He’d used so much of his strength to bring her here.
It could take days—maybe even weeks—before he could summon enough power to set things right if she was indeed gone from him.
He’d left her only to visit the jakes.
To think such a simple need, sought in the middle of the night, might have cost him so much.
It was beyond bearing.
“Skirt of the Valkyries!” He snatched his clothes off the rush-strewn floor, still fragrant with meadowsweet and petals of roses. Cursing, he pulled on his shirt, threw his plaid around his shoulders.
Mindy couldn’t have returned to her world.
Not without him sending her there.
His long years of ghostdom had taught him that.
He’d brought her here and she’d come willingly. That being the way of it, she couldn’t have left without him granting her leave to do so. And—he could have laughed if the truth didn’t pain him—he certainly hadn’t sent her away.
He burned for her!
His head was breaking in two.
Scowling, he scrubbed a hand over his face, doing his best to ignore the pain. Though he did grind his teeth and clench his fists as he glared again around his bedchamber, searching for clues.
A reason she’d left him.
He found none.
Only red-hot memories of the night they’d shared. Each one crashed over him, stealing his breath and haunting him. He could taste the scent of her on the back of his tongue. His hands were branded with the feel of her, every curve and dip of her sleek, smooth skin a forever imprint he knew would never leave him. Their love had been poignant and sweet, blessed by the Heartbreaker. And, he knew, desired by the Auld Ones. They shared a love that had been divined before either of them had ever drawn their first breath.
Even so, their love hadn’t been a mere whim of the gods.
As was the way of such things, they’d had the choice to seek and acknowledge their bond.
Now that they had, he knew he couldn’t exist without her.
There could be no reason for her to have vanished without even saying good-bye. Unless someone in his household had confronted her, filling her with nonsense and lies. Sending her on her way before he’d wakened. He wouldn’t have believed it. Not even of Serafina. But he could think of nothing else that would explain why his bed loomed empty.
He’d expected to greet the morn with Mindy in his arms.
Instead, he stood alone in the cold gray of morning, frowning at his mussed bed. Temper rising, he balled his right hand and then pulled back his fist, slamming it into his left palm.
The pain was sharp and blinding.
He was, after all, a strong, hot-blooded man.
If need be, he’d punch holes in the fine, lime-washed walls of his silent bedchamber. He’d haul each member of his household, kinsman or friend, into his thinking room and question everyone until they broke with the truth.
In the worst case, he’d sift himself to Barra of the moderns and fetch her. And—the possibility gutted him—if she’d already hied herself back to Bucks County, he’d take himself there.
He would do anything to get her back.
They’d slept together so sweetly. They’d
lain
together in ways he’d never shared with another woman. After their loving, he’d held her, pulling her into his arms, knowing they could sort the complications of their differing times on the morrow, after the rising of the sun.
He’d never dreamed the new day would bring him sorrow.
He paced around his bedchamber, his brow creasing more deeply with every step. Gray light was beginning to seep into the room. Below his tower, he could hear the waves washing over the rocks, the morning wind beginning to rise.
And, he noted with annoyance, the embers of the night’s fire no longer even glowed. The messy pile of wood ash on the hearthstone didn’t even glimmer. Like Mindy herself, their night together was turning into a fast-fading memory.
Only he didn’t want it to!
“What can I do?” He growled the words to no one.
His gut twisted and he wheeled around to glare again at his empty bed. Scene of such happiness and wonder just a short time before, not that it mattered now. Soon, he would have to go belowstairs and confront his men. One of them would know something.
But, for now, he wasn’t ready to face anyone.
The shock and pain were still too great.
“Serafina had naught to do with it.”
Saor’s deep voice came from the door. Bran could have flown at him and strangled the lout. Instead, he pulled in a tight breath, trying for control. He didn’t want to glower at a man who surely meant well.
Even if hearing Serafina’s name grated on his last nerve.
