by Sandy Blair
The Laird
~A Castle Blackstone Novel~
by
Sandy Blair
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Table of Contents
Copyright
Dedication
To my own tall and beautiful Highlander,
for being my touchstone in the real world
and my muse through my imaginary one.
Behold, I send an Angel before thee, to keep thee in the way, and to bring thee into the place which I have prepared.
~Exodus 23:20
Prologue
St. Regis Hotel
New York, New York
Since introducing himself to Miss Katherine Elizabeth Pudding, estate executor Tom Silverstein craved only one thing. Whisky.
Aqua vitae. The water of life. Any brand, any age, so long as there was plenty of it.
Shrugging out of his wrinkled suit coat, he could--to his dismay--still picture Miss Pudding, the new heir to Castle Blackstone, smiling benignly from behind her desk as he told her about her inheritance and all it entailed.
She was still smiling when she led him through the doors of the nearest police station, where she insisted he be fingerprinted and interrogated. She did apologize profusely after the police verified his credentials, but it still took him the rest of the day and the better part of the night to convince her it was in her best interests to travel with him to Scotland, to at least see her inheritance.
He tossed his briefcase onto the king-sized bed and reached into the in-room liquor cabinet for the cut crystal decanter labeled Scotch. He drained two finger’s worth of whisky in one swallow and refilled the tumbler. Drink in hand, he picked up the phone. His beloved and very pregnant wife, Margaret, answered the first ring.
The relief that came into her voice on hearing his warmed him in a way whisky never would. He asked, “Are ye feeling well, love?”
“Aye, but where have ye been? I’ve been worryin’ myself sick.”
Reluctantly, he told his bride—-a Highlander with a keen appreciation for the absurd--about his day. To her credit, she did manage an “Oh my, ye poor lamb” and a few commiserating “clucks” between muffled giggles. Imagining her, plump and rosy-cheeked, sitting in her favorite parlor chair with a hand on her belly and tears of mirth rolling down her face, he smiled.
She asked, “Will Miss Pudding come, then?”
“Aye, but we’ll not be home for another week.”
Margaret sighed. “‘Tis just as well. Gives me time to tidy the place up a bit.”
An ache suddenly materialized between his eyes. “What has his lordship done now?”
“As soon as you left, he tossed everything the old man owned-- from toppers to shoes--into the bailey. Even smashed the telly to smithereens. A shame, that.”
Tom hadn’t liked the previous heir in the least himself, but to smash the telly...
He squeezed the bridge of his nose in an effort to ease the pain. “It could have been worse.”
“Aye, according to your Da, it has been.”
“Love, I dinna want you goin’ over there.”
“Dinna worry, Tom. I’m far too pregnant to tolerate another trip to the castle in that wee boat of yours. I’ll send a couple of lads over to snow up the place. But tell me, what does Miss Pudding look like? Will his lordship find her fair? Is she bonnie?”
“Who can tell under all the paint American women wear.”
“Tom, I’m no’ in a mood--”
“She’s attractive, but I suspect she’s really quite plain under all the gloss and feathers.”
“Oh, dear.” After a pause Margaret asked, “Does she at least have red hair? He has a recorded weakness for titians.”
“I’m afraid it’s kirk-mouse brown, love.”
“Augh! I was so hoping for our son’s sake...”
“Aye, I know.” Since 1408, a Silverstein son had been chosen and educated in law and finance—-despite what aspirations he might hold—-to serve as executor to the Laird of Castle Blackstone. And so it would be for their soon-to-be-born son, unless...
“If it’s any consolation,” Tom said, “Miss Pudding’s no fool. She asked if Blackstone was haunted.”
“What did you say, Tom?”
“I told her I’d never seen a ghost.”
“Tom! ‘Tis written, as executor, you can’t lie to the heir. A ‘alf truth--by omission or otherwise--is still a lie.”
