Once Upon A Haunted Castle: A Celtic Romance Anthology

by Eliza Knight

  The lass swallowed visibly, her lips pursed as she studied him. “Nay,” she said quietly.

  “Then I will be honest with ye and I hope ye’ll return the favor. Until I figure out a few things, ye are my prisoner.”

  The ferocity that had pinched her lips lessened. She watched him keenly as he resumed his pacing. “What needs figuring?”

  “The sword.” Beiste again stopped, wanting to take in her appearance, to see if she was lying or being honest. He had a certain knack for detecting such.

  “What sword?” Lying.

  Beiste let out a half-laugh. “Och, my lady. Do ye truly take me for an imbecile? Well, in case ye do, then I will explain. The one that was on your horse. The one that belonged to my father and went missing some years back.”

  She sniffed and crossed her arms over her chest, closing herself off from him. “’Tis mine.” Confusingly enough, that sounded to be the truth.

  “Nay,” he drawled out. “It was my father’s.”

  The lass shrugged, no longer meeting his eyes. “Perhaps he only had one that looked like mine.” More lies.

  Beiste scooted out the chair beside the table and sat down. “I can wait for the truth, lass. I have an infinite amount of patience.” In truth, he was pressed for time. If this took much longer, he was actually quite concerned about his patience…

  “I doubt it,” she said with a wry smile. “Ye strike me as more the pummeling type.”

  Beiste chuckled and stroked his thumb and forefinger over the stubble on his chin. “I have been known to be that way.”

  The lass turned to face him more. “What’s the big deal about the sword?”

  “It was my father’s. I want to know how ye came to be in possession of it.”

  “And what will ye give me in return?”

  Why did she have to be beautiful? ’Twas as distracting as her personality. He wanted to despise her. To be able to walk away from the locked door and not feel guilty about it. But the more time he spent with her, the more he knew that would be a problem. “As a prisoner, ye dinna have the leverage to bargain.”

  “On the contrary, my laird, I’ve something ye want verra much.” She twirled a tendril of hair, the most fascinating color he’d ever encountered. It was dark brown enough to be almost black, yet streaks of red wove their way in an out like a fairy had run her fingers through the long strands.

  Beiste spread his legs out, stretching, and crossed his arms over his chest. He pulled his gaze from her hair and focused on the tiny cleft in her cheek. “Ye’re clever. Stubborn.” What did they call that? A dimple? ’Twas the wrong place to look, because he simply wanted to touch it.

  She shrugged dainty shoulders. “I am my mother’s daughter.” Then she flashed her gaze at him. “A Viking.”

  Why she sought to remind him, he wasn’t certain. Needless to say, he was running out of time. “What do ye want in exchange for the information?”

  She squared her shoulders, sensing that his patience was beginning to wear thin. “I want ye to give me your oath.”

  Beiste narrowed his eyes. “In regards to?”

  Her chin came up, jutting out in defiance. “My brother. Erik.”

  Beiste could toy with her, but the flicker in her eyes only told him that she was terrified about her brother’s safety. And from what he’d just learned, the man behind her parents’ and his own father’s death was currently holding her brother hostage, if he wasn’t dead already.

  “All right, I promise to go to Castle Gloom. To get him back.”

  “And when ye do, I will tell ye about the sword.”

  Beiste slapped his knees, growling, “Nay, nay, nay. Ye simply said my oath.”

  Her hand smacked the wooden floor. “Your oath of his safe return.”

  “Aye. Words.” He wanted to throw his hands in the air.

  “Words that must be put into action.” She slowly stood, sliding up the wall to hold herself steady he presumed. “I will gladly surrender my life in order to gain my brother’s safety. Take it, if ye must.”

  What in heavens? Did she truly believe he was capable of killing for no reason? “And if I dinna want to take it?”

  “That is your choice, but I would die for him.”

  Beiste let out a slow breath. The room suddenly felt very tight and sticky. “Ye’re a brave lass.”

  She walked toward him on unsteady legs, tiny boots peeking from beneath the hem of her dirty, torn gown.

