Mindy started. Her nerves were jangled and—heaven help her—her skin actually tingled from Bran of Barra’s neck nuzzle, the surprising softness of what she was sure had been his beard.
She knew her face was flaming. Smoothing her hair, she attempted a smile, hoping she didn’t look as if she’d just shared an up-close-and-personal moment with a ghost.
The other woman was hurrying forward, her pretty face flushed from the cold. Blessedly, she didn’t look at all suspicious. “Sorry,” she said again, smiling. “I had to find someone to take Innes back to her tea shop. She gets confused at times. Lord Basil was the husband of Ravenscraig’s former owner, the late Lady Warfield. Poor Innes often mistakes other men for him.
“But, anyway”—she reached Mindy, thrust out her hand—“I’m Mara MacDou—I mean Mara Douglas. Welcome to Ravenscraig.”
“Mindy Menlove.” Mindy took her hand, not missing that she’d almost called herself MacDou-something.
A Scotophile!
No wonder she ended up living in a Scottish castle and married to a man Margo would call a hot Scot.
But she did seem nice.
And like Margo, she looked as if she belonged in a glossy English country home-and-style magazine. She had on a short tweed skirt Margo would kill for and a silky-light, elbow-length sweater of palest blue. She’d slung an expensive-looking cardigan in the same shade around her shoulders, adding a dash of Euro chic. Her low-heeled beige shoes looked Continental, too. Most likely, they were Italian.
She gave Mindy an open smile, her greeting warm and genuine. “If you’ll come this way”—she indicated an open door near the foot of the sweeping staircase—“I’ll see you signed in and settled. I’m sure you would’ve enjoyed one of the village cottages, but we’re full up with two coach tour buses of Canadian Camerons.
“We’ve given you the Havbredey suite in the Victorian Lodge’s Coach House.” She glanced over her shoulder as she led the way to the reception. “I don’t think you’ll be disappointed. The Havbredey is—”
“Havbredey?”
Mindy blinked. For some reason the name made her pulse quicken.
“It was Old Norse for the Hebrides,” Lady Mara informed her. “The name means ‘Isles on the Edge of the Sea.’ It’s a quite apt description.” She lifted a friendly brow. “You wouldn’t happen to be going there, would you?”
“To the Hebrides?” Mindy nearly choked. “No,” she lied, sure the woman could tell. “I’m here on business and won’t be staying long.”
She wasn’t about to say more.
If she did, she feared the whole story—including Bran of Barra and the Long Gallery Threesome—would tumble out. Especially if she admitted she was headed to the Isles. Jet-lagged as she was, she might even babble Hunter’s role in the tale.
Mindy shuddered, just imagining.
Mara Douglas seemed down-to-earth. Not the kind of woman who would have fallen for Hunter-the-jerk and his seat belt ploy. Mindy didn’t want her to think she was one of those mad-for-plaid Americans who lost their heads—and likely a lot more—at the first flash of a kilt.
Nor did she want to sound crazy if she mentioned the Folly and its ghosts.
“A shame you won’t be here long.” Lady Mara showed her to a tartan- covered desk chair, handed her a check-in form. “You see . . .” She gave Mindy a curious look. “There were one or two other coach- house suites available, but something just told me the Havbredey was for you.”
Mindy had to bite her tongue to keep from asking for one of the other rooms. “I’m sure I’ll love it,” she fibbed again.
A room called
the Hebrides
—regardless of the language—gave her the willies.
It reminded her too much of why she was here.
Not to mention
him
.
Bran of Barra.
The ghost whose mere neck nuzzle had made her tingle clear to her toes.
“Are you all right?” Lady Mara was eyeing her strangely. “You look a bit peaked.”
“I’m just exhausted from the trip.” Mindy finished scribbling her name and address on the hotel form. “Was the auburn-haired man in the great hall your husband?” She stood, grasping at anything to change the subject. “I heard you were from Philly and married a—” She broke off, reddening.
“A Highland chieftain?” Lady Mara didn’t look offended at all. Far from it, her eyes sparkled with amusement. “It’s every Scotophile’s dream, isn’t it? Getting swept off your feet by a braw Scottish warrior.” She laughed. “Thing is, even though I was born a MacDougall and my father has to be the greatest genealogy buff on the planet, I never had any desire to come here.
