Clear blue sky lit up the hills of Scotland behind the black-and-white sign flashing an ominous B-8-2-2. The wicked sign raced toward us.
How convenient. So helpful. I followed the annoying arrow past the last house of Fintry, a cozy village known for farming and forestry.
"Where's that ninety-four-foot waterfall?" Jennifer asked.
Oh, what a lovely detour. I peered into the rearview mirror.
Jennifer twirled her ponytail, staring at the green trees whisking by beyond her window.
Pam unfolded the map again, hiding her face in the process. "Two miles outside of Fintry on B818."
"Maybe we can run by there in the morning. It's only an hour's drive to Glasgow," Jennifer offered, watching me.
Obviously to see the reaction from the front seat. Mine? Or his? Probably his.
Pam lowered the map and folded the wrinkled piece of paper.
So much for a reprieve. I focused on Pam's straight-lipped reflection. The lovely truth stretched her smile into a blank line.
Reality is always that boring. No. I don't want to liven things up at the haunted castle, universe. Delays. We need delays. Like a waterfall. "You ready to get back to work, Pam?"
The only word powerful enough to cross that I-need-an-escape-route-from-Jennifer smile is yes. Even Murdo had to know what the answer would be. Thirty days with Jennifer was an eternity.
Pam smiled, locking her blank gaze on Katie's. "The rat race seems normal most of the time."
More like familiar. Comforting. Who could blame Pam when she was trapped in the backseat with Jennifer? Because of me. And my extra souvenir I'd stuffed into the front passenger seat. Okay, Pam's misery is all my fault. I'll just change the subject. "So, Jennifer." I waited for Jennifer's gaze to meet mine in the mirror. "Do you feel like a rat when they pop you into one of those wee submarines and send you down for a look-see along a mid-oceanic ridge?"
Jennifer frowned. "No. Why would I feel like a rat? Besides, Scripps doesn't have a diving research vessel. I got lucky when the Wood's Hole's Alvin showed up. They took me down for a once in a lifetime trip."
"Were you wearing the gold or black bikini?" Pam sneered.
"What does that mean?" Jennifer snarled at the redhead.
"You got a ride of a lifetime because you were practically nude," Pam countered. "Ride-able."
Joy. So much for a change of subject.
Another sign hurried toward us, welcoming us to Culcreuch Castle. "Okay you two. We're coming up to the castle."
The toothed edge of a castle's crenellated wall poked out from behind an oak canopy.
Jennifer jolted to the edge of her seat. "Wow. That's pretty amazing. It isn't Eilean Donan, but it'll do, pig."
Would Murdo know about the movie Babe? It was filmed in New Zealand. Glancing sideways, I watched him for a reaction.
He showed no sign of understanding the Babe joke. Hadn't the film been made in New Zealand? Never mind. I studied the stair-stepped roofline of the monstrous fortification.
Sunlight played on the building's yellow stone, gilding the castle in gold.
"So, part of this castle has been around since Robert the Bruce?" Pam's thoughts veered down a different road of topics.
At long last. History. "Yes. They say the castle's backdrop of sixteen-hundred acres of woodland and hills was Sir Walter Scott's setting for Rob Roy too."
"What if a ghost is sleeping in our chamber?" Jennifer's words wavered.
What a bad question. Overly discussed. Best to ignore. The rearview mirror showed Pam punching numbers into her cell phone.
Tires tore at the road in the silence.
Pam thrust the phone to her ear. "Loch Lomond Charter?"
Perfect! Loch Lomond would keep us from the castle as long as possible. What an interlude before death by terrifying sleepover..
"I'm confirming the Lovelace party's four-thirty reservations for the gloaming cruise," Pam said.
Luckily, the cruise isn't renowned for haunting. No more ghost-spotting holiday destinations! This would be the last time I ever insist upon such lunacy in sightseeing. I steered the jostling car past both buildings toward the castle, rolling onto a gravel loop, slowing in front of the door.
"Three-twenty, great timing." Pam noted as the motor's hum died. "We'll have a great evening. Take the Loch Lomond cruise. Check out the sunset. And it's dinner in the dungeon."
Dungeon? Full of disembodied spirits. Anger. Vengeance.
