by Dianna Love
To Duncan’s shock, Beth next tipped back the electrician’s head, swiped the foamy spittle from his lips, and started blowing into the dead man’s blue mouth. Not once, but repeatedly. To Duncan’s utter amazement, Frasier’s mottled skin began to pink.
Beth stopped breathing into Bart’s mouth and again ran her fingers along his neck.
Will collapsed to his knees beside her. “The police are coming.”
Beth nodded and breathed again into the old man.
“Is he alive?” Will asked. “Will he be all right? Ack! ‘Tis all my fault.”
Beth, looking no less terrified than the son, didn’t answer but pressed her ear to the elder Fraiser’s chest. When she lifted her head a quivering smile took shape. “He’s breathing on his own now.”
Duncan rocked back in surprise. ‘Twas a bloody miracle!
Young Frasier’s tears started falling in earnest as he caressed his father’s brow. “Da, I’m so sorry.” To Beth he said, “Thank you.”
Within minutes the police launch arrived. They secured the still unconscious Fraser onto a board and shuttled him out.
On the quay, Duncan stood at Beth’s side as she waved the men off. He then followed her hunched-shouldered progress into the keep, up and out on to the parapet.
As she watched the police launch cross the bay—her face now a horrid mess of black streaks—she whispered, “Go with God.”
His odd but brave wee heir then began to quake and sob in heartbreaking earnest.
Deciding she should not, he murmured at a volume she might hear, “There’s no need for tears, lass, for ye did well. Verra well, indeed.”
Heart once again bounding, Beth jerked. Did Duncan Angus MacDougall, her resident voyeur, just speak to her? She held her breath while every nerve in her body focused on hearing.
She turned, hoping. Her gaze shifted from one corner of the high parapet to the next. Nothing.
“Ah,” murmured her ghost. “Why is it, lass, that ye canna see me now, yet on occasion, ye can?”
Her heart slammed into her ribs. His voice rumbled from only two feet away. She reached out a tentative hand.
He chuckled, “Ye canna touch me in my present state, lass. Oh, that I wish you could, but ‘tis not time.”
“Why...?” She didn’t know where to begin her inquisition, her nerves still rattled by all that had just happened.
“Because, I’m dead, lass.”
“No...I understand that you’re dead.” She grinned as she dashed away tears. “I meant to ask, why have you finally decided to speak to me?”
“Ye appear to be in need of someone at the moment.”
“Ah.” Her handsome specter was compassionate. “I’m Beth.”
“Aye, I know that. I’m Duncan Angus MacDougall, also called The Black, the MacDougall, or laird.”
“Do you have a preference?”
“Hmm.”
She waited, focusing on the dense cold hovering before her.
“From what little I know of ye, I’d be pleased ta have ye address me as Duncan.”
Oh, my. He wanted to be on a first name basis with her. Her excitement multiplied at the prospect. She wanted to ask if he felt cold, if he ate, slept, or why he’d chosen to speak to her when he hadn’t talked to Tom. For some inexplicable reason she asked, “Are you ever lonely?”
“Aye, at times.”
“Me, too.” Burning started at the back of her throat again, a familiar sting at the back of her eyes. A dead man was making her life palatable and she was happy about it. What’s wrong with this picture, Beth?
“Duncan, do you mind my being here?”
“Nay, lass. I’m quite pleased you’ve come. ‘Tis a big place for one wee man.”
She grinned, sniffing back tears. “From what I hear, there’s nothing wee about you.”
His laughter rumbled like wooden barrels rolling down a long hall. “To be sure, lass, there is naught on this body that’s wee.”
She felt a blush creep up her neck, turned from the mass of cold air and studied the harbor. Did ghosts miss making—
Good gravy. She was definitely in worse shape than she’d thought.
Beth watched the police launch dock at Drasmoor and men scramble out of the waiting ambulance. As soon as the elder Frasier was loaded into the ambulance, it took off, lights flashing and sirens woo, woo, wooing, which to Beth’s ears didn’t sound near as serious—as urgent—as its high-pitched, screaming New York City’s counterparts.
