But otherwise?
His coffers weren’t full – they rattled.
And after the disaster with his ship, he refused to cast the shadow of his ill fortune on anyone.
He did cross his arms as he studied the old woman, suspecting she knew all about his visit to an Inverness pub a year or so before. How he’d used the last of his coin to purchase the Silver Thistle, a ship he’d hoped to sail to the Arctic. He would have, too, if a night of dense sea fog and the illness of an otherwise ever-alert lighthouse keeper hadn’t doomed the Silver Thistle and an Irish merchant ship. The collision cost many lives and forever stained Greyson’s own.
He took responsibility.
There wasn’t a soul living who could make him see it otherwise.
“My ears are open.” He met the crone’s gaze. “But I’ll no’ speak of things that cannae be changed.”
She thrust out a bristly chin. “Your ship?”
Greyson could almost see the wheels turning in her grizzled head. “I’ve gone down that road often enough. I dinnae need a Highland cailleach to tell me that it was fog and a blackened lighthouse at fault. I knew where the lighthouse should have been, and the reefs. So did the other captain. In seeking safe waters, away from the submerged rocks, we didn’t reckon with another ship doing the same.
“We should have.” He spoke the truth as he saw it. “That we didn’t-”
“Neither one of you could have known.” Devorgilla poured an ale and pressed the cup into Greyson’s hand. “You thought to avoid submerged rocks no one could see. Tragic as it was, it was no’ the first loss of a good ship and it willnae be the last.”
“That I know.” Greyson tossed back the ale and slapped the empty cup on the table. “But it will be the last time I cause harm to anyone, intentional or not.”
“Och, to be sure,” Devorgilla agreed. Then she rubbed her knotty-knuckled hands together in a way that lifted the fine hairs on the back of Greyson’s neck.
The old woman was up to something.
Chapter 4
“What is it?” Greyson narrowed his eyes at the crone. “Dinnae tell me you’re here as a seer, about to declare my days are ending. I ken we all leave this earth sooner or later, but” – he glanced about the ‘great hall’ – “I have still have much to do. Nor am I ill, so I dinnae need the cures of a Highland wise woman.”
“Cailleach, we say in the glens.” Devorgilla smiled and helped herself to another oatcake and a bit of cheese. “And you needn’t worry. I only do good where’er I go. It isn’t my way to foretell doom. Though…” She paused to eat the cheese-laden oatcake. “I might ask a soul’s assistance now and then.”
Greyson didn’t take the bait.
From all he knew of this cailleach, supposedly the most powerful in Scotland, she wouldn’t need anyone’s help. She was, however, known for meddling.
“What is this about?” Greyson folded his arms, wondering if she’d maneuvered him into pressing her.
He knew he shouldn’t.
“Aye, well…” She rocked back on her heels, her red plaid laces flashing again. “There is a matter. I would appreciate a bit of help for a lassie in need.”
“I am no’ your man.” Greyson was firm. “I dinnae rescue damsels in distress. Find another knight in shining armor.”
Devorgilla left the table and began walking around the room, her gaze drifting over the medieval torches painted on the ‘great hall’ walls, the artfully-crafted row of tall, arch-topped windows that looked out on such real-seeming turrets and curtain walls. The night-bound sea that a soul would swear crashed and pounded on rocks far below Arbuckle Priddy’s clifftop stronghold.
“You call an ancient castle home,” Devorgilla said, coming back to Greyson. “Leastways, this room replicates one. So why shouldn’t you play the knight?”
Greyson frowned. “I dinnae play at anything, surely no’ the fate of a lass I dinnae even know. You travel the land, my lady. You said so yourself. Surely you have plenty friends who would be eager to do your bidding.”
“I am no’ the one in need.”
“You ken what I meant.” Greyson started to say more, but Priddy’s painted hound chose that moment to tip back his head and howl. Leastways, a shifting of the room’s light and shadows gave the impression the beast had moved. Just as the wind whistling past the real windows sounded, for a beat, like the wail of a howling dog. As Devorgilla didn’t even blink, Greyson figured he’d imagined the incident – as he often did.
