The Laird
Authors: Sandy Blair
The Laird
~A Castle Blackstone Novel~
by
Sandy Blair
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
St. Regis Hotel
New York, New York
S
ince 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.”
Drasmoor, Scotland
Y
awning, 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 materializing 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.