“‘Tis no lie to say I’ve never seen him. Heard him, aye. Tolerated his insufferable arrogance and temper, aye. But never once has he deemed me worthy of his august presence, so I didna lie.”
After a sigh and a long pause, she murmured, “Could Miss Pudding be the one?”
Margaret’s reference to the Gael curse levied on their laird just as he died made the words swim before Tom eyes.
Curse ye MacDougall by my will,
forever lost in nether world
to pine for all ye lost most dear
Only by ain token thrice blessed
‘tis the way to dreams and rest
will one come to change thy fate.
“Love, we’ll not know the answer to that question,” murmured Tom, the twenty-third of his line to serve Duncan Angus MacDougall, “unless he takes her.”
Chapter 1
Drasmoor, Scotland
Yawning, Duncan MacDougall, the laird of Castle Blackstone, stretched in his enormous bed then cursed as the residual stench from Robert Sheffield’s cigars filled his nose. Eight weeks had passed since the old man’s death and still the noxious odor hung about the castle like a shroud.
Who would come now?
He prayed it wouldn’t be another cigar smoking fop, but better that than no heir. He feared for his home--where he’d been trapped between life and death for so many lifetimes.
Victoria Regina had just died the last time a young family had claimed Blackstone. He smiled thinking of John and his lovely wife, Mary. He missed their children. Aye, it had been too long since he’d heard a lass giggle or watched a lad play with the lead soldiers now hidden away in the east wing.
But what if Silverstein couldna find a rightful heir? Or worse, what if he had, and the new occupant wanted to convert Blackstone into a bloody tourist attraction?
Duncan shuddered, picturing thousands of stippled and pierced youths with their pot-bellied parents stomping up his stairs and running their sticky hands over what had taken him a lifetime--at the cost of his soul--to acquire. He’d sooner abandon his long held hope for redemption, to suffer the perpetual fires of hell, than bear witness to such a violation of his home.
Wishing his recently departed heir—-the one who hadn’t been man enough to marry and produce an heir--a well-deserved stay in hell, he threw open the mullioned windows and heard the thudding of an aluminum hull against whitecaps. Over the wave-slapping racket he picked up the familiar high-pitched whine of Silverstein’s launch engine.
He craned his neck for a better view of the harbor and cursed seeing a woman, her dark hair whipping in the breeze, sitting next to Silverstein.
God had granted his solicitor the love of a good woman and the gift of a wee babe--something he, a laird, had apparently been unfit to receive, dying unloved as he had and with the blood of three wives on his hands--and look what the daft fool does. He’s put the poor woman in his miserable boat!
“God’s teeth! In her condition, she should be lying in, not bouncing like a bloody cork across the bay.” He started down the stairs. “He’ll be shakin’ the wee babe loose, for God’s sake.” Outraged by this real possibility, he raced to the great hall, determined to confront Thomas Silverstein face to face.
Generally, he preferred subtle—-and sometimes not so subtle-—displays to demonstrate his displeasure rather than materializ
ing before the living. Becoming visible always took far more effort than most offenses warranted, while his temper tantrums were easily done and usually proved both effective and entertaining.
But Tommy Boy had now done the unthinkable; risking his child’s life was tantamount to slapping God’s face and placing Blackstone on the block. For those sins, his solicitor would pay dearly.
~#~
Katherine Elizabeth MacDougall Pudding clutched her really good designer knockoff tote to her chest without a thought to its prized contents and gasped as a huge, spiked gate suddenly ground down behind her with an ear-shattering screech.
“Don’t be alarmed, Miss Pudding,” Tom Silverstein yelled as he strode toward the keep tower with the rest of her luggage in hand. “The portcullis occasionally slips its chain. There’s a hand crank on the left side to raise it again.”
“Ah,” Beth said, not caring for the image of herself suddenly skewered by the enormous rusting teeth should the damn chain slip as she passed beneath. Deciding fixing the ancient gate would be number one on her list of things to do, she followed tall and lean Mr. Silverstein through the courtyard--or bailey as he called it.
