by Tarah Scott
“He’s not a romantic,” she said. “He wanted to frighten me.”
“Humph!” Murdoch snorted. “Forget the scunner. If he’s found, he’ll be sorted. Why-”
“Sir! Prudentia needs you in the kitchens!” came a breathless voice behind them.
Murdoch swung round. “Och, she does now?”
Ailsa, or maybe Agnes, nodded, her bright curls bobbing. “O-o-oh, sir, you must come. She’s in a right dither.”
The steward jammed his hands on his hips. “And what’s she railing about this time?”
Ailsa-Agnes moistened her lips. “She burned the stovies. And the lamb-pot.”
“Then she’s accomplished a wonder!” Murdoch started for the door, kilt swinging. “It’s next to impossible to burn something on an Aga! The bleeding cookers run on a thermostat. There’s not even a dial or knob to turn up the heat. How the devil, did she-”
“That isn’t what set her off.” Ailsa-Agnes hastened after him. “It was the new ghost. She said-”
“The new what?” Murdoch froze on the threshold. “Dinnae tell me she’s going on about some bogey tale again?”
“She is, sir.” The girl flushed, wringing her hands. “She says the ghost whispered in her ear just as the potatoes and the lamb burned to crisps.”
“And what did the ghost say?”
Ailsa-Agnes’s color deepened. “That he’d see the arse of every last MacDougall scorched just as black. And on the hottest hob of hell.”
“What rot!” Murdoch exploded, shooting out the door.
The girl hovered on the threshold, threw Mara an apologetic look. “Will you be needing anything, miss?”
Mara shook her head.
What she needed was a stiff Bloody Mary. Or two. This couldn’t be happening. The Cook’s ghost sounded like her Highlander. Enough so to make her skin prickle and her heart drop to her toes.
So she waited until Ailsa-Agnes took off after the steward, then glanced around to make sure he wasn’t lurking in the shadows. Satisfied, she pushed to her feet and exchanged the window nook for a seat at a dark oak table in the middle of the library.
A table cluttered with her laptop, reams of files and books, Lady Warfield’s private records, and stacks of correspondence with clan and genealogical societies. A plate of parmesan oatcakes and a long-cold cup of the requisite tea.
Her work.
And sustenance.
She reached for an oatcake, feeling better already. Plunging into work was an excellent cure-all. Especially against over-sexed, hot-accented Highlanders and sly-eyed cooks who imagined encounters with ghosts.
What better way to bust such stress-bringers than to busy herself with her plans for One Cairn Village. A project she secretly thought of as Brigadoon Revisited.
Her very own tartan-ribboned ticket to fulfilling the most difficult stipulation of Lady Warfield’s bequest.
The one that required her to reunite the clan and assure its members looked favorably upon Lady Warfield’s memory.
Mara puffed a strand of hair off her face and allowed herself a moment of silent satisfaction. She glanced at an untidy pile of envelopes, the most of them bearing foreign stamps, then looked across the room to Ben.
Unlike Scottie and Dottie, the aged collie hadn’t bolted from the room’s cold. He still sprawled where he’d plopped down earlier, snug and content in front of the hearth fire.
“Your lady will be well remembered,” Mara promised him, not at all surprised when he thumped his tail on the hearth rug as if he’d understood.
It was a promise she meant to keep.
And not just for her own selfish reasons.
Ravenscraig was growing on her, she wouldn’t deny. But so were its people. The mystery piper no one would admit to. The twin maids with their bright curls and blushes. The tiny white-haired Innes, who persisted in asking Mara after Lord Basil’s health. Gordie, the one-armed gardener, who’d given her a sprig of lucky white heather.
Even Murdoch.
No, especially the cantankerous old man, she admitted, a hot thickness tightening her throat.
Unthinkable if Ravenscraig were overtaken by strangers from the National Trust for Scotland and the bandy-legged steward suddenly found himself displaced.
That wasn’t going to happen.
She wouldn’t let it.
