by Selena Kitt
About Dakota Trace
Dakota is a simple Midwest girl, who has found her passion in storytelling at a young age. Her father was always saying she was making up the craziest stories. Most remained unwritten though as writing wasn’t Dakota’s strong suit. That all changed in junior high when she took her first typing class. Problem solved for the dyslexic Dakota. There was no stopping her after that. She wrote her first novel her freshman year about a girl who could speak to animals on an old electric IBM typewriter and never looked back. Writing in several different genres, she is now a published author with multiple books under belt. When Dakota isn’t writing she’s a crazy mom of three wild Indians who are posing as children, a loving wife to the man of her dreams and a full time student.
To find out more about Dakota visit her at dakotatrace.com.
THE SLEEPING BOOTY
By Ava James
Captain Bartly, William P. Bartly, stepped foot on the sandy soil, his boots splashing through the water as he pulled on the wet rope in his calloused hands. The small dingy he'd loaded down weighed more and more.
How in the hell did he think he would make it out of this one? Sure, Corsican merchants were a hard group to steal from, but he couldn't resist the bounty that awaited him. When he learned that only three men manned the ship over night, he couldn't help but steal the gold. And the jewels. Who knew such fat men had a penchant for rubies?
Will pulled the taut rope and the wooden boat scrapped against rock. Finally!
He tugged as hard as he could, leaning back with all his weight to get the dingy well stuck on the shore. He glimpsed up at the sky. In a few hours it would be dawn.
Not too far off in the distance, the black outline of a ruined tower blocked the stars from view.
Home sweet home.
Lucky for Will, no one knew of his noble family history. If it weren't for his lecherous ancestors, that castle tower might stand proud and tall. But the glory of the MacGilroy clan faded centuries ago. Some said it began as a feud between his family and that of another, when a distant ancestor of his refused to marry his betrothed. How his family came to ruin didn’t matter much to Will now. They’d been reduced to living on this lone island in the Hebrides raising sheep to survive. If his father hadn't deserted them, Will probably would have stayed on the island. And then what would his life have been? Sheep shit and rocks, that's what it’d be. No, pirating was far more interesting and lucrative. Too bad that last guard on the ship had seen him. If it weren't for the Corsicans searching after him, he might be in Venice enjoying all of the cultured comforts such a fine city could offer a wealthy pirate.
With the amount of booty he’d accumulated, he could retire comfortably and live a life far beyond his humble beginnings. But, for the foreseeable future, that life of comfort would have to wait.
He fought hard to pull the small boat further onto shore and once it was securely away from the time, Will sat down to rest before he went to fetch the hand cart. In the past ten years, he’d returned to the island a handful of times. He’d come here to deposit his loot before heading out again to search after his fortune. Rested for the moment, Will followed the winding path—more like an overgrown weed trail—which led to the old cottage.
The cottage, more than rundown, stood like a pile of rocks against the overgrown greenery. A small tree now sprouted up through the hole in the roof. Its skinny top stood only a few feet over the old cottage walls. Beside his old home, a small wooden barn harbored his hand cart. Will pulled the door open only to have a small bat come flying out at him.
“Damn vermin,” he muttered before entering. A large tent cloth lay draped over his cart. He pulled it free and wadded it up before tossing it in the corner. The rickety old cart had two ill-matched wooden wheels. The left wheel had a particularly flat side to it that made turning it rather troublesome when carrying a loaded trunk. Will grabbed the handles of the cart and made the fifteen minute journey back to the shore. There were three trunks for him to haul to the ruined castle and he didn’t want to be stuck doing this all day. He reached for the metal rings on either side of the first trunk and pulled.
Snap!
The ring on the right side of the trunk broke away just as he had lifted the trunk clear of the side of his boat. The trunk swung downward and landed square on his left foot.
“Son of a bastard!” he shouted. Will tried furiously to pull the cargo off of his damaged foot. He yanked and yanked again on the good metal ring that remained. Finally, he freed his injured appendage, but as soon as the pressure was removed, the pain tripled.