Frowning at the weeds and withered vines clinging to the fifteenth century stonework, she wondered how some people managed to go through life with taking pride in ownership. It only took a little love and elbow grease to make any place a home.
Not any home, but her home. Hers to do with as she wished. In her twenty-four years, these ancient granite blocks would be the first walls she could lay honest claim to.
Until two days ago, the latest place she’d call home had been an overpriced, roach-infested efficiency in an aging Bronx brownstone, but still the roof, the stairs, and pride of ownership had belonged to another. Even the roaches had a “here today, gone tomorrow and then back again” attitude as if she’d had no say in the matter.
She raised her gaze to the sixteenth century mullioned windows above her. They should have been refracting multi-prismed rainbows as they faced the setting sun; instead they stared back at her, dull and opaque like the eyes of a landed cod.
With a proprietary eye, she gauged the height of the four-storied tower before her and the depth of its windowsills.
“Doable,” she muttered, deciding to clean them as soon as possible.
Hell, she’d hung many a time out her fifth floor tenement window risking life and limb to scrub soot off warped plate glass for a clearer view of a brick airshaft. For an ocean view out a leaded window, she could climb a rope with her teeth.
She frowned seeing her castle’s thick, arched door hadn’t fared any better than the windows. The solid oak was stained by creeping mildew and so cracked it appeared to be made of cork. Mr. Silverstein forced it open with a shoulder and said, “Welcome to your new home, Miss Pudding. Welcome to Castle Blackstone.”
Ruminating over the delicious import of his words, Beth followed him in. She grabbed the rope railing with her free hand and carefully climbed the tightly curved, well-worn stones to yet another door.
She walked into what Silverstein called Blackstone’s great hall and froze, mouth agape.
Her new living room had to be at least sixty feet in length and thirty feet in width. Two ornate, soot-covered fireplaces--each as tall as a man--graced the ends. Three huge, wheel-shaped wrought iron chandeliers hung above her, suspended by chains from a barreled ceiling. She felt relief seeing the fixtures had been electrified, but suspected she’d been in diapers the last time they and the twelve-foot high woodwork surrounding her had seen so much as a dust cloth.
Silverstein reached for the door at her back. As he pushed it closed, one of its huge mottled hinges screeched and detached. When he only shrugged, she wondered if a ten-penny spike and a gob of nail glue would be all she’d have at her disposal to hold the door up until she garnered some income.
She had no idea what the “maintenance income” Silverstein alluded to in New York might amount to in dollars--and having only six hundred in her checking account--she began having serious doubts about the wisdom of accepting her inheritance.
Her doubts only multiplied as she studied the chipped stenciling on the lofty plaster and beamed ceiling. Could she keep herself warm, let alone keep a castle in a decent state of repair, on a maintenance?
“Mr. Silverstein, how long has the castle been empty?”
“’Tis never been empty, Miss Pudding.” He scowled as he waved toward a God-awful mix of contemporary and period furnishings. “Oh! You mean to ask how long have we gone without an heir?”
“Yes.”
“Two months.”
“Ah, yet it seems like just yesterday,” she murmured, sniffing the acrid stench of cigar smoke. She ran a hesitant finger along a filthy window sash. Linda, her best friend and the Director of Housekeeping at the St. Regis-New York, would have a heart attack. “Could we open a window or two to air the place out?”
“Certainly.”
It still didn’t seem possible. She owned a castle—-actually, it was little more than a medieval fortification occupying most of the landmass of a dinky isle off Scotland’s Highland coast, but a rose by any other name...
Her, an orphan raised by—-no, dragged up within—-the Big Apple’s foster-care system.
And what could she, would she do with it?