Cash donations for the MacDougall memorial cairn were already pouring in from all around world. Some clansmen were even sending stones. Beautiful stones from every corner of Scotland and as far away as Cape Breton and beyond.
Her pulse slowing at last, she turned on her laptop and flexed her fingers. The memorial cairn was taking care of itself.
One Cairn Village was the project needing her best organizational skills.
Named in honor of the cairn she meant to see erected at its heart, One Cairn Village was also a nod to her genealogy-obsessed father, Hugh, and the plaid-hung house of her childhood: One Cairn Avenue.
A picture postcard of a Highland village of old, One Cairn Village would consist of a ring of white-washed cottages, each one boasting a bright blue-painted door with a window on either side. The most idyllic spot would be chosen, a special place thick with gorse and heather and views of both the sea and the surrounding hills.
A haven.
A cozy retreat to attract MacDougalls and other Scottish Diaspora, with each cottage housing a tiny craft or workshop that would offer everything from Innes’s handmade candles and soaps to Celtic jewelry, woolen goods, heather honey, and pottery.
Gaelic and piping lessons could be given, and one cottage, the largest, would hold a state-of-the-art research center for those eager to trace their own Scottish roots.
MacDougalls willing to stay and work at One Cairn Village would be made welcome. Other visitors could stay in smaller, equally quaint holiday cottages or the Victorian-style lodge she hoped to build near the village.
An ambitious plan, but do-able.
If MacDougalls aching for a piece of the Auld Homeland took the bait and came.
Determined that they would, Mara opened one of Lady Warfield’s old-fashioned ledgers and ran a finger down the rows of carefully penned names and addresses.
Each one represented a member of Mara’s extended family. Far-flung clan members who just might thrill to the thought of contributing a trade or talent to One Cairn Village.
Or at least wish to visit.
She’d scanned only a few pages when the spidery handwriting began to blur.
She couldn’t focus.
“Not true,” she grumbled, helping herself to another oatcake.
She was concentrating beautifully.
But on how good the hottie Scottie would be in bed, curse his gorgeous Highland hide!
Damn her for being attracted to him.
Frowning, she rubbed her hands together and blew on her palms. The temperature seemed to have dipped twenty degrees in the last two minutes.
Even Scottie and Dottie must’ve had enough of the frigid room, because Dottie suddenly gave a sharp little yelp and leapt off the window seat. Quick as lightning, she streaked out of the library, Scottie racing close on her heels.
Most likely he’d fled as swiftly, might even be halfway back to London by now. After the way she’d attacked him on the strand, she couldn’t blame him.
What kind of a man would hang around after the woman he’d rescued from certain death thanked him by springing on him like a banshee?
Heavens, had she really bitten him?
Feeling shame about that part of it, she took a deep, unsteady breath. She’d sure blown it this time.
Not that she should care.
He had poked a finger against her clit, after all.
And a circling finger to boot!
Mara closed her eyes, stifled a groan.
Why did she always have such bad luck with men? Where was the knight in shining armor she’d been waiting for all her life?
And why couldn’t she think about anything but
Alexander Whatever-His-Name-Really-Was?
A man who he thinks he’s Sir Galahad.
That was a major problem.
Harboring secret fantasies about dashing knights was one thing. A modern-day man who claimed to be one was something else all together.
That’s where her Philly street smarts made her draw the line. She’d seen the dangers of the deranged. The nightly news in America had been filled with the damage they wrought. She knew too much about loonies to fall for one.
It wasn’t going to happen.
No matter how tempted she might be to go along with this fruitcake’s little game, even for a short while. Knights no longer roamed the countryside, rescuing and ravishing hapless maidens. Those days were sadly over.
The chances of being swept off one’s feet by a strapping, irresistibly-sexy knight were about as likely as the odds of running into one of the many ghosts said to haunt the British Isles.
She bit back a hoot.
Her last tour had taken her to nearly every supposedly haunted manor house and pub in southwestern England and she hadn’t seen a single spirit.
