by Cindy Miles
Amelia blinked. ‘‘Have you lost your mind? I’ve got a book due, on my editor’s desk, completed, in three months. That’s twelve weeks. I can’t go on a vacation.’’ She shoved her fingers through her hair. ‘‘Good Lord, ZuZu. That’s credit card theft, you know. I could report you.’’
ZuZu didn’t even bat an eye. ‘‘I’m your assistant, ding-dong. You can’t report me. Besides, your editor is all for it. And let me remind you that you’ve had an entire year to start, finish, and complete a book. Your fault.’’
‘‘What’d she say?’’
ZuZu tapped her chin with a perfectly manicured fingernail. ‘‘Let’s see. I think her exact words were, ‘Anything to get her sorry ass moving.’ Now, I pulled a lot of strings to get you this place for the summer. Lucky for you, I know people.’’
Amelia narrowed her gaze. ‘‘What place?’’
ZuZu stopped pacing, squatted in front of Amelia, and grinned. ‘‘A remote, creepy, supposedly haunted fourteenth-century tower house.’’
Amelia lifted a brow. ‘‘Where?’’
‘‘The Highlands of Scotland.’’
‘‘You’re lying.’’
‘‘I’m not.’’
‘‘What about Jack?’’ Amelia asked. She wasn’t, by any means, the cat lady. Not that there’s anything wrong with it, mind you. But she liked Jack’s companionship. He was a quiet presence during times of extreme solitude. And he adored her.
Twenty-eight years old, no children, not even the prospect of a relationship in sight, and her constant companion was a cat.
God, she was the cat lady.
‘‘Amelia!’’ ZuZu hollered, snapping a finger in front of her face. ‘‘Did you hear a thing I said?’’
Amelia glanced down at her bare feet, wiggled her toes, and noticed the pink polish that had started to chip off a week ago. ‘‘The Highlands of Scotland?’’
‘‘The remote, secluded, haunted Highlands of Scotland. ’’
A grin tugged at Amelia’s mouth. ‘‘I like haunted.’’
‘‘I know you do.’’ ZuZu reached into that big bag she’d dug the scissors from and pulled out a book. ‘‘Here. Read this on the way over. I’ve dog-eared a section I think you’ll find very interesting.’’
Amelia took the book. Haunted Scotland. She flipped to the page ZuZu had tagged and read the chapter heading out loud. ‘‘The Bluidy Munro.’’
‘‘Cool, huh?’’
‘‘Definitely.’’
The idea did sound fascinating. She’d never been to Scotland before, but she’d certainly seen pictures and watched movies, and the scenery was breathtaking. Throw in a haunted castle and a Bluidy Munro to boot? Maybe that was just what she needed to jump-start her imagination. She grinned. ‘‘When do we leave?’’
ZuZu pulled the book out of Amelia’s hands, tucked it under her arm, and pulled Amelia to her feet once more. ‘‘We don’t. Just you.’’
‘‘Jack?’’
‘‘Luckily, Jack. If you hadn’t made that trip to Bermuda in February, he would have had to stay. But he’s been microchipped and vaccinated, so he’s good to go. Just a quickie trip to the vet, which I’ve already arranged.’’
Amelia glanced out over the sea and watched a pelican nosedive into the water. ‘‘Indoor plumbing? Please tell me I don’t have to use an outhouse for three months.’’
ZuZu laughed and guided Amelia into the house. ‘‘Yes, indoor plumbing. It’s been moderately renovated over the past ten years. Nothing fancy, mind you, but your necessities will be taken care of. You’re not froufrou, so you shouldn’t have a care in the world, other than getting your work done. The castle is secure. Gorgeous, too. Now,’’ she said, giving Amelia a push toward her bedroom, ‘‘get showered and dressed. We’ve got some shopping to do.’’
At the doorway to her room, Amelia turned. ‘‘Won’t you come to keep me company? Buy me Cheez Whiz?’’
ZuZu gave her a stern look and shook a finger. ‘‘Once you’re nearly finished with your new project, yes. Say, in August?’’
Amelia blew out a breath. ‘‘You drive a hard bargain, Tinkerly.’’ She nodded. ‘‘Done. And ZuZu?"
‘‘Yeah?’’
‘‘Thanks. You’re the best.’’
ZuZu smiled. ‘‘I know. Now, get ready. The mall is calling us.’’
‘‘Lass, you’ve missed your turnoff, is all.’’