My heart sank.
"Sorry, Katie." Pam patted my shoulder.
Car doors swung open.
Trapped in a genuinely haunted castle wasn't what a girl planned for her holiday. I'd lost my mind in making the suggestion.
A hand rapped on my window.
Pam waved from the other side of the glass. "Come on."
So much for vacation. Just one more night and it's back at the Innis house. Normalcy. As normal as life after parents can get. I reached for the door handle, climbed from the driver's seat, feet sinking into gravel, and swung the door shut.
With every intention of not panicking.
Pam and Jennifer yanked luggage from the trunk. The mixture of the baggage's slick finishes and tapestry all aligned in a neat row on the wide expanse of the drive's loose small stones.
The gravel is what my wits would be by sunrise. Frazzled into hard little jostling and clinking grains. And friends insisted on this day's venture. Maybe a girl needs new friends. Maybe. Maybe. I headed for the castle's front door.
Murdo fell in beside me and shot me a sweet smile.
Kindness from a man who aimed to get inside someone's pants? He knew Guinevere and I would be blubbering idiots once night fell and the phantoms floated through the woodwork. Thank goodness Pam insisted he room far far away from us.
An enormous wooden door blocked our path.
That had to be a dungeon door. Dark. Ominous. The door to spooky Hell. Time to go home.
Footfalls displaced gravel behind me. Murdo stepped forward and pounded a large fist on the dark shining wood. Someone cleared her throat behind me.
"I think we can just walk in," Pam said.
The dark wooden front door of Culcreuch Castle fell open with a long-ass unbroken creak.
Joy of joys. Another lovely foreboding sound to haunt one's memory.
A tall smiling man dressed in crisp black-and-white stepped into sunlight.
Ever the businessman. Did Satan keep a ground's keeper who looked so responsible?
"Welcome to Culcreuch Castle," the man called with an all-too-British accent minus the Scottish burr.
A cacophonous round of greetings burst from the group.
"You must be the Lovelace party," the man sort of asked.
"Yes." Pam stepped forward assertively, talking beside Murdo's elbows. "We've picked up an extra body on the trip. Will this be a problem?"
The man eyed Murdo over. "Not at all. I'm Laird Halam." He waved toward the door. "Please come in. I'll send a man for your bags."
Lordy. We are really staying.
Pam shoved my shoulder blades more than pushed them forward.
Friends. Right. Pam is my friend. How to turn back? I unfortunately and against my will crossed Hell's threshold.
"We've got reservations on the loch for a four-thirty excursion," Pam yammered. "We must hurry."
Oh yes, let's depart immediately.
The Laird turned, smiling. "No problem then. Will you require supper?"
"In the dungeon," Pam noted.
No. The day's racing by way too fast toward the insanity cliff. If I saw another ghoul, I have no idea how I'd keep myself together.
"Excellent." The Laird smiled, waving the group toward an exquisite dark wooden banister.
A force nudged at my back again.
Damn. I jumped, looking over my shoulder.
Murdo towered overhead. "Let's go, lass," he rumbled.
At least, he's nearby with that sword. Bent. Yes. But he might step in again as he'
d done earlier with Mr. Boots. Prove himself more than a jerk. Again. Maybe? I hope. Do I? He really seems to be a nice guy the longer he's around.
"A Laird? Imagine that." Jennifer smiled and stepped toward the door.
The gold digger. I'd seen that expression on Jennifer's face before. "He's only been the Laird since purchasing the castle in 1984." After dropping the bomb, I hurried after the others.
Anything to return to the car.
An inquisitive arch graced Jennifer's money-grubbing brow. "How do you know that about him?"
"Homework." I have to keep reminding myself the other girls’ interest in Scotland is minor compared to my personal obsession.
We wove up the stairs, around the corner, and down a shady hall. Even though everyone showed great interest in the paintings, photographs, and wallpaper, I couldn't help but search the shadows for Mr. Boots. Just something about the whole ghost-thing warned me that anything is possible.
"And two ladies will be sleeping in the Chinese Bird Room." Laird Haslam turned to them, reached for a brass doorknob, and pushed the mahogany door inward. "You'll find hand-painted wallpaper imported from China in 1723, ladies. Culcreuch Castle claims to have the only paper of its age in Scotland."