Except the kind served in glasses!
Ghosts didn’t exist.
And neither did medieval knights, much as she might wish otherwise.
Truth was, she could use a few knightly kisses. Wild, searing kisses. Deep, open-mouthed zingers, full of breath and tangling tongues. And intimate kisses. Especially those. She’d only fantasized about such pleasure. Each time she did, a delicious tingly heat rippled across her sex. What bliss to have a knight slake such a blaze?
A Scottish knight whose husky-rich burr flowed through her like molten honey, warming and melting her. Just remembering his voice made her dizzy with need.
She just didn’t want to be manhandled.
Or deceived.
It’d be far too easy to lose her heart to a man who was the living, breathing stuff of her dreams.
Too bad in hottie Scottie’s case, he was also a roaming nightmare.
She sighed. Her head ached and the dull throbbing at her temples was making her eyes hurt. Trying to ignore the discomfort, she reached for the ledger and stared at the faded writing until the squiggles and loops ran together.
“Blast!” she snapped, shoving aside the book.
She needed to get her mind on something else.
Such as figuring out why castles never seemed to have central heating. The chill in the library went right to the bone. A penetrating cold the participants on her last tour would have called otherworldly.
Having none of that, she shot to her feet and strode to the nearest wall of books, made herself examine the impressive, leather-bound volumes. The Age of Chivalry, Knights in Medieval Society, The History of the Tournament.
She groaned.
The throbbing at her temples worsened.
Such titles were not what she needed to see. Even so, she somehow found The Age of Chivalry in her hands, its heavy, gold-leafed pages opening as if by magick to a color plate depicting a crusading knight from the thirteenth century.
He knelt on one knee, his hands raised in silent supplication. Crosses adorned his flowing surcoat and a wicked-looking sword hung from a belt slung low around his hips.
Mara stared at the crusader, her heart thumping. Her mouth went dry. And the queerest prickles started racing up and down her spine. Not because of the beauty of the oh-so-romantic knight, his chivalry and valor caught forever in the pages of a book.
Oh, no. That wasn’t it at all.
Nor was it the sudden cold breeze blowing past her cheek. A chill wind that swirled round her, raising gooseflesh and letting her know something was in the library with her.
No, someone.
And she knew exactly who.
Her breathing stopped, the very world seeming to still.
It was useless denying it.
She spun around. “You!” she cried, the high-pitched voice impossibly hers.
He stood only a few paces away, smiling. “Aye, that is who I am.”
Mara swallowed, not about to argue with a nutcase. The book fell from her fingers. She hardly noticed, just stared at him, wondering how such a strapping man could move so silently.
And possess such grace and yet thrum with so much incredible masculinity. Every tall, broad-shouldered inch of him took her breath and his slow, lazy smile sent a dangerous excitement coursing through her.
His hair spilled to his shoulders and his intense sea green gaze was locked on hers. The glow from the hearth fire shone behind him, limning his big, hard-muscled body. His good looks were more than apparent, his proximity both unsettling and exciting her. There was definitely something about him.
A sheer animal magnetism she wished to hell she didn’t notice.
Unfortunately she did.
So she frowned, narrowing her eyes at him. “How did you get in here?”
“Many are the ways,” he said, his smile tilting. He came closer, his voice deepening with silky menace. “Lady, you would be astounded by the wealth of my abilities.”
“Somehow I doubt it”
“Indeed?”
“So I just said.” Mara lifted her chin. “Nothing you do surprises me.”
He laughed and whistled the tune to ‘Highland Laddie.’
“You!” Mara’s eyes flew wide. “You were the piper!”
He placed his hands on his hips, looking smug. “Did I no’ say my talents would astound you?”
Mara backed up, bumped into the wall of books. “Some might say I am more amazed by your nerve.”
“Ahhh, but your wit pleases me, Mara.” He stepped closer, smiling in a way that banished the cold. “Or rather, it would did you not carry such a blighted name.”