“As I said, lass, ye did verra well.”
“I pray he recovers consciousness soon.”
“God’s hand was on ye shoulder. Fraser will be fine.”
When the ambulance disappeared from view she turned to watch the sun set, something she hadn’t been able to enjoy very often in a city filled with skyscrapers.
Looking like a giant orange, the sun slowly slid behind a distant line of molten silver. Wide swatches of orchid, flame, and daffodil surrounded the spectacle. She thought it a fitting close to her first week as owner of Castle Blackstone.
“Do you sleep?” she asked her specter.
“Of course.”
“Where?”
“Where I choose.”
Of course he did. “Do you eat?”
“Nay, and I do miss that verra much. The taste of roasted venison I sorely crave.”
“What else do you miss?”
“The men who stood at my side, the sounds of babes at play, the feel of a woman’s skin under my hand.” He chuckled. “The taste of fine whisky, and of course, reeving. Ack, ‘tis nothing finer on a fair night than racing the wind for home on a sturdy mount with yer enemy braying at yer back.”
Whoa! She’d been under the impression he’d done it simply to get his cattle back. Apparently not.
The sun slipped away for the night and she shivered.
“‘Tis time to go below, lass, before ye catch yer death.”
She nodded. As she headed for the stairs, she asked, “Will I ever see you clearly?”
Silence answered back.
~#~
Beth, exhausted but still awake, reached for the ringing phone. “Hello?”
“Tom here, my lady. Just thought you’ll like to know Bart Frasier has awakened in hospital. He’s a bit befuddled and missing a good bit of hair, but the doctor says he’ll recover.”
“Thank God. Is his son okay?”
“Aye. Young Will finally settled once his Da was alert and talking. How are you?”
“I’m...can you hold on a moment?” She reached for her compact and scanned the solar. Finding herself alone, she whispered, “Tom, he spoke to me. Up on the parapet.”
“Who?”
“The ghost...Duncan!”
“Are ye sure ye’re not imagining things, lass, after the shock—”
“We had a conversation, Tom.”
“My word. Did he materialize?”
“No. He said it wasn’t time.”
Tom muttered, “I must tell Margaret at once,” then said, “Lass, do be careful. Ye understand he has a mighty temper when provoked.”
“I will. Margaret told me what he did after Sheffield died, and about the night he nearly destroyed the hall. Did they really find his claymore stuck in the ceiling?”
“Aye. Our laird dinna take well that lad’s death. According to my grandfather, the MacDougall had been verra fond of Kyle, had made himself known to lad from the cradle.” Tom fell silent for a moment, and then said, “If ye can, get some rest.”
“I’ll try. Do keep me abreast of Mr. Fraser’s progress and don’t forget to call as soon as the roses arrive.”
“Will do. Goodnight, Beth.”
She snapped the phone closed and scanned the room once again with the mirror. Her ghost had apparently retired, which was just as well. She wasn’t sure she could handle anymore tonight.
~#~
“Ha!” It had taken a week but he finally had her cell phone.
Contemplating the joy he�
��d take in pitching the noisy thing into the sea, Duncan cautiously lifted the cover. As he examined the lighted screen and buttons, it shrilled out to her. Startled, he dropped it.
“God’s breathe!” Did the thing have eyes? He then heard Beth’s quick footsteps on the stairs. He scooped up the phone and placed it on the dresser where he’d found it. “Later,” he hissed, retreating to a corner.
Panting, Beth ran into the room and flipped open her phone. “Hello?” After a pause she said, “I’m fine, Margaret. Thank you for asking.” She listened for a moment. “Terrific. Did they deliver all four varieties? Ah huh. No problem. I’ll come right over. No need. I’m turning into quite the sailor.” She started straightening the bed with her free hand. “I’ll see you soon. Bye.”
Duncan cursed as Beth dropped her phone onto the dresser and walked into the bath chamber. In the confusion following Bart’s accident, he’d forgotten to ban her from using the bloody launch.
