The Mammoth Book of Scottish Romance

by Trisha Telep

  But what would happen after the gloaming?

  Would Deidre come to him? Would she come to him again as a woman or a banshee? Had the curse been broken or would Caden be left standing alone on the water’s edge?

  The sun slipped lower beneath the horizon. Like a curtain closing at the theatre, the gloaming made an exit and darkness arrived.

  Caden’s heart thudded painfully in his chest. Minutes ticked by but Caden stubbornly refused to leave, refused to believe that Deidre was lost to him and his world.

  Hades came bounding up, all gangly legs and ridiculous exuberance, splashing through the waves like a puppy. His tongue lolled out of his mouth and his tail wagged so violently it sent sprays of water all over Caden.

  He looked at the silly beast and envied him in his ignorance. Dogs did not know what it meant to suffer heartbreak. Dogs did not know what it meant to love and lose.

  Hades looked up at Caden. Despite the tail wagging and carefree bounding, the deerhound’s big, brown eyes reflected sadness. Caden remembered the way the faithful beast had sat beside James’s bed and the way he had howled after James’s dead body had been carried out of Blackstone by two attendants from Henderson Funeral Home.

  Caden squatted and wrapped his arm around the dog’s neck.

  “Maybe you’re not so ignorant, after all. You know what it means to lose someone you love, don’t you Hades?”

  Hades thrust his nose forward and began to growl.

  “What’s wrong, boy?”

  Caden followed the dog’s gaze and saw Deidre standing at the edge of the woods. His heart swelled.

  She ran to him. When they embraced, his arms did not pass through her.

  “It’s after the gloaming and you’re still here, still human.”

  “I know!” She laughed and tipped her chin up to look at him. The light from the waxing moon shone on her face, turning her hazel eyes a lovely shade of emerald, and he thought he had never seen a more beautiful woman in his life. “You did it, Caden. You broke the curse. You made me human again. You’ve given me back my life.”

  “Yes,” he said, kissing her lightly on the mouth. “Now the question I have for you Deidre Monreith is: would you consider spending that life with a Maxwell?”

  Tears filled her eyes, but this time they were tears of joy.

  “Aye,” she said, laughing again. “I’ll spend my life with you, Caden Maxwell.”

  Next Time

  Donna Kauffman

  One

  This time, she’d definitely seen the ghost. Abby Ramsay stood at the window of her tower room and sipped her tea as she stared out across the castle inn courtyard. She felt preternaturally calm, considering what she’d observed, almost as if she was having an out of body experience. “I should be so lucky,” she murmured, as she gently set the teacup and saucer on the small writing desk next to her. If only she could step out of her body, trade it in for a new one. Preferably one that wasn’t going to give out on her so soon.

  “But then, I wouldn’t be here,” she murmured, allowing a small smile as she returned her attention beyond the narrow, mullioned window. She’d been surprised and delighted when the handle at the bottom of the framed, heavy leaded glass had turned and she’d been able to swing the louvered window outwards, giving her a clear view across the courtyard, beyond the far corner tower, and onwards to the Black Cuillins beyond. In an earlier time of her life, she’d have been out there, climbing those dark, jagged peaks. But she’d made peace with her brief future and was simply happy to be here, in the midst of them, enjoying their grandeur.

  At the moment, however, it wasn’t the fog-shrouded, mystical mountains that held her attention. It was the tower across the courtyard. She watched, patiently, waiting for … something. It had all started with the flicker of light she’d seen through the turret window yesterday morning as she’d been out taking her stroll in the mists. Like most of the north side of the castle proper, the tower was falling to ruin. The turret at the top was crumbling, the windows long since empty of their glass, the ledges broken and fallen on to the stone piles below. According to the travel literature, it hadn’t been habitable for more than a century.