Amelia groaned out loud. She was going to kill ZuZu. What had made her think driving in the Highlands would be a good thing? It’s a snap, Amelia. Easy peasy. Right. She blew out a breath. ‘‘That’s only the fifth time I’ve been told that since leaving Ten Mile Burn, where this wild-haired woman on a horse pointed me in the right direction. Twice.’’
The store owner, a tall, wiry man with a full head of wavy copper hair, chuckled and walked around the counter, stopped at the wide front window, and peered over the rim of his glasses. ‘‘Next time, lass, fly straight into Inverness instead of Edinburgh. Now . . . go eighteen meters that way’’—he pointed— ‘‘and you’ll see a wee single-track lane to your left. It’s unmarked, so watch carefully for it. That lane will take you right to the Munro keep.’’ He glanced down at her. ‘‘Are you the new owner, then?’’
Amelia shook her head. She liked the way his O’s sounded like oohs. ‘‘I’m leasing it for the summer. Why, is it for sale?’’
The man grinned, revealing a slight gap between his front teeth. ‘‘Oh, aye. ’Tis always for sale.’’
ZuZu had forgotten to mention that.
After purchasing as much junk food as possible, which included a handful of orange chocolate bars, several sleeves of chocolate-coated digestibles, a large bag of potato chips, and two six-packs of chocolate drinks that resembled Yoo-hoo, she thanked the store owner, whose name was Hewitt, and left.
That Hewitt had offered his and his wife’s phone number, ‘‘in case you find yourself in need of aid whilst on the Black Isle,’’ was something else to consider. But later. For now, her only concern was getting to her destination without leaving the fender of her rental car embedded in the rocky Highland walls hugging either side of the very, very narrow lane.
Several miles later—kilometers, rather, as Hewitt had been quick to point out the difference—with the afternoon waning, Amelia spotted the barely visible single lane and turned onto it. It was no more than a narrow strip of gravel, with tall, ancient-looking trees canopying it from each side, and it seemed more like a footpath winding up the rocky incline. Pines and oaks and other Highland flora surrounded the area, so thick that Amelia caught only mere glimpses of the sky. The shadows certainly made for an eerie atmosphere. Long branches tangled above the road like lanky, bony arms. She drove at a snail’s pace for what seemed an hour. In the back of the rental, inside the pet carrier, Jack meowed with what Amelia could only imagine was impatience.
Suddenly, the trees parted, and Amelia slowed as she topped the incline. The sight left her breathless. She stopped, put the car in park, and stared.
Across a green-meadowed clearing, dotted with clumps of thistle, rose an enormous gray-stoned tower. A tall, single tower. No fairy-tale turrets, no Cinderella castle, no merry flag waving from atop the pointed roof. Just a tower, powerful, probably a hundred feet tall, with a massive double door. One word came to mind when Amelia tried to sum it up.
Masculine.
On one side of the tower stood the darkest body of water Amelia had ever laid eyes on. A Highland loch, she supposed, and it was black as pitch against the bright green of the grass. Behind it was a hill covered in purple heather.
Suddenly something banged on the window of the rental car, and Amelia jumped. When she turned, an old, craggy-faced man stood just on the other side of the glass, peering in. He scowled.
Amelia screamed.
He tapped on the window with the end of a walking stick, frown still affixed. Through the open sunroof, his deep brogue, R’s rolling, floated in. ‘‘You’re late.’’ And the
n he turned and started off toward the castle, a noticeable hitch in his step.
Amelia blinked, drew a breath, lowered the window, and poked her head out. ‘‘Um, hello?’’ she said, slowly accelerating but keeping a safe distance behind him. She could only guess he was the castle keeper ZuZu had told her about. She hadn’t bothered to mention that he was such a grump. ‘‘Mr. Mc-Allister? ’’
He kept walking. ‘‘Guthrie.’’
‘‘Right. Guthrie. Um, late for what?’’
At first he ignored her. He just kept right on walking toward the tall tower house, until his footsteps fell within its long shadows. Up close, the castle appeared even more imposing, and the great double doors were easily thirty feet high. Big. Daunting. ‘‘Late for what?’’ Amelia repeated. She stopped, put the car in park, and opened the door.
Guthrie walked up to the great doors, slid back an enormous bolt, and then turned toward her. A soft brown hat was cocked sideways upon thick white hair. Brown trousers, a brownish plaid, long-sleeved shirt, and a pair of much-worn leather boots made him look every part the Highland shepherd. Only there were no sheep.