He looked out the window. Cloudless cobalt blue hung over Drasmoor and its flat-as-glass harbor. He could see no evidence of wind and see no clouds on the horizon. Should he deny her a few hours reprieve when all looked calm and safe? Nay. Had he the opportunity to leave the isle, he would. He heaved a resigned sigh. Some did say “practice makes perfect.”
Hearing water running into the tub lifted his mood only marginally. He walked to the bath chamber.
“You’d better leave,” Beth muttered as she poured her rose and lily crystals into the water. “You’re not the only one around here who can pitch a fit when provoked.”
Cursing and not yet kenning how she sensed his presence, he backed into the solar.
He looked at the cell phone. He could dispose of the piping box later. ‘Twas more important he check the launch; to be sure there were no leaks, enough petrol, and that the oars were in place should the damn engine fail.
~#~
Rocked by a sudden gust of cold wind, Beth looked up from her task of securing her rosebushes in the boat’s bow to see ominous, lead-bellied thunderheads gathering on the horizon. Frowning, she looked beyond the quay and found Drasmoor’s once glass-smooth harbor churning with whitecaps. “Not good.”
She’d dallied longer than intended, enjoying her visit with Margaret—who’d filled Beth with tea, scones, and gossip—and the infamous gardener Ms. Crombie, but now she had to hurry.
Untying the rope that secured her launch to the dock, Beth said, “I’m must apologize, Mrs. Crombie, but I’m afraid we’ll have to continue my lesson another time.” She pointed to the sky. “I need to start back before that storm hits.”
“Ack! And here I am prattling on.” The old woman clasped Beth’s hand with fragile, gnarled fingers. “Please come often, my lady. I’d love to spend more time with ye, if ye’re of a mind.”
“Thank you. I’d love to.”
Beth settled at the rear of the boat. With an eye on the sky, she yanked on the starter cord and the engine coughed to life. Please, God, get me home safely.
Apprehension mounting, she waved a final time to Mrs. Crombie and headed out into the choppy water.
~#~
On Blackstone’s parapet, Duncan’s gut churned as he strained to see Beth through the sheeting torrent. Cursing himself for allowing her to go, he caught sight of her—stark white in a heaving world of gray—-just before the wind shifted and drove the rain sideways yet again, obliterating his view.
He raced to another break in the parapet’s battlement hoping for a clearer line of sight to no avail. His futile efforts were wasting precious time. He had to shift, to materialize. He was useless to Beth in his present state.
Against every instinct that clamored to keep her in view, he closed his eyes. He suppressed the vision of Beth’s terrified expression and focused on becoming one with the elements, focus on all things solid and whole, his only hope to help her.
Seconds felt like hours as he concentrated on simply being.
When he suddenly felt rain for the first time in centuries and cold for the first time in decades, he gasped, threw back his head and threw wide his arms. He roared as he opened his eyes to the brutal assault of the sheeting rain. He’d done it.
Relieved to his marrow, he resumed his search. On the next flash of lightening he caught sight of Beth, eyes wide in terror, just as she and the boat, now sideways, disappeared beneath a crushing wave.
“Nayyy!” ripped from his throat as he dove over the parapet.
~#~
Duncan, clutching Beth’s unconscious half-frozen body tight to his heaving chest, raced up Blackstone’s stairs to the solar.
Fearing he’d found her too late, he laid her on the bed and ran a shaking hand along her throat. Though her skin wore a worrisome blue cast and felt like ice, to his monumental relief he felt a strong pulse throb beneath his fingertips. He threw the bed covering across her and frantically rubbed her near frozen limbs.
“Can ye hear me, lass?” Getting no response, he shook her. “Lass! Do ye hear me? Ye canna die. Nay, ye be The One.”
He blinked back tears as he blew on her hands. “Please, God, after bringin’ her to me, ye canna be thinking of takin’ her back.” He’d not—would not—lose this lass. Nay, not after waiting so many lifetimes for her. She had the mettle, the fortitude, to break the curse.
Heart pounding, he scrambled over her and stood before the carved headboard. He reached above his head and turned the woodcock’s head until it came loose in his hand.