  So, it made no sense that she’d seen a light there, flickering, like candlelight or lamplight, which was why it had caught her attention in the first place. At first she thought it was one of the many adventurous hikers who came to stay at the Gillean Castle inn to take advantage of hiking Scotland’s most jagged peaks. Maybe one of them had tried to climb up inside the tower.

  But upon further inspection, as she’d got closer and slowly made her way around the tumble of stone at the tower base, she’d assured herself that what the travel guide and inn brochure had stated was true. Unless they could levitate, no one could be hanging around up inside what was left of that tower.

  She’d told herself the flickering light could have been the sun glinting off something inside … but what? She’d managed to get close enough to peer inside and up. It was nothing more than a hollow shell of crumbling stone. Nothing glint-worthy to be found.

  She’d toyed with the mystery for the remainder of the day, but the flickering light had never returned, and she hadn’t come up with a workable explanation for what she’d seen. She’d amused herself as she’d drifted off to sleep the night before with the idea that perhaps she’d seen evidence of the infamous tower ghost. She wasn’t certain what she believed about such things, but it had been a fanciful distraction and she’d fallen asleep more easily than she had in quite some time.

  So, it had been quite the startling moment when she’d peered out of her own tower window in early dawn hours this morning, thinking about the flickering light … only to see the ghost himself standing in the open window of the tower ruin.

  She remembered thinking that she’d been certain the local literature on the Gillean ghost had romanticized his appearance … but the reality out-distanced even the most avid imagination. The oil portrait rendering that hung in the castle hall proper didn’t begin to do the man justice. He was quite tall, causing him to casually slouch in the open window frame, broad shoulder leaning against the stone. He wore a white shirt with billowing sleeves, the laces at the neck loose and open, like an old poet. Only when this poet had lifted his chin, shifting his gaze from whatever he was holding in his hand, to look across the courtyard, seemingly directly at her … he’d been anything but old. His was a face that could haunt dreams. That strong jaw, slash of brow and brooding mouth.

  And that had been from across a misty courtyard. She couldn’t imagine what kind of impact he’d have made up close and personal. Abby rubbed her arms, though the morning fog had long since lifted as the sun had edged well past the distant peaks by now.

  She couldn’t stop thinking about him, this ghost. And he had to be an apparition. Didn’t he? The tower was gutted, she’d seen that with her own eyes. She continued to stare at it now, cold and dark, wind whistling through the crumbling window openings. No sign at all that anyone inhabited the place, much less with candlelight, billowing shirt, and perfect chin stubble.

  The Gillean ghost was the stuff of legends. Although, throughout the centuries that had passed since the first sighting of him, no one had discovered his name, the story behind his being there, or a link to any of the clans who had inhabited the castle before. But he’d been seen many times over during that same time span. The description was always the same. The lore that had grown around him had launched many a tale or supposition. Most of them romantic folly, Abby had thought, but they’d made her smile nonetheless. For all anyone knew, he was a marauder with a black heart and a bloody sword who’d been cut down while looting and pillaging. Of course, that wasn’t as romantic as the notion that he was a man in love, doomed to search the misty cliffs for his one and only. Or any of the other silly stories detailed in the local guides.

  But now that she’d seen him herself … she wasn’t sure what she believed. Or wanted to believe. The man she’d seen this morning
surely hadn’t looked like a looting marauder. Or, for that matter, an apparition.

  She took a last sip of tea, replaced the cup again, then resolutely turned and plucked her jacket from the back of the chair. Her energy stores were at their best in the earlier part of the day. So, she was going to go explore the tower again, even more closely this time. Perhaps she could find a way to climb all the way inside. She wasn’t even sure what she was looking for. Answers? Proof? The ghost himself?

  It didn’t matter, really. It was intriguing. And what else did she have to do with her time? Her strength would wane quickly, but it wasn’t like she had to worry about whatever dangers might await. “What is it going to do?” she murmured. “Kill me?”

  That was the one thing Abby no longer had to worry about. It was amazing how much more brave and courageous a person could feel when they knew they were going to die.

