by Tarah Scott
“Then it’s settled. We’ll see you soon.”
Then her dad was gone. No, not just her dad, but the Cairn Avenue shrew’s fourth husband, and with that amazing transformation, she was quite certain the world had finally gone mad.
Totally bonkers.
With her leading the parade.
She set down the phone and pushed back her hair. Then she reached for her tea only to discover she’d already drained the cup.
She frowned. For once, she could’ve used a fortifying gulp of the wretched brew.
“Ah, well,” she said, mimicking one of Murdoch’s favorite phrases.
She’d just have to make the best of it.
So long as her father and Euphemia Ross didn’t act like love-struck fools and start rolling in the heather, everything would be okay.
She only wished her love life was running as smoothly.
Instead, it was just running.
Away from her, out of control, and to places she couldn’t begin to follow.
Not in this life, anyway.
“No kidding.” She pushed up from her chair and pressed her hands against the small of her back.
She tried to swallow her bad temper, but it really just wasn’t fair.
She took a deep breath and looked toward the windows, her heart giving a painful thump at the beauty of the bright blue day. No, not fair at all, she decided, her eyes beginning to burn again. If a thin-lipped terror like Euphemia Ross could bedazzle four men into marrying her, why couldn’t she at least manage an occasional nightly tryst with Alex?
But even that solace seemed beyond her grasp.
She might be wildly, madly, yearningly in love, but apparently he wasn’t nearly as smitten.
There could be no other reason for his absence.
“So why do I still want him?” She bit her lip, her composure breaking, its loss threatening to dissolve her.
Something nudged her leg then and she looked down to find Ben pressing his bulk against her, lending what comfort he could. “You miss him, too, don’t you?”
Grateful for his devotion, she reached down and rubbed his ears. But even the old dog’s soulful stare couldn’t mend the ache inside her.
Or undo the glaring truth.
If her ghostly Highlander possessed the energy to spook around her bed for nearly seven hundred years, surely a few measly weeks shouldn’t deter him?
But they had and she was bitter with it, weary of looking and listening for him.
Yet she did.
Every hour of every day.
Her nights were worse. Sleepless and lonely, each one proved an unending stretch of longing. Cold and dark hours filled with an agony that lanced beyond words. She just couldn’t believe he was gone.
Even now she wrapped her arms around herself and cast a glance at the hearth, hoping to catch sight of him. Perhaps his tall, broad-shouldered form silhouetted against the glow from the birch fire. The dimmest outline would thrill her. As would just picking up a vibration in the air, the lingering trace of his scent.
Or his laughter. A naughty brush of wind against her breasts, a hushed word at her ear.
Anything would do.
So long as it reassured her that he was still here and existed, even if he couldn’t appear to her.
But there was nothing, and the stinging heat jabbing into the backs of her eyes was too bothersome for even a MacDougall to ignore.
A mere McDougall didn’t stand a chance.
So she paced the room, not at all surprised it’d lost its luster. Her world had lost its sheen, so why shouldn’t Ravenscraig’s library go from warm, bright, and cozy to cold, dreary, and empty? No longer smelling of leather, ink, and age, but reeking only of heartache.
Losing her Highlander had done that to her.
She was going barmy.
But at least she was too busy to notice.
If she paused in her work, the ever-present crowds, goings-on, and noise kept her distracted. Not otherworldly noises. Or even the incessant groan of water pipes and the creak of aged wood, but lively sounds.
Steps hurrying down corridors, the opening and closing of doors. Faint echoes drifting from the great hall, the clatter of cutlery and the scrape of pushed-back chairs. Happy voices and muted laughter as new arrivals enjoyed sandwiches and drams. From every corner came a stir and buzz.
The bustle of living.
Even here, in the comfy mustiness of the library, her onetime haven of peace.
Until just an hour ago, a chatty clutch of older guests had sat conversing before the fire. Cape Breton MacDougalls, they’d sipped tea, nibbled cheesy oatcakes, and repeatedly praised the room’s nostalgic charm.