According to Silverstein, she had to reside in Blackstone for six months to lay claim to her inheritance. After that, she could return to her job in convention services at the St. Regis, using the castle only as a retreat, or she could reside here permanently. The decision would be hers. But no matter, after a six-month residence, her inheritance would be secure and would pass on to her descendants. Not that she had any hopes of having any.
More than a decade had passed since she’d exposed herself to the hope of being loved, and she couldn’t imagine a set of circumstances that could ever prompt her to do so again.
It hadn’t taken her long to discover most men liked their women pretty and compliant. She was neither.
Having only a high school education, she’d started her career path as a waitress. While watching prettier women seemingly rise without effort, she’d clawed her way, rung by rung, up three different hotel development ladders to become an assistant director. She didn’t resent the pretty women. She envied them. They didn’t have to work harder, be quicker and brighter, to get noticed.
Too, if the mirror hadn’t made her plainness obvious to her, a frank foster mother had. She’d been only twelve when the woman she’d tried so hard to please—-to be loved by—-had told her, “You’ll never be pretty, so you’d best learn to use make-up. Then, there’s an outside possibility someone might consider you attractive.”
She shook off the memory. It really didn’t matter anymore. She, Katherine Elizabeth MacDougall Pudding, was an heiress. She now owned a tiny island and its broken down castle. The very thought took her breath away.
“Let me show you to your rooms before we tour the rest,” Silverstein suggested as he gathered her bags.
“By all means, but I’ll take that.” She snatched her prized tote from Silverstein’s hands and gave the surprised man an apologetic smile. Heiress or not, she still couldn’t bring herself to trust the tote’s contents to another. What if he dropped or misplaced it? The nearest cosmetics counter sat in Glasgow, a good four hour train’s ride away, for God’s sake.
“Humph!” His anger forgotten, Duncan watched Silverstein and the stranger make their way up the stairs. He’d been relieved to his marrow to find it wasn’t Silverstein’s wife he’d seen in the boat, but who is this? He followed, listening to their conversation.
Ah! So this is the new heir.
He glanced at her left hand and his heart nearly stopped. Why had he not been told? A young, unattached female hadn’t taken control of Blackstone in centuries. The last, a beautiful but viperous titian, had nearly been the end of him. But what if this one...
He scowled watching the woman’s lithe form lean prec
ariously to the left as she struggled to carry her heavy bag around the tight curves of the stairway. Why in hell hadn’t Silverstein offered to carry it for her? Had chivalry died with his generation?
Duncan stayed just steps behind her. He couldn’t have her toppling and dying of a broken neck before he could assess the possibilities.
When the woman made it to the fourth floor landing without mishap, he sighed in relief.
“This is the solar,” Silverstein told the woman as he stepped over the threshold, “the master bedroom of the castle. Our previous heir, Robert Sheffield, preferred less spacious quarters and slept in the east wing on the second floor.”
Duncan grunted at his solicitor’s blatant lie. He’d come into this very room shortly after Sheffield had arrived and found the bloody bastard trying to fondle the then ten-year-old Will Frasier’s jewels. Furious with Sheffield, Duncan had frightened the piss out of both his heir and the poor boy. His next inclination had been to pitch the old blighter headlong down the steps, but having accumulated enough blood on his hands for one lifetime, he’d contented himself with terrorizing Sheffield for the next two decades. The old fop hadn’t so much as dared look at another lad or venture above the second floor landing during the entirety of his residence.
“I hope you find it to your liking,” Silverstein continued. “’Tis quite extraordinary. The tapestries on either side of the bed were produced in the late seventeenth century by one of your predecessors, Lady Katherine Stewart MacDougall. The bed is original to the castle. ‘Tis over-sized because Duncan Angus MacDougall, the first Laird of Blackstone, was a huge man. Supposedly, he stood six and one half feet tall, much like Robert the Bruce.”
Duncan snorted. There was no supposedly about it. He did stand six and one-half feet tall and weighed seventeen stone, if anyone cared to know. And Tom knew better than to compare him to the Bruce. Hummph!