  “When was the last time ye ate?” he asked.

  “I dinna know.”

  “Eat. Drink. Rest.” He stood from the chair and reached out his hand to her.

  She stared at his hand, her pallor fading. Beiste caught her just as she stumbled forward. She was light in his arms, warm, her curves pressed against him. Her breath was soft, slow against the nape of his neck.

  He would have expected her heart to be pounding, her breaths heavy, but she was surprisingly steady, even if she didn’t have a handle on standing upright. He chalked that up to lack of sustenance. This was no damsel in distress.

  Beiste guided her to the chair, reluctantly letting her go. He repeated himself. “Eat. Drink. Rest. I will go to Castle Gloom. I will bring Erik back and then ye will tell me about the sword.”

  She leaned back in the chair and he poured her a cup of watered wine, holding it to her lips. The lass drank greedily, draining the cup.

  Beiste frowned down at the food. ’Twas obvious she was starving. “Do ye need me to feed ye?”

  “Would ye?” she asked, her eyes teasing. The corner of her lips lifted as though she wished to laugh but did not quite have the energy for it.

  “I would.” God help him, what was happening? Him feeding her? “If ye required it.” What in bloody…? The lass had turned him into a sap within half an hour…

  “I can manage.” She sat up a little straighter, grabbing hold of a hunk of chicken and shoving it ravenously into her mouth. She barely chewed before swallowing and then grabbed another piece. “This is good,” she murmured around another mouthful. “Please give my compliments to your cook.”

  “I will.” He watched her with interest, never having seen a woman eat with such enthusiasm and vigor before. Not that he would have, as he’d not come across many starving before. He took good care of his people, made sure that they’d all eaten before he filled his own plate.

  “Ye’re not as beastly as ye would have me believe.” She glanced up at him, her brow raised. “Ye know?”

  Beiste grunted. “And ye’re not as much of a stubborn, spoiled brat as I would have thought.”

  She shrugged as if she’d heard that before and went back to shoveling food into her mouth, speaking around mouthfuls. “My father thought highly of yours. And of ye.”

  “I regret that I didna know him well.” And he meant that honestly.

  “Not as a man, nay.” She slurped some wine, then reached for a napkin to wipe her hands and face.

  “What do ye mean by that? Not as a man?”

  “Ye knew him as a lad. He was…” Her gaze shifted away from him and she chewed her lip before continuing. “… Waylaid here at Dunstaffnage for a number of years.” She tore at a hunk of bread. “Ye might have been about ten when he left.”

  “What is your father’s name?”

  “Padrig.”

  Beiste searched his memory, thinking back to when he was a boy and all the men who’d been here. There was one man, but it couldn’t have been her father. The man was called simply, Irish. He’d been a fine warrior and imprisoned at the castle, let out to help with training or when the castle was attacked. But always put away at night. ’Twas a strange arrangement and the man didn’t seem bothered by it at all.

  But this Irishman couldn’t be her father. A prisoner. Her father was a lord, having been given lands and a castle by his own father. He’d not have done such a great thing for a prisoner, even if the prisoner had saved his life. He would have simply given him his freedom and nothing more.


  “Please go,” she pleaded. “Tell my brother he is the new Irish. He will know what it means and he will go with ye willingly.”

  Beiste nodded, feeling the blood pool from his face down to his feet.

  Chapter Four

  Elle sat back in the wooden chair, her belly full and her mind a little clearer. But her hands were trembling, once more.

  Emotions ran rampant through her. First the meeting with the ghost and then with Beiste MacDougall…it was all too much. Ultimatums, her future foretold. Nay, not her future—her eternal life. Since she was a wee lass, she’d prayed for her soul, sitting alongside her mother and father. Praying. Praying that she’d not be damned. Asking forgiveness for tricking her maid into thinking she’d already had a bath or her governess into believing she’d eaten every last bit of slimy porridge. She’d confessed to running through the freshly cleaned, newly rushed, great hall with muddy boots and she’d been forgiven. Absolved.