An ambiance reclaimed in recent days by Scottie and Dottie. Once again comfortable in the mausoleum-like room, the little dogs delighted in entertaining visitors. Always underfoot, they excelled in courting attention.
Reaping ooohs and ahhhs.
At the moment, they cavorted in one of the window alcoves, darting in and out of a sunbeam, fighting over a fallen cushion. A frolic they’d never indulge in if they feared Alex might suddenly materialize.
The little dogs didn’t do otherworldly.
Now that danger had passed.
Nothing more ghostly than whirling dust motes disturbed the afternoon. Even the slight stirring of the wind against the shutters sounded annoyingly normal.
As did the chug-chugging of a fishing boat making its way up the Firth. The whirring of a vacuum cleaner in one of the guest rooms. Only the imagined sounds of medieval war play fell outside the usual Ravenscraig noises.
Mara froze. Medieval battle noises. Could they be real?
Her heart lurching, she tilted her head, straining her ears.
The distant clash of steel against steel ebbed and flowed, hovering on the edge of her hearing. It was a wild and furious clamor coming from afar and peppered with shouts and whoops, a few Gaelic curses.
Definitely real sounding.
But a ruckus too unlikely to be anything but a daylight manifestation of her troubled dreams.
A sign she really was going batty.
Noises far too reminiscent of Alex if she wasn’t.
Then the sounds faded and she decided her nerves were playing tricks on her. So she blew out a shaky breath and stepped away from the windows.
She started pacing again, determined to forget the strange din. Noises she’d imagined because of stress and overwork. Yet Ben seemed to have heard as well.
Mara watched the dog, her senses sharpening. Unreasonable giddiness swept her, but there could be no mistaking. Ben’s aged face wore a look of excitement.
“Oh, Ben.” She looked after him as he trotted toward the door, his tail wagging. “It was nothing. And it’s gone now.”
Don’t let him break your heart, too, she almost called after him.
But something was hastening their way.
Hurried footsteps. A rapid approach that made Ben dance and sniff at the door, his swishing tale and doggy smiles giving her hope.
Foolishly, her heart started to pound, but when the latch jiggled, it wasn’t Alex but Ailsa-Agnes who put her head around the door.
Even so, Ben gave a yelp and leapt past her, bounding down the passage before the girl could step inside. All bright eyes and smiles, she hovered on the threshold, one hand pressed to her breast.
“Oh, miss!” she blurted, her cheeks glowing. “You must come at once. He’s down by the training ground and he’s brought all his braw friends!”
Mara blinked. “What? Who are you talking about? What training ground?”
“The medieval practice grounds,” the girl supplied, pausing for breath. “Some people call them the lists. It’s the big grassy field near One Cairn Village. In olden days, knights used it to train. Your boyfriend is there now, with his reenactment friends. Everyone is there, watching them-”
“My boyfriend?” Mara could feel her jaw dropping. “I don’t-”
“Ach, just come a
long and dinnae worry. He’s in right good trim.” Ailsa-Agnes took her arm, pulling her through the door. “He told Murdoch everything. How you’d fretted what we’d think if we knew you had a partner, but you worried for naught.
“Anyone close to you is aye welcome here.” She looked at Mara, flashing a smile.
But Mara scarce noticed the girl’s pink-cheeked grin. She only heard her words, their impact whirling through her like a tornado.
In good trim? Her partner? She opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out. Her stomach began to flutter and she swallowed hard, her chest so tight she could hardly breathe.
It couldn’t be.
Yet who else could the girl mean?
“Dinnae look so fashed. We’re more modern than we seem,” Ailsa-Agnes was saying. “Even Murdoch had a lady-love for years. You should have seen them dance and jig at the ceilidhs, himself with his kilt flying. They were both widowed and shared a bed until she died just last year.”
She flicked her apron, a touch of pride crossing her face. “Your boyfriend is a Highlander. How could we not like him? Especially since he’s come with all his friends to entertain at the unveiling ceremony.”
A Highlander.