One of his bushy white brows lifted. ‘‘We’ve been waiting for you.’’
Chapter 2
We? What did that mean? As far as Amelia knew, only the castle keeper, she, and Jack would be living at the tower house for the summer. Maybe old Guthrie had a wife?
Amelia hopped out of the rental and opened the hatchback. Jack’s big yellow eyes stared at her from inside the pet carrier; then he blinked, let out a big meow, and Amelia flipped open the latch. Jack nudged the carrier’s door with his little pink nose and jumped out. In a flash of pitch-black fur, he disappeared around the corner and into the shadows of the tower. Pausing, Amelia turned in a slow circle and looked around. She fought the urge to run inside.
A peculiar silence enveloped the castle and grounds. No birds tweeted, no dogs barked. At least three or four miles off the main road, which was out in the middle of nowhere to begin with, the ordinary sounds of cars and horns tooting and simple everyday noises just didn’t exist. Only the wind rustled the leaves. Out of the ordinary, she thought. Uncanny. Perfect.
Perfect, but still creepy.
Amelia heaved her suitcase out of the car and grabbed two more duffel bags, her laptop bag, and her purse, and then slammed the trunk. With the late-afternoon light fading fast, she hurried to the yawning doors of the tower. ‘‘Come on, Jack!’’ she called. Rolling—rather, dragging—her suitcase, which was the size of a small car, she struggled across the gravel. As she stepped in, Jack scooted between her feet and ran inside.
The door banged shut behind her, and Amelia jumped. And squeaked. ‘‘Hello? Guthrie?’’ Where had the guy gone? Dropping her duffels and purse to the floor, she laid her computer bag down and took in the massive room. Although June, a chill seeped into the skin of her bare arms. She supposed the tank top, overall shorts, and flip-flops just wouldn’t do unless the heat was turned on. Rubbing her arms, she continued her inspection.
No fluff, no frills, no fuss. Purely male. Gray stone walls, a dark-stained, wood-planked floor with various throw rugs, an enormous hearth with a stag’s rack high above it, and wood beams crisscrossing the ceiling definitely summed up ZuZu’s moderately renovated description. Two mammoth light fixtures made of more antlers hung from opposite ends of the room. Two substantial leather sofas, separated by a large chunk of wood serving as a center table, along with two overstuffed chairs sat before the wide mouth of the hearth. A ladder-back chair perched against the wall. A door near the rear, a large wooden chest pushed into the corner, and a spiral set of steps leading to the rooms above made up the most gigantic living room Amelia had ever seen. Very medieval. Cool.
More than seven hundred years before, big, strong medieval hands had laid every stone in mortar that made up the enormous Munro tower. The very thought gave Amelia the chills.
‘‘What are ye waiting for, girl?’’
Amelia jumped—again—at the unexpected sound of Guthrie’s voice. ‘‘Hi, well, I wasn’t sure where to go.’’
‘‘Follow me, then,’’ Guthrie said. He ambled over, grabbed the handle to the suitcase before Amelia could protest, and pulled it to the spiral steps. Without much effort, he started up. ‘‘This way.’’
Stronger than he looks, Amelia thought as she gathered her duffels and laptop case and followed old Guthrie, Jack right on her heels. Dim lights embedded into the stone barely lit the passageways. The higher they got, the cooler it became. They climbed two more floors before Guthrie, who’d managed to get way ahead of Amelia, stopped in front of a half-cracked -open, large wooden door. The old Scotsman wasn’t the least bit winded.
Amelia wheezed. ‘‘Thanks.’’
‘‘Aye.’’ Guthrie moved past her and headed back the way they’d come. ‘‘You’ve free run of the tower, lass, so unpack and help yourself. Watch your step, though. The closest infirmary isn’t so verra close at all. Supper’s every eve at seven. Breakfast is at eight. Lunch, you’re on your own.’’ With that, he disappeared into the shadowy corridor.
Amelia blinked and shook her head. ‘‘Man of few words, huh, Jack?’’
Jack just looked at her.
She gave the door a push, and it creaked open on ancient hinges. Amelia stepped inside her room. The faint glow from a table lamp in the far corner shed very little light, especially with the one lone window closed, but enough for her to make her way inside without bumping into things. Then a cool breeze grazed her neck and ruffled her ponytail. Amelia jumped and looked behind her.