  So what had she done to deserve this gift as the ghost had put it?

  Elle ran a tired hand over her face and rubbed at her eyes. She didn’t want to think about her eternal life anymore. Didn’t want to believe that anything that had happened in the past few days was real. Or that her future, the future or her people, the safety of her brother, rested in the hands of a man she wasn’t certain she could trust.

  Beiste… Why was he being so kind to her? He’d locked her in this chamber. Taken her prisoner and, yet, he’d said he’d feed her if she needed him to. Feed her. Prisoners were lucky to receive food, let alone have it fed to them by their captor.

  Trust. ’Twas obvious he wasn’t so willing to trust her outright, either.

  But despite both of their reluctance… There was a tension that crackled the room when they were in it together. A feeling she’d never experienced before. And she didn’t know how to feel about that. Elle liked it and despised it all at the same time. Wanted it and wished it to go away. The man confused her. Her own reactions confused her.

  Lord help her, but even her own reactions to him were…unfathomable. She’d complimented him. Hadn’t been able to take her eyes off of him, admiring his figure, his face…couldn’t help but find herself wondering what went on behind his brooding façade. And why should she care? She shouldn’t. But still…she’d wanted to be the one to wipe the scowl from his face. To massage whatever pain he felt away…aye, her family had been massacred. But so had his father. They were both aching, in mourning, and missing their loved ones.

  But still…he didn’t have to keep her captive. That was completely unnecessary. She was no threat to him. Though she understood how her showing up on the night of his father’s death could be construed as an odd coincidence.

  Och, but she should have whipped out her dagger and demanded he set her free. That he see reason! That he wade through his grief and see, truly see, that she was here for his help. As she often did with people, Elle tried to put herself in Beiste’s position. To understand him better. To figure out a way to get through to him.

  Och, but it would be so much easier to simply appeal to one of the servants and escape.

  Unfortunately for her, Elle needed the grumpy laird. Needed the strength of his army to defeat her enemies. His enemies.

  They had shared enemies. Didn’t he realize that made them allies? That’s what their parents had been. Beiste knew that and still he resisted.

  And the sword…if he made good on his promise of finding her brother, she would have to tell him the truth behind the sword. A truth that would shatter his trust even more. A truth he might very well deny. Elle had to be prepared, no matter the outcome.

  She flattened her shaking hands to the table, staring at her whitened fingertips pressed into the wood.

  “Stop shaking,” she demanded of herself. “Ye will be strong. For Erik. For your clan.”

  A shout from the bailey pulled her from her mental struggle and she walked slowly forward to see a half-dozen MacDougall men ride through the gates. Beiste spoke to them briefly and then, to her amazement, she watched him bark orders, gather more riders and then mount a beautiful, sleek, black warhorse.

  He was going. Now. She’d not expected him to act so quickly on his promise and, truth be told, she’d almost doubted he would to begin with—even if he’d offered to feed her. Yet, there he was, armed to the teeth and seated atop a mighty animal.

  Beiste MacDougall turned to look up at her, as though he sensed she was watching. Her face flamed red at having been caught. She stood tall, brushing away her awkwardness and nodded to him, mouthing thank ye, though she was certain he wouldn’t have seen it through the narrow window. He raised a hand to her and she returned the gesture, unsure of what to think about it.

  “And so it begins.”

  Elle startled, sensing before seeing the ghost of the old laird appear at the window beside her. “What do ye want?” she asked rather rudely and not caring about her tone. “Please, leave me in peace.”

  He chuckled. “He’s always been a good lad, if not a bit rough around the edges. Had a hard time of it, that one.”

  Elle returned her gaze to the bailey, watching the dust gathering in the wake of Beiste’s horse. “How so?”

  “Not my place to tell.”

  She rolled her eyes, resigned to the fact that she’d probably never know what caused the dark shadows creasing over the eyes of Beiste MacDougall. “What are ye doing back here?”

  “I dinna rightly know, my dear. I am here and I am not. I dinna think I have a choice of when I appear.”