Will bit down on his lip, longing to kick the trunk, but that wasn’t going to help him. He fell backward to the ground and fisted his hands in the damp sand. If he didn’t have bad luck, he’d have no luck at all. Hobbling back to the castle while dragging the damned cart wouldn’t work. He tried to rotate his ankle and pain shot up his leg like scalding liquid that went straight to his gut.
“Damn.”
His foot had to be broken. This was just great—everything about his life could be summed up in this scenario. Just when things were looking up, they always went terribly wrong. Will laid flat and shut his eyes. With each heartbeat, he could feel the swelling. The pain thumped steadily through him. While he laid silent, he tried to focus on something other than his foot. He could hear the waves as they hit the shore, the subtle rumble of the building wave just before the whoosh of water drawing back. The air smelled wet, rich with minerals and the salty scents of rock and ocean. If he listened very closely, he could hear the beat of his heart. He tried to concentrate on those senses rather than the ache.
“Excuse me?” A soft voice broke through his meditative thoughts. Surprisingly, it did not cause him alarm. Odd...“Are ye well?”
Will opened one eye to a slit. Long blonde locks hung down as if reaching for him. Light green eyes, set in a pale face, stared with concern. He frowned and opened his other eye to be sure she was there.
“I say, are ye hurt?” She leaned closer, her hands flat against the blue gown she wore. The woman stood just behind his head, leaning over him.
“Aye,” he replied. “But who are you and what are you doing on my island?” Other questions buzzed in his head too as he lay there staring up at her.
“Yer island? Beg yer pardon, who do ye think ye are? I came here to help, but if ye intend to be rude, help ye I will not.” The woman blew a huff of air down on him before disappearing from his limited view.
Will rolled over on his side but the woman was gone. One moment she’d been there, right above him, and then she vanished. A thin mist hung over the ground and the sky held dawn’s light. He pushed up off of the ground, up onto one knee, and then stood. He placed most of his weight on his good foot. Still, not a trace of her could be seen. Will looked down the shoreline and then in the opposite direction. Nothing.
He ran his hand through his hair and stood confused. “A dream?” It could very well have been. He shook his head and dismissed the odd occurrence. After all, no one lived on this isle. This was what happens when one was exhausted and had a run of bad luck.
After an hour and a half of agonizing labor, managing to get the trunks to the castle, Will decided he’d get some much needed sleep. He unloaded each trunk into the old solar of the castle. The once great hall had a gaping hole in the roof, but at the back of the room, off to the right in a nook, stood the door to the one room in the building that was not touched by the elements.
His great-great-great grandfather, Lord Ewan MacGilroy, commissioned a single window into the room, stained glass for his lady wife. The gentle hues of amber, blue and red cast against the plastered stone wall—a reminder of the past glory of his family. In the glass was a simple family crest, a badge with waves meeting a setting sun in the center. Someone long ago abandoned an over large wooden bed frame in the room, and Will took advantage of it, creating a straw mattress for himself to lay upon. He pulled the thick blanket from the bed and shook it out. D
ust floated up like golden bits of nothing in the air. Next he grabbed up the pillow and beat it with his hands a few times before laying it back on the mattress.
With his bed made, Will crawled beneath the blanket and laid on his back waiting for sleep to claim him. On the ceiling, a faint Celtic cross was painted. The green outline and the intricate design were visible best when the morning light shone in. His eyelids felt heavier with each passing thought. Sleep claimed him quickly and Will hoped it would help alleviate the ache in his swollen foot. He closed his eyes and breathed deep until the warm fingers of rest claimed him.
Click...
Will frowned. His tired eyes were slow to open. His throat felt dry and his stomach grumbled.
Scrape...
