He ran a hand through his hair and cast a sideways glance at Gibbie, half hoping his longtime friend would provide an answer to the riddle. But the ghost dog simply wagged his tail, clearly expecting another meaty beef rib. Knowing Gibbie would keep his unblinking canine stare pinned on him until he produced one, Bran did just that. He flicked his fingers to conjure a succulent bone, which he tossed to Gibbie before letting out a long, defeated sigh.
If only his cares could be so easily remedied.
But a great mystery was afoot and he didn’t have any answers.
Never before had a modern woman slipped into his world. He used all his skill and ghostly craft to keep MacNeil’s Tower as it’d been in his day. And just as he knew the tip of a sword from its hilt or a clump of heather from a thornbush, he’d damty sure know if he’d sifted himself into her time. But he hadn’t gone anywhere. The lass had appeared in his kitchens. Here at MacNeil’s Tower and on his own beloved Isle of Barra. And, this time, she’d done so without being swathed in a mysterious blue light. Somehow she’d breached the delicate veil that hid his realm from the living.
It was an action that struck terror into his heart. He stroked his beard and felt his pulse skitter, his gut tighten and twist. That her fresh and delicate lily-of-the-valley scent lingered in the air to taunt him only made it worse. But he was most especially alarmed because he was certain that she wasn’t just any American female.
She was the lass he’d seen twice now.
Bran swallowed hard, not at all pleased that his life, for want of a better word, had gone so disastrously awry. Yet there could be no doubt that Mindy Menlove was the vision maid shown to him by the Heartbreaker’s unholy magic.
And unless he’d lost his fine ear for accents, she hailed from that
Pen-seal
-where’er place that boded such ill for medieval Highlanders.
As a Hebridean Highlander—a braw and respected chieftain of the Isles—he would surely prove even more irresistible to such a female. There wasn’t a woman born who didn’t melt in the presence of an Islesman. He couldn’t imagine Mindy Menlove would prove immune.
Most especially with a name like Menlove, by all the tartaned saints!
Bran felt a chill sweep clear to his toes.
Dread seized him and it was all he could do not to hunch over, brace his hands on his knees, and gulp deep breaths of air to stop the roiling in his innards.
Not that anyone could fault him for such unmanly behavior.
He had ample reason for concern. After all, every one of his ghostly friends who’d had their heads turned by a modern woman had fallen under the spell of a lass of her ilk.
There’d been no exceptions.
Even now, after he’d managed to sift himself away from her, the Heartbreaker’s pommel stone still glowed with a soft blue light. And—he was loath to admit it—the crystal seemed to be grinning up at him, almost looking pleased.
Its blue shimmer danced over the kitchen’s thick, smoke-blackened walls and even reached into the corners and other dark places of the room, tinting the shadows and casting everything in a glittery, magical light.
Almost as if the fairies and no’ one mere American female had laid claim to his home.
Bran shuddered.
The gemstone’s luminance was a terrible confirmation of the maid’s significance.
Not that he’d deny her appeal. As a Highlander still possessed of the same heated red blood that had made him so lusty in life, he’d have to be blind not to have noted her charms. But he did allow himself the satisfaction of letting his brows snap together in a dark frown.
He could still see the wench before him. His sharp mind’s eye captured the cheeky tilt of her chin and her flashing blue eyes. He recalled how she’d tossed back her shining blond hair and then parted her lips ever so provocatively when he’d glared at her. Almost as if she’d expected him to sweep her into his arms and kiss her.
Bran snorted.
Truth was, he
had
almost kissed her.
He’d been tempted to do more.
“Odin’s balls!” He growled his favorite curse to the empty room.
He could feel her sweetly curved lips beneath his, knew exactly how her tongue would slide against his in a sinuous, silken tangle. He knew, too, how she’d press herself into him, letting her lush breasts rub against him as she slipped her arms around his neck and tunneled her fingers through his hair.
Bran’s mouth went dry and his hands itched to touch her again. He
had
touched her! And it’d been a great mistake because he could recall the smooth warmth of her skin, the gentle beat of her pulse. He imagined holding her wrist now, perhaps replacing his circling thumb with kisses.
