have some peace for speaking," he said, giving Ambrose a pointed glare.
"Well..." said Thomas.
Hugh disappeared.
Iolanthe looked at Thomas. Well, at least the man was still breathing normally. She'd come to find that most mortals upon seeing a ghost gave in to a mighty case of hysterics. Then again, this man here seemed passing arrogant and excessively full of his own words. Perhaps he was too stupid to be afraid. Either that, or he'd seen so many ghosts already that day that he was impervious to being further startled.
Thomas rubbed his hands over his eyes, then looked at Ambrose and took a deep breath.
"You know my sister, Megan?"
"Of course," Ambrose said. "I arranged her marriage to young Gideon de Piaget."
"Of course," Thomas said faintly. He toyed with his glass and the bottle on the table for a moment or two, then looked at Ambrose. "If I ask you a few questions," he began, "will you answer them?"
"Ask all you like," Ambrose said easily. "I've naught but time on my hands and a love for a goodly bit of talk."
Iolanthe caught herself before she snorted again. Ambrose always told the truth, and never more than when he said he loved to talk. She sat down on the little boot bench by the door and settled in for a long evening.
"Who is she?"
"Who is whom?"
"Herself up the way."
Iolanthe pursed her lips. Ah, here was the question indeed. Perhaps he intended to have answers as to how to rid himself of her so he could be about his work with his accursed tools.
"And why, lad, would you be wanting to know that?" Ambrose asked.
"Well," Thomas began slowly, "I met her today. And I have no idea what came over me."
All the fatal flaws in your character? she wanted to ask.
"She does have that effect on men," Ambrose murmured into his cup.
Iolanthe glared at him. She was quite sure he felt the heat of it because he rubbed the side of his neck absently.
"Well, actually I do know what came over me: a gargantuan headache. It wasn't much of an excuse for how rude I was to her, but—"
Aye, "but," she thought sourly. Here comes the excuse, indeed.
"I looked at her, standing there in the sunlight, and... well..."