  She grunted. “Ye’re a response to a choice that was made for ye?”

  That made him grin. “Aye. Ye remembered.”

  “How could I forget?” The portcullis was lowered, the gates closed. Elle walked away from the window toward the table, wishing there was a heady glass of wine waiting for her. “Go away. I am making that choice for ye now.”

  There was a whooshing of cool air over her spine as the ghost followed her. “That’s not verra kind of ye. I want to stay.”

  “Who said I had to be kind to ye? I dinna want ye to stay.” She waved her hand at him as if she could simply cut through the mist of his form, cause him to evaporate.

  “No one decreed it, of course. Just thought ye might be. Manners, that sort of thing.” The ghost played with his long, vaporous beard.

  Elle considered rapping on the door and demanding she be brought more wine. “I willna shoot the messenger, your lairdship. But ye were the bearer of bad news and so I am obliged by nature to reject ye.”

  “Still holding a grudge, I see.”

  “Wouldn’t ye?” She narrowed her eyes. “Why do ye not go and haunt the one who killed ye?”

  He shrugged. “Perhaps I will.” His hazy form faded in and out. “Ah, I must be off.”

  “Where are ye going?” Was he going to listen to her? Go and haunt that Viking bastard?

  “I feel a pull. I think I must go with my son.”

  And then, just as quickly as he’d appeared, the ghost was once more gone, leaving Elle with more questions than answers.

  *

  They owned the moors, riding hard over the tall grasses and tamped down roads. Easily climbed the mountains and forded the winding rivers that separated Beiste’s lands from Castle Gloom. The warriors rode through the evening and, finally, in the dead of night, they were upon the fortress, staring down over the moonlit castle.

  All was quiet.

  Too quiet.

  Not even a torch lit upon the ramparts.

  Beiste narrowed his eyes, his skin prickling. What in bloody hell was going on? For a castle that had been besieged by the enemy, the place looked deserted. Abandoned. Not the site of a siege or massacre.

  “None escaped?” Beiste asked Gunnar who’d led the elite out into the field to take care of their enemies camped outside his own walls before they’d left.

  “None, my laird. And no scouts that we could make out.”

  If none had escaped, then there was n
o way the Vikings who’d attacked Dunstaffnage could have gotten word back to Castle Gloom regarding his impending arrival. So what was happening? Was it a trap? Had the Vikings known all along? Perhaps guessed that once he’d defeated the men set upon his own castle that his next move would be Castle Gloom?

  Was the lass sent as a lure? Had no massacre ever taken place except for the one that had killed his own father? The unsettling images that played didn’t sit well with him. He didn’t think that was the case. He didn’t know why, and he was probably mad because of it, but there was a large part of Beiste that trusted Elle Cam’béal.

  “Bloody hell,” Beiste growled, contemplating retreat. But he’d not be the man he was, the leader he aspired to be, if he simply left without at least investigating. He whistled for his scouts who nudged their horses toward him. “This could be an ambush. I want you to scout the surrounding area for signs of a trap and report back to me. Do not engage should ye catch sight of any foe, unless they attack ye first.”

  “Aye, my laird.”

  The men rode out and Beiste settled into the saddle to wait. He and the warriors that waited with him would not dismount. They’d not take their eyes and ears away from the surrounding area in case his suspicions were correct, which he prayed they weren’t.

  Not much later, his scouts returned.

  “My laird, the place is deserted.” Calum, one of the scouts, looked just as confused as Beiste felt. “Not a soul in sight, my laird. Not even a trap set out.”

  The wind blew ominously through the forest and prickles rose along Beiste’s spine. He felt as though he were being watched. A thousand eyes on him, or perhaps only a pair, but it was enough to put him on edge. Even his mount twitched his ears and shuffled from side to side.

  “We are not alone,” Beiste murmured. Even as the words came out, he sensed an otherworldly presence. Prickles along his neck, his skin chilling. He shook his head. Nay, there had to be a human explanation for what he sensed.