“You’ll have good reason to defend her?” Bran eyed his friend across the room.
He wasn’t surprised when Saor’s face colored. “You know I am fond of her.” He came forward, hands spread. “She was with me the night through, Bran. I swear to you, whatever you might think of her, she did your American no harm.”
“Then where is she?” Bran knew Saor would understand whom he meant.
Truth was, Mindy’s name—her presence—hung in the air, tangible and vibrant, as if she had only just slipped from the room and would return any moment.
Bran knew she wouldn’t.
He leaned against the window arch, welcoming the chill air pouring in through the open shutters. He needed the fresh, brisk air to think.
But no answers came to him.
Even Saor was silent, his most-times snapping, laughing eyes more solemn than Bran had ever seen them. “At least, the infernal building din has lessened,” Saor observed, crossing the room to pour a measure of morning ale.
“For a while”—he lifted the cup to his lips, draining it—“I was sure that everyone with ears, or even desirous of a good night’s sleep, would show us their back.
“It truly has been intolerable.” Saor set down the cup, wiping his mouth. “Let us be glad that chaos seems to be behind us.”
“I hadn’t noticed.” Bran folded his arms.
He wasn’t in the mood to be good-spirited about anything.
Not even the cessation of the restoration havoc.
“Och, come.” Saor strode over to him, gripping his elbow. “You cannae hide yourself up here all morning. Folk are talking in the hall, wondering what ails you. Your American isn’t lost.” He gave Bran’s arm a shake. “I say she’s just slipped away to tend urgent business—”
“Humph.” Bran glared at him.
“And”—Saor ignored both glare and snort—“she’ll be all the more glad to run into your arms when you sift yourself back to her.”
“Think you it’s that simple?” Bran went to stand at a window, staring out at the cold, gray morning.
He clamped his mouth shut, refusing to say more. If the gods were kind, they’d take heart and encourage Saor to leave him be.
“I think . . .” Saor let the words trail off and—praise the saints—left him alone.
When his departing footsteps faded away, Bran lifted a hand to rub his shoulder. A terrible, crushing weight sat there and all Saor’s good words and encouragement hadn’t done a thing to help rid him of its burden.
His friend meant well, but he didn’t understand.
It’d taken Bran days and fiercest concentration to hold his world together tightly enough that Mindy could join him here, albeit quite briefly.
Even so, he’d done the best ghost magic he’d ever managed in all his centuries, and—his heart dropped like a stone to admit such a scalding truth—Mindy should have been able to stay with him much longer.
At least until his honor told him it was time to return her.
Unless she left by choice.
Either way, he knew that he wouldn’t be able to go to her now. And that knowledge gutted him. Hadn’t he told her that nothing would keep him from her?
He’d said the words with a grin and so much swagger.
His heart had swelled and he’d been so proud. He’d been able to speak such words because they’d been true.
Yet now . . .
Something wasn’t right.
He could feel the difference in the air, though he didn’t know what it was.
Bran slumped against the side of the window arch. He did know that the rocks below his tower and the whitecapped waves were looking more blurry by the moment. Even the sharp, gray edge of the horizon was no longer distinguishable. He couldn’t tell where the sea ended and the sky began.
And when he turned away from the fool window, he found that he couldn’t see his room very well, either.
His eyes stung too badly.
“Damn it all!” A painful tightness squeezed his chest, pulsing and burning until he could hardly breathe. When a tear rolled down his cheek, he balled his fist and almost slammed it into the wall.
Instead, he sank to his knees and buried his face in his hands.
But when familiar footsteps announced a certain long-nosed, flat-footed gowk’s return, Bran leapt to his feet and brushed at his plaid.
Broken or no’, he
was
Barra. And no one, not even his best friend, was going to see him in such a state. So he grabbed a linen napkin off the table, then blew his nose as discreetly as possible. He was standing at his window again, hands clasped casually behind his back, when Saor strode into the bedchamber.