Or so he excused such things.
Just now, he glanced at the door. “You troubled yourself for nothing, dear lady. Wise as you are, you should have known better than to seek me for such a purpose.”
“Ach, I may have erred, aye.” The crone looked more sure of herself than ever. “I know fine you are no’ a rescuing sort,” she added, stepping aside as Wiggle dashed into the room and streaked past them to almost fly to the top of his ‘tree.’ A refuge Greyson had fashioned for the little red squirrel out of fallen branches he’d collected on his walks through the gorge. “You only help wee woodland creatures you find abandoned and motherless, left alone to brave-”
“Leave Wiggle out of this.” Greyson glanced at his pet, then back to Devorgilla. “Rescuing a squirrel is a far cry from becoming embroiled in the affairs of young woman.”
“I am no’ arguing.” Devorgilla went to the small desk beneath one of the painted windows and flipped open the ledger there, glancing briefly over the scrawled figures before closing the book. “And this…” She turned to face Greyson, her gaze sharp. “Are these no’ the records of the help you send the Silver Thistle survivors? As well, the families of those lost?”
Greyson said nothing.
He knew where the crone was going.
He also wasn’t surprised how well she knew his business.
“This whole house…” Devorgilla waved an arm, taking in the restored splendor of the ancient hall. “Was this place no’ falling in on itself? The stonework crumbling and its wood warped and blackened? Have you no’ removed the panels that hid the artist’s mastery, so revealing his talent to a world now ready to appreciate him? If that is no’ rescuing lost causes, I dinnae ken what is.”
“You have made your point.” Greyson winced at her logic. “I have much to do this day. State your concern and then leave me to my peace. I will think on the matter. But only after you give me your word this isn’t trickery.”
“Pah!” Devorgilla clapped a hand to her heart. “I ne’er trick folk. I help them. Sure as I’m standing here. You will find nae man with a complaint against me. Nor any woman.”
“I dinnae care what you do with such souls.” Greyson leaned toward her. “Dinnae do it with me.”
I am no’ a fool. Lassies in difficulties want only one type of aid – a deep-pursed husband.
I could not wed if I madly desired to do so.
The whole of my fortune is gone. Nor will I leave Gannet House and I cannae think of any woman who would wish to dwell in such an unusual home.
A place filled with ghosts, whimsically painted rooms, and a mad, ever-racing-about squirrel.
My foolish yearning to again see a raven-haired beauty who does love ghosts and who kisses like an angel – a lass he could only ask to be his now-and-again mistress, a fate his honor wouldn’t allow him to visit upon her or any woman.
Greyson kept the thoughts to himself. But he did level a fierce look on the crone.
The far-famed Devorgilla of Doon.
Whoever heard of anyone escaping her clutches? He couldn’t recall a soul. She was legend, as mythical as mist on the hills. Yet she stood before him, real as the rain beginning to pelt the windows. Greyson’s gut tightened, everything in him warning him to show her the door, and then bolt it.
He almost choked, sure a locked door wouldn’t stop her.
And so he took his first step toward the abyss. “What ails this lass?”
As he’d known she would, Devorgilla smiled.
> “Nary a thing,” she said, holding his gaze. “She’s as hale and fit as lassies come. Regrettably, she dwells at Kettle House, the home of her aunt and uncle.”
“So?” Greyson folded his arms. “I have ne’er been to the house, but know of it. Word is the owners serve soup to the hungry. Since when is that a peril? I’ve ne’er heard an ill word spoken of the place.”
“You willnae.” Devorgilla glanced down at Greyson’s ledger, ran a finger along its leather-bound edge. “The Russells are good souls.”
“Those who feed the needy usually are.” Greyson was still suspicious. “Where is the problem?”
Devorgilla looked up. “The matter is delicate. I require someone discreet and trustworthy enough to address it to Mrs. Russell. And then…” She paused for effect. “To never mention it again, which is why I’m here.
“You are no’ a gossip.” She came to stand before Greyson. “You also understand those with adventurous natures, a bit more spirit than most.”
