She looked up, wondering if the castle really was open. Well before she'd left Nova Scotia she'd written to the National Trust, getting permission for an extended visit, with access to records for the castle. She shivered as she flipped through her notes, looking for something she might have overlooked. For a terrible moment she wondered if she had the dates wrong, if she was too early, or too late.
There was a noise in the background, a steady clanging, that interrupted her thoughts. She looked up, frowning. The yard was empty, no other cars or trucks parked anywhere. But the sound was persistent, and where there was noise, there should be people.
A path led away from the front door, through a gate in a wall, and around the corner. From here the clanging was louder, and she followed the intermittent sounds across the open space toward a series of low buildings.
One of the double doors was open and she hesitated on the threshold. It was dim inside, but a strange glow filled the space and the air smelled of iron and fire. Then it dawned on her; it was a blacksmith shop.
“Hello?” She raised her hand to knock on the door, but there was movement coming from the depths of the building, and she identified the source of the clanging.
A man stood at an anvil, rhythmically hammering a glowing piece of metal. She stepped inside the dark space, mesmerized by what she saw. The room smelled distinctive, for lack of any other word, and though she'd never actually smelled anything coal-fired, it occurred to her it was coming from the glowing furnace behind the man.
As best she could tell in the hot glow of the fire, he was tall, dark-haired, wearing a leather apron over a loose white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and a kilt. With each rhythmic blow of the hammer, the muscles of his arms tensed and rippled, shoulder muscles bunching under his shirt, as he pounded the glowing piece of iron, sparks flying into the dark. From where she stood, his face was in shadow as he bent in concentration over his work. She was too far away to see anything else clearly.
It was as though she'd stepped back in time, to a Scotland that existed when the castle was first built. The pounding, the heat; it was a distinctly masculine atmosphere, raw and powerful, and for a moment she was out of her depth, caught off guard. It felt as if the world had changed while she wasn't paying attention. She shifted in the doorway, her bag bumping against her hip, suddenly feeling heavy and uncomfortable. It felt as if she'd seen something she shouldn't have.
The hammer blows ceased, and the man straightened, scrutinizing the piece of glowing iron in his hand before shoving the iron into the coals.
At that moment the man turned, saw her, and froze. A flurry of emotions crossed his face, surprise, suspicion—and she thought illogically, a fleeting sense of recognition. He held her gaze for a moment, and then abruptly turned to the furnace, shoving the metal into the glowing coals. When he turned back to her, his face was composed, even closed. Not unfriendly, but guarded. The suspicion was gone, and so was the sense of recognition. But the sense of masculine power still surrounded him.
“Hey, sorry to bother you.” She advanced cautiously into the low-ceilinged space. The man had pulled off his gloves, but remained standing behind the anvil, hand resting on the surface. Maybe she'd just caught him by surprise. Or worse, he didn't speak English. And her Gaelic was non-existent. She cleared her throat, started over slowly.
“I'm Arianna Langer, from Canada. I wrote to the National...”
“Aye, Miss Langer. I ken who ye are.” His voice was deep, the Scottish accent rich, but his words clear. He stepped from behind the anvil, advancing toward her with powerful strides. The quickness with which he moved made her take a half step back. It didn't take much to imagine him working here when the castle was first built, shoeing horses, or fighting in a battle. He certainly looked strong enough for the work.
“Oh, good…” She mentally shook herself and managed a smile, extending her hand. “I'm happy to meet you...”
As he took her hand, he smiled. For a moment she was lost in the transformation. The guarded look left his face, his dark eyes glinted, and she belatedly realized he was disarmingly handsome, even through the haze of sooty dirt on his face. The hand that engulfed hers was calloused but warm, the grip firm.
“It's a pleasure to meet ye. I'm sorry for my manners. I get lost in my work sometimes. I'm Craig James.”
“It’s nice to meet you, too. You're the blacksmith here at Castle Nathair?”
The look he gave her was veiled, one eyebrow drawn down slightly. What line had she crossed? “Aye, ye could say that.”
“Oh. Well...” She was confused, not only by this inscrutable man, but by the whole experience so far. It wasn't what she expected, to find a locked door, and then to have to ferret out the blacksmith. She'd thought someone from the National Trust would be here, or someone from the family...she blinked at him in confusion.
He'd moved away toward the door and she followed him into the cool sunlight of the courtyard. In the light she studied his profile; dark hair pulled back, darker eyes, high cheekbones. If she had to guess, she'd put him close to her age, a little older, maybe in his early thirties. But he carried himself with a confidence and bearing that made him seem older. Maybe it was the fact he was wearing a kilt. It seemed to her any man who could carry off wearing a kilt had to have more confidence than most men.
“Ye’ll be wanting access to the library then?”
They crossed the inner courtyard to a wooden door at the back of the building. Arianna looked up at the stone wall rising against the morning sky. Far above them were narrow windows, and she tried to imagine what was behind those windows and walls, what secrets the castle held.
“Yes. I can set up and work from there. And the churchyard?”
“Aye. Through the gate.” Craig pointed to an ornate iron gate set in the wall.
“Did you make the gate?”