Reaching into the four-inch thick wood, he extracted a brittle leather pouch. He tore it open and dropped the Brooch of Lorne—-Robert the Bruce’s ornate clasp—onto the bed. He stared at what remained in his hand, at the gold and pigeon-blood ruby ring he’d not seen in centuries. His breath caught as the key to his redemption glittered in his palm.
Beth had yet to finish the diary, dinna know all that had gone before, but he had no choice. Before she was lost to him, he had to take her.
He dropped to his knees, cradled her in his arms, and kissed her cold forehead. “Wee ferret, I pray ye can forgive me for what I’m about to do.”
He tightened his hold on her. As he kissed her dusky lips, he slipped his wedding ring onto the middle finger of her left hand and the world turned lightening blue.
Chapter 4
Beth awoke in the dark, drenched and chilled to the bone. She winced against the roaring cacophony assaulting her ears from above. Covering them with shaking hands, she briefly looked around the dismal, unfamiliar space. She had no idea where she lay and didn’t care. Her head hurt unmercifully, more so when she coughed up a mouthful of salt water. Think, Beth, think!
The last thing she could recall was hanging onto her capsized boat for dear life as wave after unrelenting wave tried to push her under.
She winced as lightening cracked again. Hearing what sounded like horses and men screaming, she pictured her beautiful mullioned windows slamming on frail hinges against the keep’s walls. She tried to sit. Wondering how she was still alive could wait until she secured the keep. She didn’t need—-nor could she afford—another broken window.
A heavy weight held her lower torso and legs pinned. She craned her neck to see why and found two lifeless women, their faces dark and bloody—their mouths open like effigy masks, holding her down. Bile rose in her throat. She screamed.
The roof of her prison sprang open before her scream’s echo stopped. A heavily muscled arm reached for her. Grasping the man’s hand, Beth stared, mouth agape, into the steel blue eyes of her rescuer.
“Duncan?”
The Laird of Blackstone looked about the confines of the fractured coach. Seeing only one woman alive, one who looked nothing like the bride he’d been told to expect, he cursed. He shoved the dead women aside and pulled up on the crying woman’s hand. The Bruce would pay with his life for this.
As he lifted her through the door, lightening flashed. Its light bounced off the rubies in the ring she wore on her left hand. Sudden, overwhelming relief flooded h
im. It was his betrothal ring. Thank God! ‘Twas of no account that the abbess had gilded the lily—-hell, the woman was apparently blind—for his bride lived.
Before he could set her on the ground, her hands flew to his face. Her cold fingers fluttered across his cheeks for an instant before her arms wrapped tightly around his neck.
“Oh, Duncan! I’ve never...” She stopped and he followed her gaze. Her eyes grew wide as they took in the carnage he and his men had wrought.
“Duncan...?”
What followed, he could only guess at. Before he could ask her to repeat herself, she turned ashen and promptly fainted.
“Well, ye did it again. Will ye never learn?” Angus, his second in command, asked as he peered over his shoulder. “One look at ye and yer softer-than-puddin’ bride faints.” His best friend’s gaze shifted, as did his own, from the woman’s face to her outlandish clothing. “And what on earth is she wearing?”
Duncan had no idea, but she’d been living on the continent and their ways were strange. Perhaps his intended had dressed as a man thinking it safer. Her odd leggings would make for an easier, faster ride home, in any event. She could ride astride on the way to their wedding.
~#~
Beth opened her eyes, this time in Blackstone’s great hall, standing in Duncan’s fierce embrace. Without a word, he spun her toward the small man with his back to the fire. Fire? Why was there a fire? She’d yet to have the flues cleaned.
She blinked, trying to understand why the fat little man in brown was in her home and what he now mumbled about. He said something to Duncan in Gael, and her ghost growled something in return. Head still spinning, she pushed on Duncan’s arm, but his grip only tightened.
She ran a dry tongue over her chapped lips and again tasted salt. “Please let go.”
Duncan responded by issuing another order to the concerned looking man before her. The room continued to list so she tried focusing on the large wooden crucifix on the little man’s chest.