The chill returned. “Men are searching for you.” She stood as tall as she could, took care to pull in her stomach. “Even now, as we speak.”
“And do you think they’ll be finding me? Or will you be calling out for them?” He leaned in, brushed a soft, velvety-smooth kiss across her lips. “Somehow, I dinnae think you will be,” he murmured against her ear.
Mara froze.
Of course, she wouldn’t be crying out. She couldn’t speak at all.
He towered over her, his eyes darkening as he reached to touch her cheek. He lifted a lock of her hair, rubbing it between his fingers. Watching her, he then slid his knuckles along her jaw and down the side of her neck. The intimacy of his caress made her heart beat wildly and sent sensation rippling all through her. Any moment, her knees were going to buckle.
She knew it, could feel it coming.
Her total capitulation.
And there didn’t seem to be a thing she could do about it.
She swallowed. “Who are you?”
But he’d stepped back, his attention no longer on her but on the fallen book at their feet. Somehow, it’d landed still opened to the beautiful crusading knight. Her Highlander was staring at the page, a ghost of a smile playing across his lips.
“I have told you who I am, but you did not believe me,” he said, a harsh note in his voice. Sure enough when he looked back at her, the smile was gone. “So I have come to give you a chance to redeem yourself. My honor demands it.”
Mara blinked, the sensual spell he’d been weaving round her, broken. “What is that supposed to mean?” She frowned at him. “Why should I redeem myself? You’re the rude one. You’re also trespassing. I could have you arrested.”
Unfazed, he bent to pick up the book, closing it with care. “Lady, were I not so wroth with you, you would amuse me,” he said, arrogance streaming off him. “You are besotted with a painted knight and peruse books on chivalry, yet you know nothing of gallant behavior. A knight’s honor.”
Mara’s cheeks flamed. “I know you’re a first class crackpot. And I’m not besotted.”
“Aye, you know nothing,” he repeated, setting down the book. “If you did, you’d be wary of the words you choose.”
Mara’s heart took an uneasy l
ittle dip. Something about his tone and the hardness of his expression frightened her.
“Then why don’t you tell me what it is I’m supposed to know?” she challenged, forcing a bravura she didn’t feel. “Just spare me the knight bit, will you? I’m not in the mood for jokes.”
His face darkened. “I told you once that I do not jest, lady.”
“So now I’m a lady? And twice already.” She jutted her chin at him. “Thank heaven for small miracles. I was getting tired of being a wench.”
“‘Tis a foul tongue you have, Mara MacDougall.”
“All the better to give you a piece of my mind.” She angled her head, waiting for his rebuttal.
It didn’t come.
Instead, he folded his arms and stared at her. Carefully checked anger rolled off him and an uncomfortable silence stretched between them. Her knees began to tremble and the pounding of her blood in her ears was becoming deafening.
“Don’t stare at me like that,” she said, unable to bear his silent, burning gaze. “Say something.”
“My name is Sir Alexander Douglas,” he obliged, speaking in a low voice as controlled as it was smooth. “I am a knight of the Scottish realm and it was my king, the good Robert Bruce, who granted me the holding of Ravenscraig Castle. On my journey here, to claim Isobel MacDougall as my promised bride, I was ambushed and killed by her cousin Colin and his men. Since then it has been my sworn duty to keep their benighted issue from my bed.”
He lifted a hand, capturing her chin so she couldn’t look away. “The bed was to have been my bride gift to her. And it was she who plotted my murder.”
Mara jerked away from him, reeling backwards until she collided with the table. She stared at him, too stunned to breathe. “Let me get this straight.” She struggled to keep her voice steady. “Are you telling me you’re dead?”
“I am neither dead or alive,” he said, calm as day. “That, my lady, is the pain of it.”
“Then what are you?”
He cocked a brow. “You cannot guess?”
Mara shook her head. “I’m not sure I want to know. I-”
A great clap of thunder swallowed her words, an ear-splitting boom that shook the windows and floor and knocked out the power, plunging the library into darkness.