Antiquities can't smooth over the fact they're making me lodge in a haunted building with Jennifer. But I'll take the spirit-free bird room. I stepped into the loveliest room, wallpapered with black peacocks perched in black oriental trees on white.
A large luxurious bed waited to send me into a peaceful slumber. Probably from which I'd never awaken.
My gut took a swan dive.
Over the pillows, a small canopy hung on the wall. Two curtains flanked the front of the bed while a tall dark wooden footboard finished the bed's front end. Although the room had little else aside from two end tables and a low table at the footboard, the room was quite grand. Especially the window.
Jennifer brushed past my elbow, stopping at the bed. "What do you think? Is this noble enough for you?"
The sound of footsteps noted the others continued onward down the hall.
Who cares about noble? "I say elegant works." I moved to peek out the window's small alcove surrounded by tall white sheers that made the window pocket glow brilliant white.
Like a sheet of warm mist. I fingered a warm sheet of translucent fabric, pulled the curtain aside, and peered out at the woodlands blotting the scene behind the castle.
The view should have been spectacular.
"I feel like a queen," Jennifer chimed.
Queen Slut. I'd need more than eighteenth-century Chinese wallpaper to feel like royalty. "I just feel special." Sought out by ghosts, no less.
Jennifer gaped silently at the bed, struck by a sudden jolt of memory, then spun. "Let's go see Pam's room."
Considering the larger the group, the safer I would be, I hurried into the hall lined with framed black-and-white photographs. The window at the end of the hall struggled to illuminate the shadowy hallway. The lighting wasn't exceptional but the pictures were still obviously tinged with age. And nothing's like old photos. Especially the old photos first taken in the 1820s, daguerreotypes.
A picture caught my eye.
The most hysterical scene. A group of locals from the 1950s staring across water where a dinghy flew through the air. In the dinghy, beneath what appeared to be a whirling helicopter-type propeller, sat a man. Good grief. Bubba flash. Growing up in Texas, I'd witnessed a multitude of Bubba stunts. Moving to Kentucky, I'd encountered even more. But when I'd realized Bubbas came from somewhere, particularly Appalachia, then made the connection between Appalachia, Scotland, Ireland, and Wales during colonial times, I decided Bubba genes came from the United Kingdom. The flying boat only reaffirmed this epiphany.
"In here," Jennifer called, standing at an open door, staring into a room.
Light pushed shadows back across the hall.
Jennifer has to see this. "Come here." I waved an unavoidably commanding hand gesture.
Jennifer hustled over, stopped at my elbow, and peered at the flying boat. "How did he--"
"Oh, I see you've found our favorite picture," the Laird timbered.
We spun.
Laird Haslam smiled in the doorway across the burgundy hall. Murdo peered over his shoulder. Pam strained to peek around his upper arm where she was blocked inside the doorway.
"That's the flying boat photo," Laird Haslam declared. "Very well, then. We'll see you when you return from the cruise." He quickly walked back the way we'd come. "I trust you'll take a jacket along."
Nice man. One could never be grateful enough for conscientious people seeing to one's welfare on vacation. He undoubtedly attracted all sorts of return vacationers on trips to Scotland. Maybe the antique wallpaper had magic properties that would ward off spooks? Possibly? Hopefully?
"You've got to see the other suite." Jennifer tugged at my elbow.
Four steps took us to the door where I could gaze at the massive dark wooden four-poster bed in a burgundy room. What a bed. What a night with him. With gorgeous Murdo sleeping in the same suite, Pam's definitely the Queen. Maybe he can prove himself decent by not hitting on Pam while they share a bed together.
"It's the Laird's Suite," Jennifer chimed.
Knowing Jennifer probably didn't understand the current Laird wasn't relinquishing his quarters to anyone, I explained, "Laird Galbraith's suite, historically. Halam rents it out for the novelty. Tourists like you and I eat it up." With a four-poster bed that could sleep a king, the suite's most definitely fit for a Laird. Pam seemed oblivious to the excitement of her upcoming evening with Mr. Perfection. I stole a peek at Pam.