  Two

  She’d seen him. Not that she’d been the first. Not by a long shot. But he hadn’t removed himself from sight upon discovery like he typically did. Instead, he’d welcomed her steady gaze. Had, in fact, looked back. Though he couldn’t have said why. In all his visits to the tower, Calum had never once felt compelled to do that.

  She hadn’t even been that particularly striking. Soft brown hair, wide eyes and mouth, a narrow frame. And yet, he hadn’t been able to look away.

  And she hadn’t looked at him like she was seeing a ghost.

  He didn’t get any enjoyment out of folks believing he was an afterworld wraith. Far from it. He’d much rather be left to his own devices, to enjoy the peace and solitude of Loch Sligachan and the towering presence of the Cuillins. That was why he came here when he needed to think, needed to get away. No’ to play tricks on unsuspecting visitors. But, the castle inn, which had become more ruin than inn at this point in time, was remote enough, appealing mostly to outdoor adventurists, that it didn’t happen all that often. So, when it did, it seemed a small price to pay for his haven.

  He’d tried other places, other times in history but, for some time now, he’d come back to this place, this time. His tower had little left for comfort, but with his advanced abilities, he could work around that. The early twenty-first century had been a quiet one in the western Highlands. Still pure, despite its bloody history, with a sense of being largely untouched, reclaimed by Mother Nature. The endless green carpets of grass encroaching right up against the towering, jagged peaks that soared above them, soothed him. It looked much the same in his time. The mountains did, at any rate. The rest … well, that had changed. Changed with the needs of the people who had to sustain life from it. A life filled with challenges that those who lived during this time and in this place couldn’t possibly fathom. And were fortunate in their ignorance.

  In his time, people led a very different life from the one most likely lived by the woman who’d spied him this morning.

  He’d looked into those wide, all-seeing eyes and, even across the stretch of the courtyard, he’d felt such a yearning. A yearning to go to her, talk with her, listen to tales of what life was like in these easier, calmer, more bountiful times. But why torture himself? He had to go back. There was too much to do. Only his weariness still lingered. More and more often, his slides through time didn’t feel wide enough or long enough.

  He stood at the edge of the cliffs now, beyond the castle yard proper, and looked down at the waves crashing against the shore below. He only had two more days but, weariness or no, this time he wished the window would come sooner. He was feeling far too on edge and that disconcerted him. He should be thinking of home, his home, in this very place, far into the distant future … and use his time here in the midst of peace and quiet, to figure out what his next step would be, how he could save what little was left.

  A bit of something in his peripheral vision, a scarf, perhaps, caught up in a flap of wind, mercifully snatched his attention away from his chaotic thoughts. He turned to see a woman carefully picking her way in and around the fallen stones at the base of the tower. It was the woman from this morning.

  Was she looking for him?

  His heart raced, and it wasn’t with trepidation. “Oh, aye, it’s long past time, indeed, for ye to go,” he murmured to himself.

  Before Ailfrid had first successfully taught him how to use the windows, wormholes, and slivers to transverse back to any past time in history, Calum had entered into a pact with the aging, exiled physicist – and himself – to never encroach upon or impact the past in any way. Ailfrid had warned him that even the smallest action could have a ripple effect down through time that could alter the course of things far greater than he had the power to dabble in.

  But, oh … aye, she made him want to dabble …

  He watched as she paused when she got to the tower itself, bracing one hand on the rough stones. Then bent in half, quite suddenly, and seemed to convulse.

  Calum didn’t stop to think about the pact or the possible consequences of his response, but reacted purely on instinct. He was already at a dead run by the time she collapsed.

  Three

  There had been a knife of pain, followed by a gripping wave of overwhelming nausea … then the next thing Abby could remember feeling were strong arms lifting her up, cradling her. Maybe her time had come already, and this was what it felt like. After. Weightless and cradled and feeling forever safe. That wasn’t so bad, she thought. In fact, as afterlives went, it was pretty damn good. Or maybe this was just transition. Whatever the case, she wasn’t going to waste it debating how she felt about it. She was simply going to enjoy the sweet haven, the cocoon. She hadn’t felt so … good, in a very long time.