“I was in the travel industry and ran tours to England.” She reached to adjust the cardigan around her shoulders. “I lived and breathed to be in London. Harrods Food Court, shopping at Liberty’s, or a stroll through Hyde Park could keep me on an adrenaline rush for days.” She shook her head as if remembering. “Oh, yeah, I was a die-hard Anglophile. I even started my tour business just to spend time there on the cheap.”
Mindy stared at her, disbelieving. “I was a flight attendant. In fact, I’ll be going back to flying after this trip.”
“Will you, now?” Mara MacDougall Douglas suddenly sounded very Scottish.
But then she shrugged lightly, her eyes twinkling again. “Perhaps it’s a good thing you won’t be around for our upcoming Ancestral Ball. Some of Alex’s friends can be quite charming. You saw one of them with him in the great hall. But he’s out of the running. He’s married and lives up in Sutherland, where he and his wife help run Dunroamin Castle, a residential care home that’s in her family.
“She, too, came here on business, meaning to just stay a summer.” Lady Mara glanced at her fingernails, a smile tugging at her lips. “But then—”
A soft rap at the door interrupted her. Mindy glanced around to see a strapping young Highlander in a kilt hovering on the threshold. Light from one of the office’s wall sconces gleamed on his hair, showing it to be an even brighter red than Lady Mara’s.
“Murdoch said a new guest had arrived for the Havbredey.” His soft Highland voice was friendly. “He sent me to take her there. I’ve already seen to her car and luggage. And”—he glanced at Mindy—“I’ve laid a fire in the suite’s lounge and set out a welcome dram.”
“Excellent, Malcolm.” Lady Mara nodded. “Be sure to take her through the village on the way.” She smiled as she handed Mindy a key. “One Cairn Village might be our own modern incarnation of Auld Scotland, but we like to think it holds some Highland magic.
“Celtic whimsy and all that, you know?” She winked. “I think you’ll like it.”
“I’m sure I will,” Mindy lied for the third time since meeting Mara MacDougall Douglas.
Worse than that, as she followed kilt-wearing, rosy-cheeked Malcolm out of the reception and back down the castle’s entry passage toward the door, she had the strangest feeling that if she set foot in the mock Highland village, she’d never see America again.
The hairs had lifted on her nape when she’d driven past the turnoff to the village. Even then, safely inside her car, she’d felt the place’s power. It might have been the darkness of the woods or the lingering drifts of mist that curled through the trees.
She knew odd things were said to happen in Scotland.
And if she considered her own Scottish track record, she might be heading for trouble.
In fact, now she was certain of it.
Chapter 6
“Aye, well, that’s you, all set.” Malcolm stepped out the door of the Havbredey suite, but didn’t yet descend the stone steps that led down the side of Ravenscraig’s Victorian Coach House. Instead, he hovered on the landing, clearly meaning to be helpful.
He peered up at the night sky, where the moon was just sailing out from behind dark, fast-moving clouds. “The weather will be turning before an hour, true as I’m standing here. Are you sure you’ll no’ be wanting me to fetch you for tea after you’ve had a chance to freshen up?
“You’d get drenched if you tried to walk back to the castle or even the village once the rain starts.” He hunched his shoulders against the quickening wind, flashed another glance at the clouds. “There’s a full buffet in the castle dining room or”—his chest seemed to swell—“a fine Highlander’s tea served at the back o’ Innes’s shop. She does a wicked tuna sandwich on homemade bread, served with her own soup, chicken vegetable today. Or you can have fish-and-chips, the best this side of Oban.”
Mindy forced a smile and shook her head. “I’m fine, thank you. All I want is to sleep.”
“You’re sure?” He arched a ginger-colored brow, looking concerned.
“Absolutely.” Mindy let her smile brighten and started inching shut the door. She didn’t want to seem unappreciative, but she was getting very close to telling him that what she really needed was an aspirin.
Or several.
She’d worry about food later.
After she’d put Ravenscraig Castle behind her. The place was too eerie and too old, and had too many men who could be medieval crowding its ancient walls. Not to mention that
he
was here.