Craig shrugged. “Aye. I did.”
Despite the casual shrug, in those three simple words she heard a distinct note of pride.
“It's beautiful.” The gate was made up of delicate leaves and intricate scrolls. Beyond she could see grave markers, some simple stone plinths, others with elaborate carvings. All were in some state of decay, none of them contemporary.
Craig led her into a chilly kitchen, a smoky fire on the hearth, then up a tightly-coiled stairway. Narrow windows showed views over the misty gray-green countryside. It was stunningly beautiful and she wanted to linger, but he had disappeared through a small wooden door at the top of the stairs.
She stepped into a stone hallway. Craig had stopped in front of a door and she watched as he pulled a ring of keys from his belt. Choosing one he unlocked the door. Behind him was another door, and then the hall abruptly ended in a stone wall.
“The library.” He moved aside and she peered into the room. There hadn't been any photos of the library online. This part of the building was considered part of the private residence, along with the rooms the family might occupy, if they chose to live in the castle. Nathair hadn't been listed as having family in residence.
She dropped her bag on the table. The shelves were lined floor-to-ceiling with all kinds of books, from old leather-bound volumes and ledgers, to modern day paperbacks. It seemed to represent the life of the castle, from its origins to now. She turned back to Craig.
“This is amazing. Really. Thanks.” Excitedly she pulled a notebook out of her bag, flipping to the page where she'd written a list of documents and books she wanted to start with. She also took a few books from her bag, Doncaster’s on the top of the pile.
“You're welcome.”
She looked up. Craig leaned against the doorway in a shaft of sunlight. She drew a startled breath. For a minute she was struck by what looked an apparition from the past, a man who seemed larger than life, who filled the doorway not only with his physical presence, but with a strange charisma.
He held her gaze for a moment longer, then took a step closer. As in the forge, she resisted the urge to step ba
ck from him, from the sheer masculine power he exuded.
“Once you're settled, I'd be pleased to show ye the castle, the grounds...the graveyard.” He pointed to one of the narrow leaded windows. “You can see it from here.”
From the window she could see the small castle graveyard, enclosed in an ornate iron fence. He moved behind her, and she was aware of how close he stood, the warmth he radiated in the chill room, the sooty smell of the forge that clung to his clothes, and the scent of the man himself. For a moment she lost her train of thought, distracted by this strange man. Mentally she pulled herself back to her reason for being here.
“I'd like that. But I don't want to take you away from your work. If visitors show up...”
“There'll be no one. I have the time.”
She turned to look up at him, puzzled. “But the castle's open to the public, right?”
Craig shrugged, giving her a crooked grin. “The public doesn't come to Castle Cameron.”
Castle Cameron. No one's called it that since 1700s. But before she could get her question asked, he went on.
“There were no battles fought on the grounds, no lords died here. The design of the place is simple, ordinary.” He waved his hand toward the window. She saw the courtyard below, a tower and turret to the left marking one edge. It didn't look ordinary or simple to her; it looked complicated and intricate, and completely captivating.
“Nothing anyone cares about. Time has left this castle behind. It’s been forgotten.”
Craig stared out the window, and she had the distinct impression he preferred it to be that way, to be left behind, to be left alone.
“But if it's your job...to do demonstrations in the forge, won't you be missed?”
He turned and met her gaze, one eyebrow raised. “It's no my job, Miss Langer. It's my passion.”
Nothing he said made sense with what she'd read about the castle. But she wanted to see the castle, and maybe if she asked enough questions, she could piece things together. It was probably something simple, something lost in emails and faxes, in trans-Atlantic communications. It was a simple miscommunication. She pointed out the window.
“Can we start down there? I'd like to see the grave markers.”
“Aye. Then that's where we'll start.” He turned and she hurried to grab her notebook, and follow him down the twisting stairs.
Chapter Four
The small graveyard was overgrown, with a stronger feeling of neglect than the rest of the grounds. Craig pushed open the gate, which Arianna noticed, did not squeal on rusted hinges. It was in perfect working order.
She'd written down a list of people to look for, dates to check. The first on the list was Ross Cameron, the son of the man who'd built the castle. From what she'd gleaned from Professor Doncaster, the legend of Castle Nathair revolved around Ross Cameron. He'd been the Lord of the castle, but there was almost nothing documenting his life, other than his birth. And there was absolutely nothing documenting his death. It's as if he'd been born, and then, like magic, vanished.
But what was documented—if lore could be documented—was the legend of how the castle got its name: Castle Nathair...Castle of the Serpent. Somewhere in the late 1700s the castle went from its original name of simply Castle Cameron to being listed as Castle Nathair in local documents. The lore recalled sightings of a winged serpent, what many called a dragon, and those who lived in the area had avoided the castle, saying it had been enchanted, or cursed, depending on who was telling the story. But Craig had called it Castle Cameron. Why?
“Well, then Miss, I'll leave you to your work.”
She turned. Craig lingered by the gate, not following her into the yard. His hesitancy was palpable, his face clouded over, his eyes shadowed.
“It's beautiful here.”