Kisses and nuzzles that would lead to . . . Scowling fiercely, he broke off the thought before he drove himself to madness. Without doubt, there was something in the water in
Pen-seal-landia
that turned the womenfolk into sirens. They were living, breathing vixens that no man, alive or otherwise, could resist.
Now he, too, was in danger of being snared by one.
Trouble was, unlike his chiefly friends who’d thrilled to have such females fawn and gush all over them, he enjoyed being a ghost.
He didn’t want some American temptress whisking him into her day.
He—Bran of Barra, Hebridean chieftain of great acclaim—was a ghost by choice and with pride.
Yet it weakened his knees to think he couldn’t visit his kitchens in the small hours without having an American female materializing before his nose. Havers, but she’d startled him, ruining his night’s peace, and stealing his appetite.
Well, she hadn’t quite taken his appetite.
He
did
have a voracious one.
And he was still hungry, praise Thor and his thunder-bolts!
Beginning to feel better, he cocked his ear, pleased to note that the revelry in his hall remained loud and raucous. The kitchen’s thick stone walls blotted much of the noise, but he could still hear the wild skirl of pipes and the vigorous strains of a fiddle.
Just as the occasional hoot and whoop reached him, the joyous burst of female laughter, and—he grinned—the energetic stamp of dancing feet as his friends jigged and whirled to Highland reels.
It was good that they were enjoying themselves.
Bran’s grin widened and he rubbed his hands together, determined to do the same.
Only at the moment, his greatest desire wasn’t to join the carouse in his hall, but to eat. He might have devoured several fish-and-eel pies and even an entire platter of oysters before he’d sought his bed, but his stomach felt empty now.
Indeed, it rumbled as if he hadn’t eaten in days.
So he flexed his fingers and then wriggled them, using his ghostly magic to fill both his hands with perfectly roasted beef ribs, each one meaty, dripping with juices, and smelling delicious.
His mouth began to water.
Like Gibbie, he did love his beef ribs.
But before he could take the first bite, there was a screech and a crash somewhere above him. Bran scowled and sprinted for the kitchen’s torchlit entry, his beef ribs still clutched tightly in his hands. Unfortunately, the moment he gained the archway, Saor came thundering down the stair tower’s winding stone steps.
The two men collided.
Bran’s beef ribs went flying.
Gibbie and two of the other castle dogs came running. They leapt to catch the bones in the air before they could land on the stone- flagged floor. Only one beef rib escaped their snapping jaws and skittered into the shadows, leaving a trail of grease in its wake.
Bran stared after the disappearing rib and then whipped around to glare at his friend. “God’s bones, MacSwain!” Bran roared the words, not caring who heard. “Have you lost your wits?”
“I . . . ah . . . errr.” Saor shoved a shaky hand through his hair, glanced over his shoulder.
He’d gone white as a ghost.
Truth be told, he looked as though he’d seen one.
Bran stepped back and jammed his hands on his hips. His mood was now thoroughly ruined. “Have done—out with it.” He decided to speak plain. “You look like you’ve seen a bleeding ghost!”
Bran expected his friend to laugh.
Instead, Saor threw another glance behind him. When he turned back to Bran, he pulled a hand down over his face, knuckled his eyes. “It wasn’t me.” He leaned close, his voice low. “Did you no’ hear the cry and thud abovestairs just now? It was—”
“I heard, aye. But I thought it was you careening down yon steps.” Bran flashed a glance at the stair tower’s darkness. “Thought you hit your elbow or something and shrieked like a woman.”
“Would that I had.” Saor’s brows drew together. “But you almost have the way of it.”
“You stubbed a toe rather than smashing an elbow?” Bran couldn’t resist.
The look Saor gave him dashed his levity. “Nae, you loon. I meant the crash and the cry did come from a woman. It was Serafina. She saw three ghosts in the long gallery.”
Bran snorted. “Last I looked”—he thrust his arms out to the sides and pretended to examine them—“there isn’t anyone at MacNeil’s Tower who isn’t a bogle!”
He refused to tell Saor about Mindy Menlove.
She was his business alone.