Greyson frowned.
“I am no’ in the market for a wife, my lady. I told you that. Dinnae think to saddle me with an unhappy young woman who is watching her belly swell.”
“She is no’ with child. But she would make a good mother. She needs a family of her own.”
“All the more reason no’ to go anywhere near her.” Greyson’s frown deepened. “I am no’ in a position to support a family. I can barely provide for myself, Smithers, and Wiggle.”
Devorgilla poured herself a cup of ale and took a sip. “You value money more than love?”
“So you are hoping to foist the lass on me?”
“No’ at all.” She set down her cup. “I’m only asking you to visit Kettle House and tell Mrs. Russell you know someone interested in the lass. A man who hopes to court her. Say he is good, decent, and hardworking. He can be a shopkeeper, fisher, scholar, whate’er, just someone reliable.”
“Someone who doesn’t exist.” Greyson didn’t hide his dislike of the scheme. “You want me to lie.”
“‘No’ at all. I will find such a soul before you even step into Flourmill Lane.” The crone paused to wag a finger at him. “My like has ways.”
“Why don’t you go to Kettle House?” Greyson tossed back the remains of his own ale, then wiped his mouth. “You came here.”
“Folk know me too well.” Devorgilla shook her head. “There could be someone sitting at her kitchen table, spooning soup, and that soul might recognize me. The Russells have Highlanders on their staff. They will know me, too – or of me.” Her eyes twinkled then, a note of pride lacing her words. “Mrs. Russell would demand the suitor’s name. I cannae yet provide it.”
“Then wait until you can.”
“That willnae do.”
“Why?” Greyson wasn’t convinced. “What if she asks why this man doesn’t present himself?”
“You shall tell her he must be on the Continent for some weeks and will call upon his return.” She made it seem so easy. “That will give me time.”
“For what?”
“To find the man, of course.”
“There’s more.” Greyson’s eyes narrowed. “What is it?”
Devorgilla adjusted her cloak. “Only that time is of the essence.”
“Why do I feel as if I’m walking into a trap?”
“Do ye?” She tilted her head, peering up at him like a tiny, just-offended bird. “That be nonsense.”
“I’ll decide that myself.”
“Ah, well…” She spread her hands, now looking defeated. “I see you must hear all of it. I only wish to spare a deserving lass the misery of being forced to wed a man who would cause her to perish of boredom, or perhaps worse, one more than twice her age and whose rigid views would crush her spirit. Mrs. Russell is fond of her niece, but the young woman has her own ways and Mr. Russell frowns on her fancies. The lass isnae prim enough to suit him. He says she has a wild heart and so he wants her out of Kettle House before she ‘taints’ the place.”
“I see.” Greyson considered. “You said she works at the house. Can she no’ seek employment elsewhere?”
“She could, aye.” Devorgilla flicked at her sleeve. “I’d rather gain time to find her a husband who’d appreciate her. You can help me do that by speaking to the aunt.
“No’ that I’d see it as returning a long-done good deed,” she added, her words pinching his honor.
She had helped his mother all those years ago.
Greyson’s heart sank. He knew when he’d been maneuvered into a corner – when his every argument would ring as hollow as an empty well.
Still…
There were plenty other men in Aberdeen – even here in Tullie village – who could deliver such a plea to Mrs. Russell, a woman he didn’t even know.
His life was broken, knit together with frayed threads, the cloth not sound enough to carry a heavier burden.
He’d have to refuse.
Before he could, Wiggle dashed over to him, ran up his leg, and climbed into his sporran. After a moment of vigorous scrambling about, he popped his little red head out of the specially-made carrier and then thrust out his hand, wanting a nut.
As always, Greyson indulged him and took a nut from a small wooden chest on the table. “Here you are, my wee friend,” he said, giving the treat to his pet.
That done, he turned back to Devorgilla. “I rescued a squirrel, aye,” he said, rubbing Wiggle’s red-tufted ears as he spoke. “I see that those hurt by the Silver Thistle tragedy receive funds each month, as much as I can send them. I do no’ save damsels in distress, as I told you.”