The word rushed at Mara, whipping round her like a warm golden flood, its sweetness flowing into her, bringing her back to life. Making her feel again, but in good ways.
Ailsa-Agnes was still speaking, but Mara couldn’t distinguish her words. Her eyes were misting too rapidly and her blood roaring so loud in her ears, she could barely hear her own thoughts.
She could only put one foot in front of the other and follow the girl down the passage, toward the stairs to the entrance hall, and hope.
Impossible, giddy hope, but irresistible enough to make her heart soar.
She stopped at the bottom of the stairs, her knees shaking so badly she feared her legs would give out. “Are his friends medieval reenactors?” she asked, clutching the banister. “I’ve never met them.”
“Aye, sure as I’m standing here,” Ailsa-Agnes beamed, her answer cinching it. “And looking like they just walked off the set of Braveheart. But much more authentic.”
I’m sure! And that confidence made Mara’s heart slam against her ribs.
Her breath left her in a rush. “It is him!”
Then the world flashed black and white before her eyes and the buzzing in her ears grew so deafening, she wondered her head didn’t burst.
“Oh, Alex…” She clapped a hand to her cheek. Her entire body trembled and even the soles of her feet tingled. Her pulse raced with incredible speed, its wild surging sure to break her apart.
He was here. Her ghostly Highlander had come back to her.
“Murdoch thinks he brought his friends so their swordplay will impress you.” Ailsa-Agnes’s voice came from afar, her words faint. Barely audible through the sparkling joy spinning inside Mara. “He said he’d bet his best sporran that your Alex is here to ask you to marry him.”
Her Alex. Mara’s heart almost split upon hearing his name.
But she was already hurrying for the door, her fingers shaking as she fumbled with the latch. Then it flew wide and she was running, tearing across gravel paths and the lawn, making for the medieval training ground.
Ask her to marry him, Ailsa-Agnes had said.
The words echoed in her ears, teasing and taunting. Urging her on.
Not that they really mattered.
She only wanted to see him.
That, and make certain he never left her again.
***
Mara ran along the track through gorse and broom thickets, Ben’s barking and the spectators’ cheers giving her strength. Her lungs burned and sharp pain jabbed at her ribs, each racing footfall costing her. She could feel Alex, sensed him with each ragged breath. His presence beckoned, vibrating all through her and fuelling her desperation to reach him.
She bit her lip, pressed a hand against the stitch in her side. Her heart pounded, a thudding agony in her breast, and thundering so loud even the wild clanking of steel and the excited roars of the crowd dimmed in her ears.
“Almost there,” she panted, pushing herself as she ran harder.
Then she was there, the path widening to reveal the whole breadth of the brilliant sky and the wide expanse of the grassy, sun-washed training ground. The latter view blocked by the backs of what appeared to be every soul from within Ravenscraig’s walls and their guests.
At the edge of the spectators, Ben squirmed beside Murdoch, and Mara could see that the garrulous old steward had a firm hand clasped around the dog’s collar. Prudentia’s broad, floral-printed backside loomed into view as well, but not much else could be seen.
Except for the tall, darkly handsome knight leaning against a drystone wall a short distance from the path. He’d slung a large double-bladed war ax across his shoulder, and a long sword hung from his belt. His mail shirt gleamed like the sun and Mara knew instantly that he was a true medieval knight. Every inch of him a ghost, even if he did look as real as the day was long.
She just knew.
He appeared to know her as well because as she stared, he pushed away from the wall and came forward, his knightly spurs clicking softly, his dark hair lifting in the afternoon breeze.
The only thing unusual about him was how he held his studded medieval shield in front of his groin.
It was a medieval shield.
A fine Highland targe, round and covered with leather, but not looking anywhere near as ancient as the ones decorating the walls of Ravenscraig’s entrance hall.
Mara swallowed, torn between awe and apprehension.
The dark knight smiled. “Dinnae worry, Lady Mara, I mean you no harm.” He kept on, his strides long and sure. “I am a friend and wish you well.”