No way had she imagined Bran of Barra.
The rough-and-ready Hebridean chieftain wasn’t the kind of man a woman overlooked. Ghost or not, he was the type who strode into every room with a flourish, drawing eyes and making the space his own. Resplendent in his kilt and with a proud jut to his chin, he’d attract female notice at a hundred paces, regardless of the dimension.
Mindy’s brow knit. He
had
been in the great hall. And he’d definitely been in the foyer with her, invisible or not. She still sizzled from the encounter, drat it!
Even now, she could hear his husky voice at her ear, feel his breath teasing across her skin and his firm jaw moving ever so softly against her neck, making her shiver and reminding her she’d always been drawn to big, strong men with gentle hands. Such men could melt her in quick time.
Mindy released a slow, trembling breath. It wasn’t in her best interest to think about how easily Bran of Barra could seduce her if he wrapped his powerful arms around her, pulled her close against his huge, muscle-packed body.
Or what would happen if he kissed her.
For now, she’d put him from her mind and just be glad that Malcolm had finally turned and thumped back down the steps, leaving her alone. Not that he wasn’t a nice young man, courteous to a fault and, without doubt, dedicated to the castle hotel.
He was.
But genial or not, his tour of One Cairn Village had quainted her out.
And his long, detailed history of the MacDougalls, the original builders of the castle, had given her a raging headache. He’d taken her through the centuries, clear back to the days of Robert the Bruce!
Images flashed through Mindy’s mind. She could almost see Scotland’s warrior king thundering into the mock village, riding a great black steed. Men would cheer and rush to surround him, each one eager to join his army. The women would vie for his attention, pushing and shoving to thrust themselves to the fore, then swooning if he glanced their way.
Margo—if she’d been there—would have climaxed on the spot.
Mindy smiled, sure of it.
Her sister could get more excited about Robert Bruce than some women did over Hollywood heartthrobs. And yet
she
had gone all tingly when a ghost had rubbed his seven-hundred-year-old beard against her neck!
Mindy frowned again and yanked off her heavy waxed jacket, tossing it onto a chair.
It had to be the jet lag.
She’d been up well over twenty-four hours now. Sleep deprivation did weird things to people. Not to mention crossing five time zones and . . .
Landing in a place where even the American owner spoke of Highland magic!
She shuddered and rubbed her arms, suddenly cold.
Not that anyone could blame her.
Walking through One Cairn Village in the misty gray of evening and with the village’s cluster of thatched, whitewashed cottages had felt like slipping into the pages of a history book. Though she doubted a real fourteenth-century village would have been so neat and tidy. One Cairn Village’s cottages had each winked with a pretty bright blue door and candles had flickered in the windows, though Malcolm had told her they weren’t real. They were electric lights made to look like candles.
But the late-autumn flowers and heather that bloomed everywhere, decorating door stoops and edging the footpaths that curved through the village, were real. As was the large memorial cairn with its tall Celtic cross at the very center of the village.
Dedicated to long-ago MacDougalls, or so Malcolm had claimed, the cairn and its ancient-looking cross had given her the chills. As had the thin blue threads of peat smoke rising from the low chimney stacks of the cottages. The smoke seemed to hang in the air, giving the village an earthy-rich, old-timey smell.
Too bad she was done with old-timey.
One Cairn Village’s Celtic whimsy existed, no doubt.
It just wasn’t her cuppa.
Unfortunately, she was stunned to find that the Havbredey suite was. Airy and light, it was nothing like she’d expected, proving to be one great open space. Highly polished hardwood floors with a scattering of cream-colored woolen rugs struck an inviting note, while the pine furnishings went well with the plain walls. Floor-length curtains in the same off-white shade as the rugs framed a tall window near the hearth, where a comfortable-looking tartan sofa was drawn up to catch the fire’s warmth. A flight of narrow pine stairs at the back of the room led up to a small loft bedroom.
The bathroom, also upstairs, was a hedonist’s dream. All honey-gold marble with black accents, it offered a corner whirlpool bath and a separate glass-enclosed shower, and was crammed with an amazing assortment of the finest bath oils, soaps, and scented lotions.