“This one is special.” Devorgilla wouldn’t let it go. “You’ll be glad to help her.”
“I cannae.” Greyson was just as firm. “You’ll have to find someone else.”
For the first time since she’d arrived, the crone frowned. “Come, laddie, I would no’ lead you astray.”
“You have my answer.” Greyson strode to the great hall’s door, standing there to indicate the old woman should go. “I will no’ change my mind.”
“Very well.” Devorgilla nodded and started forward.
Relief sluiced Greyson. He hadn’t expected her to take the hint. But his ill ease returned when Devorgilla stopped halfway across the room and turned to head for his desk. There, she withdrew something from the inside of her cloak and placed it on the desk.
“A small likeness of Miss Raines,” she told Greyson, joining him at the door. “Should you take heart and pay a call at Kettle House. The portrait might change your mind.”
“It won’t.” He wasn’t even going to look.
So as soon as he closed the door behind the crone, he went to the desk, intending to toss the woman’s image into the fire. Unfortunately, Wiggle chose that moment to hop out of his sporran. And in doing so, he landed on the desk.
Of course, his fast little feet sent the portrait fluttering to the floor.
And as the fates wanted it…
The lovely face peering up at him wasn’t a stranger’s.
She was the ghosthunting lass from Samhain Eve. And with recognition, a flood of images swept his mind. Her raven hair shining in the moonlight, the swell of her breasts beneath the shimmery silver of her shawl, her remarkable eyes challenging him in the moonlight.
Above all, he recalled holding her crushed to him, how her arms slid around him, her soft, sweet lips parting beneath his, the silken touch of her tongue.
And that meant only one thing…
He was in trouble.
Already he could feel the walls closing in on him. His pulse quickened and his heart thumped hard. His ears even buzzed, though on another day, he might credit the sound to Gannet House. Either way, his world would soon upend.
How unsettling that he didn’t give a damn.
Chapter 5
Several days later, Stony Bay, north of Aberdeen
“I wish you’d brought Wiggle.”
Greyson blinked, turning his attention back to the w
oman who’d spoken. He’d been staring at the flames in her kitchen fire, a large stone hearth at the far end of the room. In truth, he’d been even more distant in his mind, his thoughts on his recent visit from Devorgilla of Doon. He’d almost convinced himself the mysterious old woman hadn’t called at Gannet House.
That he’d napped after removing Priddy’s wood panels and had simply dreamt the encounter.
He wished that were so.
Sadly, he knew she’d been real.
Leastways as real as a half-mythic Highland cailleach can be. And now he knew his Samhain Eve beauty was also real. Miss Raines, by name. He’d discovered where she lived, something he’d been trying so hard to do. If only to convince himself she hadn’t been spun of Samhain magic. Far from enchanted, her life, it seemed, was as out of sorts and contorted as his own. For that reason, he’d spent the last few days trying to forget her. He might not qualify as the man to grab a shining sword, swing up onto a white charger, and ride off to rescue a ‘princess in a tower,’ but he did carry the honor and pride of his ancient warrior ancestors.
Good Highland men didn’t ruin their ladies’ lives.
They didn’t toss fat onto already burning flames.
The lass … Miss Raines … would be better served without him. Her aunt was sympathetic. The woman would surely not allow her to be made entirely miserable.
“Greyson…” A soft tap on his elbow made him blink up at Kirsty Muir, widow of his lifelong friend, Patrick, who’d gone down with the Silver Thistle. “Why do I think you are just as absent as your darling squirrel?”
“My apologies.” Greyson blinked, embarrassed that he hadn’t even noticed that she’d stood and come around the table. Was he so distracted? “I’ve been working hard,” he said, realizing he hadn’t even touched the oven-warm scones and oatcakes she’d placed before him. “I suppose I’m tired.”
“I am not surprised.” Kirsty frowned, a crease appearing between her brows. The only line to mar her face, though Greyson knew she was now well into her thirties.
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