She wanted to delve into her research, but she didn't want to be alone. More to the point, she didn't want Craig to leave. There was something about him, the way he stood, the cast of his face, that told her there was more to this man that she wanted to discover.
“Aye. It is lovely.” He took a hesitant step into the yard. “I don't come here often.”
She had the feeling in this case that meant never.
“Except to oil the gate.”
The smile he gave her caught her off guard. It was less like the sun coming out on a cloudy day than the moon coming from behind a swag of clouds, lighting the world with silver. What was behind this man, this enigma? What was going on in his head?
“I'm keeping you from your work, aren't I?”
“Aye, there's always work.” There was a moment where he wavered, body leaning toward her, feet firmly planted, and she thought he was going to take a step forward. But the clouds went across his face, and his smile faded. “And the forge is cooling. I'll come for you later, if you're interested, for lunch.”
Disappointment conflicted with excitement. She really did have her own work to do, and so did he. She sighed; patience wasn't always one of her virtues.
“Then lunch it is. I've brought my own, though...I don't expect you to feed me.”
He nodded, the smile returning briefly. “Aye, but there's always enough for two.”
Watching him walk across the courtyard and disappear into the blacksmith's building, she decided she'd ferret out as much as she could about Craig James while she was here, as well as the names on her list. He was just as much of a puzzle as the legend of the castle. And he had the benefit of being a living, breathing—and very attractive—man.
Opening her notebook and uncapping her pen, she scanned her notes, although she knew exactly what she wanted to look for, and where to start. The first name on her list was Ross Cameron. The nearest marker held a name not on her list, and she moved past it, walking slowly between the markers.
Finally, she found the one she was looking for, and it was a complete surprise. In her imagination she'd envisioned a tall marker, attesting to the stature of the man, the lord of the castle. But the marker was just a flat stone, carved with many, many names, including those of his parents. Ross Cameron's name was carved into the stone, with his date of birth, the 14th of May, 1742. But there was no date of death. Even though she knew that fact, being confronted with the hard evidence left her blinking in the thin sunshine.
Back in Nova Scotia, she'd done endless searches of every database she could think of, searching for Ross Cameron on ship's registers, anything and everywhere, including Revolutionary war records. He would have been the right age, if he'd immigrated, to fight in the New World. But again she came up empty handed.
She pushed aside a clump of grass and found the other name she'd been interested in. Beneath Cameron's, with no other title, was the name of a woman: Bridget Munro. She was born the same year as Cameron, and her date of death, the 28th of July, 1768. She would have been 24.
Arianna stopped writing; the woman had been her age. No matter how much research she did, it always brought her up short when she found a personal connection with someone from the past. They stopped being a flat, one-dimensional person, notations on a page, and suddenly came to life.
What had she been like, this Bridget Munro? And what was her connection to Cameron? There were no Munro's listed as ever living at the castle, or marrying into the family. She made a note to see if there was anything in the library that would shed light on this mystery woman.
There were more markers that caught her interest, and she diligently made notes on anyone and everyone who would have been a contemporary of Cameron. There were fewer markers in this yard than she'd expected, and almost none dated after 1768.
Had something happened that had caused not only the death of Bridget Munro, but of anyone else living here? If that were the case, then who had been living here all these years? Granted, the property was run-down, but she thought it should be in ruins if no one had lived here.
There were more puzzles than answers here, but that was part of the fun of this kind of work. She loved every minute of it, finding mys
teries embedded in mysteries, unraveling the tangled threads of people's lives.
“Miss Langer?”
She jumped, looking up from her perch beside the Cameron stone. Craig stood at the gate.
“Is it lunch time?”
“Aye, a bit past. Also, it’s going to rain.”
The sky above her was cloudy, the sun casting a pewter light over the land. “Oh, I hadn’t noticed. Thank you. And please, call me Arianna.”
“Aye.”
It wasn't clear if that was an agreement to call her by her first name, or not. He turned away, and she hurried to follow him into the kitchen.
A fire blazed on the hearth, driving the chill out of the room. The wooden table was set with simple plates, with a platter of thick slices of bread and cheese. A wonderful aroma rose from a blackened iron pot hanging over the fire. Craig motioned to the table, and he brought her a steaming bowl of stew. He sat across from her, dipping bread into the rich mixture.
“Rabbit stew.”
Her hand froze, spoon halfway to her lips. Rabbit…she’d never eaten rabbit. Rabbits were supposed to be pets. But she was hungry, and it smelled delicious. She took a tentative bite, closed her eyes, and then dove into the bowl with gusto.
“This is delicious. I think you have more than one passion in your life.”
Craig looked up from his bowl. He'd washed away the soot from his face, and his eyes looked even darker against his tawny skin. But his shirt was creased with dirt and sweat, the sleeves pushed up to show well-muscled forearms. For a minute her project was forgotten, and she indulged in a momentary fantasy of a fling with a mysterious Scotsman. She was far from home; he was incredibly handsome.
“Did you find what you were looking for out there?” He tipped his head toward the door. She brought her mind back to where she was, rather shocked at its departure.
Kiss Of Fire (BBW Dragon Shifter Paranormal Romance): Dragon Shifter Romance Page 2