A sixth sense, more than a notion, told him he wasn’t alone. Then again, the noises were a good indication as well. He slid his hand beneath his pillow stealthily, but his dagger wasn’t there. In his pain and exhaustion, he’d forgotten to place it under his head. Damn!
He opened his eyes to slits. The room was pitch-black and only a lone shaft of moonlight penetrated the darkness. Could his luck get even worse?
Will tried to keep his breathing normal and listened. He waited for any sound that would alert him to his intruder’s location. Past that, he wasn’t sure what he’d do.
The person in the room was not silent for long. He heard the soft slides of the sole of a shoe against the stone floor. At first, they sounded as if they moved away, but then they became louder and he knew they drew near.
If he was going to stop this person, he’d have to do it with his bare hands.
He listened, his heart beating faster in anticipation of the confrontation. Closer and closer, he now felt the warmth of their nearness.
Will snapped his hand up and caught the invader by the wrist.
Splash!
Cold water came crashing into his face and went right up—or down—his nose. He choked on the liquid, his senses in shock. Will instinctually leaned up. Whack! He knocked his head into something decidedly metal. Falling backward, he groaned, bringing his hands to his now aching, wet head. His shirt and the blanket became wetter by the moment.
“Goddamnit!”
“Don’t ye go swearing when ‘tis all yer own fault,” a woman’s voice chided.
That voice! The woman at the shore?
He opened his eyes and saw her face against the shadows. Her lips were set in a hard line of disapproval and she shook her head.
“Stay here while I get a torch.”
A torch?
She disappeared into the darkness once more, but as promised, she returned almost immediately—torch in hand.
Who was this strange woman?
He could now see her features clearly. She wore the same dress as before, the edges of it tattered and worn.
“Who are you?” he asked.
“I live here,” she replied after setting the torch in a ring hanging on the wall. “A better question would be, who do ye think ye are? Ye lay in my marriage bed and ye are not Angus MacGilroy.”
“No, I am not.”
“Then why are ye here?”
The lilt in her voice was far more pronounced and appealing than any he’d ever encountered. And what was with all of the ‘ye’s’?
“I own this pile of rocks. Captain William P. Bartly, at your service, ma’am.” He gave a slight nod and asked, “And you are?”
“Lady Aurora FitzStewart.”
From the look of her attire and the fact that she was here, the lady part made no sense at all. But then, neither did her claim to live in this ruin, or the fact she said this was her marriage bed. Either he was dreaming once more, or someone played a foul joke on him.
“Now listen here, mi’lady, you don’t live here, and Angus MacGilroy sure as hell doesn’t live here either. Since I know no Angus in my family, I am going to guess you made that part up. So why not be honest with me before I lose my temper?” He neglected to point out that she’d dumped water on him, and he hadn’t even asked what her intention for having the water was in the first place.
“Ye get all high ‘n’ mighty just like Angus and ye said yer name was Bartly not MacGilroy.” She folded her arms across her chest, and he noticed the gentle swell of her breasts above the neck of her gown.
“MacGilroy is my name.” He looked into her doubting face.
“Aye, and ye would have me believe ye after ye just said yer name was Bartly?” Her eyes narrowed beneath her thick lashes. “What are ye a captain of anyhow. I do not see men about to serve beneath ye.” She looked over her shoulder as if confirming her suspicions.
“My real name is William Patrick MacGilroy. This island is all that is left of MacGilroy lands and I am the sole MacGilroy on this earth.” He now sat up in his bed and folded his arms across his chest, returning her glare.
“And I am to believe that when just two days passed, I saw the whole lot of the MacGilroy clan myself?” She shook her finger at him and stepped closer to the bed.
Was she daft? He put his hand on the bed and leaned toward her, speaking in a clear, unquestionable tone. “There has not been more than a handful of MacGilroy’s for some time now. I assure you, I am all that is left of that once proud clan.”
“Ha! Get out of yer bed.” She grabbed his arm and pulled him. Her hands were cold on his skin and he quickly came out of bed before she made him fall out. He followed close behind her as she grabbed up the torch and pulled the solar door open. “See?” She said casting her hand out over the empty hall.