So he feigned an expression of innocence and cleared his throat. “We’re often visited by newcomers to our realm. If I dare say it myself, we’re renowned for our hospitality. Thon three ghosties will have heard of our revelries and feasting and decided to drop in.”
“They weren’t just any ghosts. No’ like us, anyway. They were”—Saor craned his neck to peer at the nearest window arch as if he expected to see the three ghosts staring in at them—“well, see-through!”
“Humph!” Bran’s lips twitched. “Any one of us can appear that way if we wish. It’s one of the first intricacies of ghostdom to be mastered.”
“There’s more.” Saor sounded truly alarmed. “Serafina said they were MacNeil chieftains. But they weren’t any MacNeils she’d ever seen here before. She doubted they were of our own fourteenth century. In her well-traveled estimation, she believes they were haints of fifteenth- or even sixteenth-century ilk.”
“All the better.” Bran folded his arms and grinned. “If they’re MacNeil chieftains who lairded it after me, they can tell me how the clan fared after my, er . . . ah . . . demise.”
“Aye, and that’s what fashed Serafina.” Saor almost choked on the words. “She claims they were stomping up and down the long gallery, ranting and raving because the keep was no more. She said—”
“She misheard them.” Bran waved away such foolish prattle. “MacNeil’s Tower exists sure as the day is long. In this realm or in any other day, these stones still stand.”
He shot a glance at the window, reassured by the drizzly rain gusting past the stone- edged arch, the crash of the surf on the rocks beyond the castle walls.
“This tower will stand a thousand, even two thousand years. That I know!” He crossed his arms again, sure of it.
He just wasn’t going to tell his roguish, dazzle-every-woman-he-met friend how he knew.
It stood to reason that Mindy Menlove was an American tourist who’d been poking about the keep in her own day. Everyone knew such folk loved nothing better. The wench was no doubt one of the moony-eyed ones. The worst of the lot, who thought old castles and mist-hung hills were romantic. To be sure, she’d been snooping about, oohing and aahing, when some glitch in the veil between the times had allowed her to suddenly appear in his world.
That she’d done so was clear proof that his tower yet stood.
Bran’s chest swelled on the thought.
His heart squeezed.
He did love his home.
But he wasn’t going to get misty-eyed in front of Saor, so he flipped back his plaid in a most manly flourish and hooked his thumbs in his sword belt. “I’d like to speak with these three ghosties,” he announced. “If they are MacNeil chieftains, they deserve a proper Barra welcome.
“Go fetch them down to the hall.” Bran nodded, ending their discourse.
Saor didn’t budge. “That’s no’ possible. They’re gone.”
“Eh?” Some of Bran’s beneficence faded. “What do you mean, they’re gone?”
“They left in a huff.” Saor rubbed the back of his neck, looking miserable. “That’s why Serafina cried out and dropped the jug of scented oil she was carrying. She was offended because the three chieftains didn’t pay her any heed. Recognizing their worth, she said she smiled and started to invite them to the hall, but”—he paused dramatically—“they were arguing so heatedly amongst themselves that they told her to ‘stop batting her lashes at them and step out of their way, that they were about important business and had no time for her.’ ”
“No time for Serafina?” Bran could scarce believe it. Men had fought to the blood for an hour of the seductress’s attentions. “You are certain?”
Saor nodded. “Aye, that’s what they said, just. Then they scowled at her and vanished.”
“I see.” Bran tried hard to do so. “Perhaps the three ghosties weren’t here because of our warm fire and fine viands at all. Could be they were walking the long gallery in their own time and Serafina just happened upon them.” He nodded sagely. “I have heard and seen stranger things.”
Saor shrugged. “Could be,” he agreed. “I once stumbled across a prune-faced MacNeil widow woman in the undercroft. She, too, was of a different century than ours and”—he shuddered—“the glare she gave me made me full sorry I’d somehow sifted myself into her time.”
He rubbed his arms as if the memory had the power to give him chills. “Barra’s a fair place, but the layers betwixt the ages are thinner here than elsewhere.”
“Aye, ’tis all too easy for one like us to land where he shouldn’t!” Bran nodded again, aware that it was so.