  “Are ye all right, then?”

  She tensed at the sound of the deep, masculine voice, rich with that Scottish brogue that had always put a zip in her pulse. Which was, in large part, why the Highlands had been the final destination on her things-to-do-before-I-die list.

  “Did ye hit your head when ye stumbled? No, don’t move,” he said, as she tried to pull away. “I have ye. You’re safe.”

  Safe, yes. She felt that. Very much that. But where? And with whom?

  She didn’t open her eyes. She didn’t want to. Not yet. “I – where am I?”

  “Loch Sligachan,” he said. “Gillean Castle.”

  Her eyelids fluttered open then. “I’m still here?”

  “Aye,” he said, lips quirking. “Where did ye think you’d be?”

  She blinked and looked more clearly up at him. And froze. It was the ghost! So, she was dead after all. Maybe that was why he’d seemed so … lifelike to her. She had been destined to join him and hadn’t known that was the plan. Was she going to haunt the castle as he did, then? Is that how it worked? Wherever you died was where you were doomed to linger? Was there some kind of plan for that, too?

  Although, at the moment, as she thought about it, she couldn’t really complain. If she had to stay somewhere for all eternity … this wasn’t such a bad start.

  He was even more arresting up close. Tanned skin, with lines feathering out from the corners of eyes so bright blue, they looked like crystals lit by the sun. He looked … otherworldly enough. She wondered if that was it, if that was why he seemed to all but glow.

  “You feel so real,” she said, only realizing she’d said it out loud when he looked surprised, then a little disconcerted.

  “Allow me to help you back to the castle,” he said, his face smoothing into a more impersonal expression. “Perhaps you should call a physitech to take a look. Make sure you haven’t a concussion.”

  “Physitech?”

  “Erm, doctor. Medical. Someone who tends to the ill and infirm,” he clarified, and she could see the consternation, as if he was reaching for words that he wasn’t familiar with. But he spoke beautiful English, albeit with a heavy brogue. Perhaps it was merely cultural. Skye was far to the north and west in the Highlands, and she knew that, in many places, Gaelic was still the native tongue and treasured amongst the long-timers.
>
  But … what, exactly did that make him?

  Then she realized what he was saying. Ghost or no, he was acting as if she’d just fallen and hit her head. Not like she’d crossed over. But how did that explain him being here and feeling so … solid? And warm, she noted. And strong. Not at all apparition-like, given she was apparently still mortal.

  “I’m okay,” she said, ignoring the whopper of a lie that was. For the purposes of needing him, she was fine. “You can let me go.”

  She started to move but, once again, he stilled her movement by tightening his arms around her. “Let’s take this slowly, aye?”

  “Aye,” she echoed, closing her eyes against the return of the vicious pinch of a headache, knowing the worst of it would subside in a moment or two. Back to the dull, throbbing ache that was always there. She tried to hold on to the pleasure of what it had felt like to be pain free for those blissful first moments when she’d first felt his arms around her.

  He waited until she opened her eyes again, and nodded, before very slowly pushing to a stand himself, taking her with him, but holding her pressed against his chest the entire time. “Tell me if the pain comes back.”

  “I’m – okay,” she said, meaning it this time, though the assessment had nothing to do with her health concerns. He was tall. Much taller than her five-and-a-half feet. Her face was pressed against the soft, billowing linen she’d spied him wearing earlier that morning, and his arms felt incredibly good wrapped around her. The throb in her head seemed to diminish the more she breathed him in. “Who are you,” she murmured, trying not to burrow her face in the warm heat of him, and failing rather spectacularly. She couldn’t seem to make herself care enough to pull away, though. And he didn’t seem to mind, so …