“I spoke with everyone in the hall.” Saor joined him at the window. “No one has seen the lass. Nor does anyone have an idea as to where—”
“Word does spread like a fire in the heather, what?” Bran shot him a glare.
“I thought you’d want me to question them?”
“What I want—” Bran couldn’t finish.
If he’d blurted how much he loved Mindy and needed her,
ached
for her, Saor’s face would have filled with pity. And he didn’t want to suffer his friend’s sympathy.
He wanted Mindy.
“Is there naught I can do for you?” Saor was looking at him oddly.
Bran set his jaw, trying to appear resolute rather than crumbled. “Nae. I require nothing.”
“As you wish.” Saor eyed him a few moments longer than necessary, then walked from the room.
Suddenly, Bran desired to be elsewhere, too. His bedchamber held lingering traces of Mindy’s scent. And although he’d pulled the bed-curtains to hide the mussed and tangled sheets, he knew they were there.
He’d probably never sleep in his bed again.
Could be, he’d avoid the room entirely.
And just now he needed air. A brisk turn about the bailey, or two or three, followed by an hour or so of vigorous sword practice should help banish the god-awful ache in his chest.
He hoped so, anyway.
If need be, he’d go down into the keep’s vaulted basement and spend the day shoving heavy wine barrels from one end of the storage rooms to the other.
He’d do whatever it took until he could at least walk again without feeling like an auld done man.
A pity he couldn’t address the sorrow in his heart as easily. Wishing he could, he started for the door.
“Come, Gibbie.” He glanced at his dog, clicking his fingers.
Gibbie was sprawled, snoring quite loudly, on his tartan-covered bed before the fire. But now he cracked one eye and peered at his master.
“Come, laddie.” Bran waited on the threshold. “I’m for the bailey, I am.”
Understanding
bailey
, Gibbie found it worth his while to abandon the comfort of his bed. Leaping up, he bounded across the room, making for his favorite exit from the bedchamber. It was a small section of wall near the door that, unlike the other walls, wasn’t covered by a tapestry.
But instead of flitting through the wall, Gibbie stopped before it, barking.
Bran stepped into the corridor, waiting.
When Gibbie didn’t join him, he folded his arms. He should have known even his most faithful friend would make this morn difficult for him.
“Gibbie, come!” Bran was growing impatient.
Gibbie started to whine.
“Odin’s balls!” Bran strode back into the room.
Then he stared, puzzled. His jaw slipped.
His great beast of a dog stood trembling in front of the wall. Bran rubbed his beard, not knowing what to do. Gibbie wasn’t a shivery, whimpering lapdog.
Yet . . .
There the dog was, cowering.
Bran frowned and went to the table across the room. It still held the remains of last night’s victuals. He snatched a bit of cheese.
He tossed the cheese at the dog’s spot in the wall, knowing Gibbie would chase after it. Then they could be on their way to the bailey.
But the cheese didn’t pass through the wall.
It bounced off and dropped to the floor.
Gibbie barked like mad. He didn’t even touch the cheese.
Bran stared, disbelieving.
Then, like his dog, he began to shake.
There could be only one reason the cheese didn’t go through the bedchamber wall.
The wall was solid.
But that couldn’t be. Not in Bran’s own ghostly realm, where, thanks to his strength of will and experience, everything appeared real yet, in truth, was as insubstantial as Highland mist.
Bran felt a sickening dread in his stomach. He crossed the room and dropped to one knee beside Gibbie. Then, still trembling as badly as his dog, he reached to press the flat of his hand against the wall.
His hand didn’t go through.
His palm and fingers remained splayed against cold, hard stone.
“Dear God in heaven!” Bran stared at his hand, tears blurring his vision. His entire body shook and blood roared in his ears.
Gibbie was suddenly beside him, licking his face. Bran scarce noticed, though he did sling an arm around the dog and draw him close.