Her brow knitted in confusion and she released his arm. The space looked the same as it had when he entered this morning. Small vines climbed the barren walls and weeds grew between the stones in the floor. She swung the torch from left to right, her features conveying her disbelief. Lady Aurora took a few steps away from him and spun around, the light of the torch creating a shadow of light around her.
“What magic is this?” She demanded, pointing to the ground. “What have ye done?”
“Me?” he replied to her accusing tone. “I’ve not done a thing. I come here but once a year. Never before today have I seen you.”
His words did nothing to calm her. If anything, she looked more agitated than before. He waited for her to say something, but she held her tongue. From the look on her face, several thoughts whirled through her mind—none of which gave her solace.
Aurora stepped closer to him until their bodies were separated by a mere hands width. She smelled of lilies. Her lips looked full and pink in the torchlight. Her steady gaze bore into him and he felt eternity in a moment. There was something deep, unwavering and demanding within her stare.
“Where is Angus?” she asked in a whisper.
“Dead?” he replied as honestly as he knew how. If there was an Angus MacGilroy, he certain did not exist in this time.
“Dead…actually and forever dead? Never to return?” Her eyes fair shined. Was she going to cry?
“I believe so...”
Then Aurora did the most unexpected thing of all, she hugged him. Her arms wrapped tight around his neck, her cool check pressing against his. She laughed and for some strange reason the sweet sound brought a smile to his lips. He felt stupid in sharing her joy for the death of an ancestor, but then again, nothing had made sense since he returned here.
Once her grip loosened, she leaned back and smiled wide. Aurora’s expression brought a warmth to him that her skin lacked. Then the light in her eyes changed. Her brow wrinkled, she stepped back, and asked, “Why are the others gone?”
That he had no answer for. “No one has been here in a year.”
“But that is not true—I saw them, just before I came in here this night. I saw them as I see ye.” She pinched Will, and not too gently either.
“Ouch,” he said.
“Well, ye seem to be real.”
“If you wanted to see if you were dreaming, you should have pinched yourself,” he muttered wondering what Aurora would do n
ext.
“That wouldna’ done me any good. I pinched ye because I thought ye might not be real, but ye are flesh and blood.”
“Of course I’m real. Have you had a bump on your head? How did you come to be here?”
Her features changed as she thought. Aurora looked over Will’s shoulder as if she were watching a scene play out in her memory. “My father brought me to Angus MacGilroy and the bans were waved two days ago. We are to be married in a few short weeks. He gave me the solar for my own until our wedding night.” She walked passed Will and into the room she’d referred to. “But my trunks are missing.” He followed her and watched as Aurora ran her hand over the tops of the treasure trunks. “I do not recognize these.”
“No, those are mine.”
“Oh,” she replied absentmindedly. “My comb—‘twas here this morning.” She pointed to a spot beside the bed. “And the flowers I picked, they were there.” Aurora looked across the room at another one of his trunks. “I don’t understand.” She ran her hand over the mattress. By the look on her face, his blanket was not what she remembered to be there either.
A single, unbelievable thought popped into his mind, and as he watched her look about, it made more and more sense. She talked about people who could not exist, things that had never been, and the way she talked...Lady Aurora was a ghost. It explained how she’d vanished this morning and then reappeared this evening. In an odd way, this answer made sense. But how does one tell another that they are a ghost?
“Um, Lady Aurora?” He walked over to stand before her. At first she did not acknowledge him. When she did look up though, he wished she hadn’t. She looked lost and what he was about to say to her would certainly not be welcome news. “Aurora, would you sit down?”
She did as he asked without taking her eyes off of his. He didn’t have much experience with imparting bad news to people. Usually his interactions with women were dalliances that lasted a few hours or less. “Would you like something to drink?” Okay, call him a coward, but he stalled.