Jack arched his back, flattened his ears, and hissed.
Amelia blew out a shaky sigh. ‘‘Stop it, Jack, you big scaredy-cat. It’s just a drafty old castle.’’ Giving the room a hasty once-over, she found it, of course, empty. Her heart still pounded hard and fast. ‘‘God, I love that fright-induced adrenaline rush.’’
After a close inspection, Amelia found three more lamps and turned them all on. No wall switches, she noticed, just lamps. Which was fine. She loved lamplight. It gave off just the right ambience for writing spooky, bloody mysteries. When plopped in a fourteenth-century tower house for the summer, one that had a Bluidy Munro legend to boot? Well, that sort of mood would surely give decent fodder for her imagination . . .
The candle flame blew out. Jack squalled and scooted under the bed.
Amelia grinned. She felt like she’d been thrown in the middle of an Abbot and Costello meet Frankenstein movie.
She couldn’t wait to go to bed and read over the Haunted Scotland book ZuZu had given her. Already, she felt inspired and enthusiastic. Scared, a little, but in a good, boo! sort of way.
With a quick glance at her watch, Amelia then pushed her big suitcase over onto its side and unzipped it. It was almost seven, and her stomach rumbled at the thought of supper. She’d unpack, wash up, change, eat, and then do a little investigating.
If she was lucky enough, she’d bump into a ghost or two.
‘‘Well? Was she frightened or no’?’’
Ethan stared into the empty mouth of the hearth. He scratched his head. ‘‘Aye.’’
The men grumbled.
Turning, Ethan met their scowls with one of his own. ‘‘And nay.’’
His younger brother cocked his head. ‘‘What mean you? How can it be aye and nay?’’
Ethan shrugged. ‘‘She was afraid, but she liked it. I think.’’
‘‘Fetching lass, methinks,’’ Aiden said. ‘‘The tallest I’ve ever seen, and by the cross, I canna get over how modern women expose vast amounts of their skin.’’ He grinned. ‘‘Quite a pair of legs, she has, and ample hips for breedin’.’’
‘‘Aye,’’ Sorely said, nodding his big head. ‘‘Nice white teeth, too.’’
Ethan frowned deeper. ‘‘She’s no’ a brood mare, for Christ’s sake.’’
‘‘Big, heavy bosoms, too,’’ Sorely muttered under his breath.
The men chuckled
. Ethan almost did. ’Twas her eyes, though, that had caught him unawares . . .
‘‘Is she receptive?’’ Rob asked.
Adjusting his belt, Ethan rubbed his chin. ‘‘I’m no’ positive, but ’tis verra likely. She flinched a time or two, and her heart raced. Her cat knew I was there.’’ He palmed the hilt of his sword. ‘‘We’ll know more by tomorrow.’’
‘‘Why do you think she liked it? Being scared, I mean?’’ Rob asked.
‘‘Aye, indeed, most lasses are squeamish and would have run like a hare,’’ Torloch, who had only one working eye, said.
Ethan shrugged. ‘‘She mentioned enjoying a rush of sorts. Of adrenaline. I looked about but saw nothing of the sort. ’Twas only her and the cat.’’ Not that he had any bluidy idea what adrenaline was, but he felt fairly sure he’d know it if he saw it.
‘‘Strange lass,’’ Sorely said, and a few agreeing grunts accompanied him. ‘‘Bonny, but strange, and wearing those flip-flop slippers. Think you she’s a bit addled?’’ He tapped the side of his head with a forefinger.
Ethan nodded. ‘‘Possibly. But mayhap what we need is strange and addled, aye?’’
The men grunted.
Rob rubbed the back of his neck. ‘‘Did Guthrie find anything else out?’’
‘‘Nay,’’ Ethan said. ‘‘Only that she’s a bard of sorts. From America. And that she’s here for the whole of the summer.’’ The girl was fetching. Strikingly so. Never had he met a woman quite so tall. Compared to himself, that is. Most barely reached his chest. This one—Amelia—came easily to his shoulder. A lad would have to be damn near dead not to notice the tanned skin and peculiar eyes. Large, green, and shaped in such a way that it reminded Ethan of a pair of half-moons. Despite the fact that she wore her fair hair pulled high into a horse’s tail, she was indeed . . . unusual. He scraped a hand over his jaw. ‘‘Dunna get your hopes up. We’ve had others who were receptive over the years, and proved to be of very little use.’’