“You know me?” Mara blinked, stunned at how easily she conversed with a ghost.
“I know of you.” His easygoing manner and the way he made her a little bow putting her at ease. “I am Sir Hardwin, longtime companion-in-arms to Alex. He speaks of nothing but your beauty, wit, and charm. If we have no’ yet met in truth, the honor is mine that we may do so today.”
“You flatter me.” Mara resisted the urge to smooth her hair, knew well how disheveled she must look after half running, half stumbling all the way down here.
“I but speak the truth.”
“Why were you waiting for me beside that wall?” She glanced that way, then back to him.
He gave her another smile. “I wished a word with you.”
“A word-” Mara left the sentence unfinished, speech failing her as, somehow, he was suddenly behind her, gently turning her toward the line of spectators.
Only now they’d all vanished.
Mara’s eyes widened, her heart pounding at the sight before her. Medieval clansmen and knights, for they could be nothing other, engaged in a rollicking mock battle with strapping young Highlanders who, for all their size and enthusiasm, were definitely of the flesh-and-blood variety, and clearly no match for the high-skilled swordery of the ghostly combatants.
Of those, a huge bearlike man with a shock of shaggy auburn hair and an equally wild beard, grinned as he wind-milled his blade, easily holding off all attempts the younger men made to come at him.
“Bran of Barra,” the dark knight identified the burly Islesman. “A friend, and one of the most great-hearted chieftains the Hebrides ever saw. Bran hasn’t left his isle-girt keep in centuries, but he came here today as a favor to Alex. He brought a good score of seasoned clansmen with him, and the braw young lads challenging him are his grandsons, many times removed. He-”
“And Alex? Where is he?” Mara lifted a hand to shade her eyes, peering hard into the clashing tangle of brawn, plaid, and steel. “I can’t see him.”
“In time, my lady,” the dark knight promised, tightening his fingers on her shoulder.
Mara swallowed, something in his tone making her wonder if he hadn’t zapped away Alex as magically as he’d banished
Murdoch, Ben, and everyone else who’d been there only moments before.
“That one there,” he went on as if she hadn’t interrupted him, “the tall scar-faced knight on the far side of the field, do you see him?”
He pointed, and Mara saw the man indeed.
She stared at him, her breath catching at his skill. “He doesn’t look Scottish,” she said, noting that he was clad like a medieval English knight.
“He is no Scot, ‘tis true,” Sir Hardwin confirmed. “But his heart resides firmly in the Highlands. North of here, in Kintail. He is Sir Marmaduke Strongbow, a Sassenach champion and a great friend to Clan MacKenzie in his day. His sword arm is unequalled in any century. Alex journeyed far to find him, though I doubt he did much arm-bending once he did. Sir Marmaduke is a gallant. He will not have needed much persuasion to come.”
“Why did he?” She was almost afraid to ask. A suspicion was beginning to burn inside her, and the glory of it, if true, had the power to undo her.
But she had to know.
“Why are any of these men here? The young ones and the-” she broke off, hot color staining her cheeks.
“The lads and the ghosts?” Alex’s friend finished for her, unfazed.
Mara nodded.
The knight was suddenly in front of her again. “Alex is a good man, one of the best. His fall to ruin grieved us all. Those who came here today love him enough to help him avoid another such disaster.”
Mara’s gaze shifted to the sword-swinging melee, relief flooding her upon seeing the spectators returned. “I love him, too,” she admitted, straining to see him through the crowd. “I would never turn away from him or-”
“The tragedy we wish to avert comes not from you, but from the circumstances.” The knight caught her hand and dropped a kiss on her knuckles. “Alex knows how much you care for him. But he couldn’t sally up to your door and announce himself, could he?”
“So you came with him as a foil?”
“Call it what you will.” He gave her another slow, easy smile. “You only need to know he spent the last weeks seeking out amenable friends, then searching up their great-great-grandsons. The ones still Highland enough not to keel over when a ghostie relation slips into their dreams asking a favor.”
“The favor of becoming medieval reenactors?”