A few twinges of damnable envy had the audacity to poke me.
A noise squeaked from the end of the hall.
A short man hauled our luggage through the shadows. The closer he came, the more formal he appeared in black pants and vest with a white shirt.
"Let's get our belongings in the right rooms, grab jackets, and get down to the dock," Pam barked.
No problem. Ten minutes later, I held a hooded sweatshirt, wandering from picture to picture in the hall. Many photos were of the mail carrier during the twentieth century. The Maiden of the Loch, a steamship, was another popular local photography subject.
"Let's go." Pam burst into the hall.
Does anyone honestly think I have a problem with departing? I stepped off, launching toward the stairs, passing the photos.
Jennifer hurried after me with both cameras and a windbreaker. Murdo rattled along with his bent sword.
The sword? Why carry the sword along? Whatever.
My gaze snapped to another picture.
Four men pulled a fish net out of the loch onto a beach lined with pines. Three men wore trousers and berets. The fourth looked like Murdo. Yes. It has to be him. How many other Scotsmen look like that? I'd have to question Murdo to see if he knew. Or if something strange unfolded here. Strange as in ghostly bizarre.
****
Pictures rushed by with each of Murdo's strides down the castle's corridor. Whatever the hurry, he thought. All seemed crazy when a fine comforting bed awaited us all. Some sleep. Alas, the maidens insisted I join them on the boat. At least, a trip around Loch Lomond would be a treasured memory. To any Ring Master.
Katie stopped dead still in her tracks in the shadowy hallway, her intent gaze locked upon me.
Again? Is she being contacted by another Seer? Here? Why?
Just as suddenly, the lass spun, heading down the passageway after her friends.
Maybe I'd done something offensive? Gods damn. I had in no way vulgarly touched myself. Or had her reaction stemmed from the bed assignments? I can't agree more. Having to spend the night in a chamber with Red is bad enough. Am I already stigmatized with claiming her maidenhead? Black-balled as if the baw bags are bruised where they hang beneath the shaft falsely accused of aching for that hard-nosed maiden.
Guinevere shot me a wily smile from farther down the hall.
Bruised from merely lurking in that wanton one's shadow. She could keep her maidenhead. I doubted I'd dodge the wench if forced to share a chamber with her clingy arms. And how to avoid passing the octopus now?
The harlot latched onto my arm. "How do you feel about a sunset cruise around Loch Lomond?" She pressed the roundness of her breasts against my arm.
Anything to detach said despicable curves from my body. "The trip will be a welcomed treat." I hustled her squeezing grasp toward the stairs.
To keep from being alone with the whore.
"It's the least we can do after almost killing you. Do you sing, Murdo?" she asked.
Doesn't everyone? "Somewhat." I kept my gaze fixated on the passing pictures.
"So, New Zealanders don't fancy singing as much as Scots do?"
Well, lying seemed to be the only solution. "No."
Pam shot us a chiding glance over her shoulder.
Perfect timing. "Come now, Guinevere. We'll anger the others if we delay."
The female giggled. "I love it when you call me Guinevere."
****
Katie eased the car up into the gravel parking area near the tiny chocolate-brown clapboard boathouse and killed the engine. The building's tidy yellow trim makes the house look like a petit four, she noted. Adorable. And the pier extending out over the almost still water to a bobbing wooden yacht is merely the end of a long chocolate decorative curl. But the sparkling windows setting off the boat's warm lacquered wood at the end of the pier made me think about navel-gazing instead of chocolate. The Introspection heralded from the stern in crisp black letters for all passersby to read and ponder.
Introspection would be a feat for some. Jennifer will require a microscope to navel-gaze. But the evening can't promise better entertainment.
"Let's go. We've got ten minutes to spare." Pam shoved the car's passenger door open.
No argument. Maybe Murdo would be up for some chatting. Enough to help me decide who that man is in those pictures. Talk about a mystery. Car accident, running over someone with a car, ghosts, and a mystery. What a crazy final twenty-four hours to a vacation.
Everyone headed for the boathouse. Jennifer hooked her arm around smiling Murdo's forearm.
10 Timeless Heroes; A Time Travel Romance Boxed Set Page 84
