The Laird (3 page)

When Silverstein returned for her boating lesson, she’d request a different electrician. The job would take weeks--if not months—-to complete, and she couldn’t hold her tongue around this man for that long.

She walked down the stairs and into the bailey with him. Waving goodbye, she smiled benignly and warned, “Do be quick as you pass under the portcullis, Mr. MacBride...wouldn’t do to wake and find you skewered to the ground, now would it?”

~#~

Duncan had never heard a woman curse so much in his life--or death, come to think on it.

He’d followed Beth for most of the morning as she tore through his keep with the speed of a waterspout, tearing down window covers and poking into corners and cupboards like some crazed ferret. He paid close attention to what she found fascinating and to what offended her thin, aquiline nose. He had to concede she recognized craftsmanship when she found it. But the more dust, decay, and fractured furniture she found, the more colorful her language became.

Still rattled by her presence, he retreated to his solar and flopped down on his side—-the left side--of his great bed. In the wee hours of the night he’d come into his room and been relieved to discover she’d chosen the right side.

He’d settled next to her. Fingering a silky strand of her hair as she slept, he thought about the curse that had sent him into this place of neither life nor death. He again pondered the curse—-the prophecy--etched into his grave marker by that witch, the mother of his third wife. He’d been so relieved to find the carved words—-to learn there was hope--he’d memorized every letter.

Only by ain token trice blessed
...had to mean his wedding ring...
would one come to change ye fate
.

Could this mouse, this new heir, be
the one
spoken of? Was she strong enough? Had he simply made a dreadful mistake by trusting the last unattached woman? At least the titian had taught him a valued lesson; he’d never again let his weakness for flame-colored hair lead him by the balls. He still couldn’t believe he’d thought himself in love with the witch.

Well, he harbored no fear of repeating his mistake with this one. Miss Pudding was as plain as porridge. But she did have good skin. And a nice mouth.

She slept so soundly; with such stillness, in fact, he’d been forced to touch her twice during the night to be sure she still breathed. She’d grumbled briefly, but soon settled back into the deepest slumber he’d ever witnessed. Odd.

And
odd
didn’t begin to describe her morning ablutions.

He studied the parade of bottles and glossy black cases on the dresser a past descendant had added to the room. Never in his wildest dreams could he imagine going through all that Beth did of a morning.

He should have felt guilty watching her, but once she’d begun, he’d not been able to pull his disbelieving gaze away. No whole man could have.

She had bounced out of the bed with a smile and immediately stripped to her skin—-nice, smooth, milky white skin; so pale it made the rosy nipples of her small, high breasts and the chestnut thatch between her legs stand out in delightful contrast.

She then proceeded to use two of the bottles from her collection to wash her hair, another to wash her face, and yet another to clean her long limbs and lithe body. All in tepid water since she’d not taken the time last night to light the fires below. She then did the most amazing thing.

She ran a sharp, blue handled blade under her arms, over her smooth muscled legs and ever so carefully about the edges of her downy thatch. It had nearly been his undoing.

By the time he caught his breath, she had dried herself, and started to ever so slowly cover herself in a rich, vanilla- scented cream. Watching the seductive display
had
been his undoing. He’d forced himself from the room.

When curiosity again took the upper hand, he returned to find her standing before the mirror dressed in purple leggings and a thick matching sweater. Her wet, shoulder length hair had been pulled back into a loose knot at her nape. He’d crossed his arms and leaned on the doorframe wondering what she would do now.

For a brief moment she appeared a wee bit sad as she stared at her reflection, then she reached for yet another bottle. She went through four before she picked up one of the glossy black cases. Then the morning’s most bizarre event occurred. She began painting a portrait.

Like an artist, she wielded first broad brushes then fine, and using pigments—-both solid and liquid—-she re-created herself.

Having turned her ordinary gray eyes into rather appealing smoky pools, she surprised him by suddenly gasping. The tool that had made her lashes sooty hit the floor as she spun around facing him.

Startled, he watched as her gaze darted around the room. He, too, began looking about, expecting to find something sinister. Seeing nothing, he moved to her right and waited.

She shuddered for a brief moment, huffed, and faced the mirror once again. Her gaze continued to dart about the room on occasion as she painted her full lips a soft rose, but nothing further disturbed her.

She then left the solar to tear his home asunder.

~#~

Standing in the bailey, a hand shielding her eyes, Beth asked, “What do you think, Tom?”

She grinned at the glare bouncing off the first and second story windows. Her castle would definitely make an awesome bed and breakfast.

“Lovely. Ye’ll be blinding every seaman from here to the Isle of Mull by week’s end. Are ye sure, lass, ye dinna want any help? There are day workers aplenty. I could send one out to do this for ye.”

“Oh, I’m sure.” She didn’t want to be tripping over any more people than was absolutely necessary after making her monumental discovery this morning.

Her castle was haunted
.

Her new and decidedly friendlier electricians, Bart and Will Fraiser, would start work tomorrow morning and that would be disturbing enough.

She smiled at Tom. By mid-morning she knew, without a doubt, they were in need of a frank discussion if her living at Blackstone was to have any chance of success. “Why did you lie to me?”

Tom’s face flushed. “I’ll never lie to you, lass!”

“Ah, but you have--when I asked if Blackstone was haunted.”

“Nay. You asked if I’d
seen
a ghost and I answered truthfully. I’ve never.”

“I’ve seen him, Tom.”

At first, she’d only catch startling glimpses of him, like a mote floating in the corner of her eye. Heart thudding, she’d spin around...and find nothing. Finally realizing she only saw the tall, translucent creature if she happened to be looking in a mirror, she started watching for him in anything reflective. And did. She’d become quite good at focusing in on the specter as he hovered behind her, becoming more fascinated with his blue-black hair and beard, steel blue eyes, and heavily muscled physique with each consecutive sighting; hence, all her shiny windows. On those rare occasions when he stood very close, she’d also catch a whiff of cold, fetid air.

“Who is he?”

A concerned scowl suddenly replaced the flush of embarrassment on Tom’s face. “Has he done or said anything to frighten you, lass?”

“No. He’s only startled me a few times.” She wasn’t about to tell Tom she was quite certain her decidedly masculine ghost had watched her bathe yesterday. She felt embarrassed enough.

“Good.” Tom placed a hand at her waist and directed her to the patch of lawn surrounding Blackstone’s ancient well at the center of the bailey. “Come, have a seat in the sun. The telling of Duncan Angus MacDougall’s tale and mine will take some time.”

~#~

Duncan put down his heir’s peculiar lists--things she wanted to repair and purchase--and scowled out the great hall’s window to where his solicitor and Beth sat.

“What on earth can they be talking about for this long?”

They had nothing in common and certainly couldn’t be discussing him. ‘Twas forbidden until he’d made himself known to the heir, and he certainly wasn’t ready to do that. Not yet, anyway.

Being aware of his presence would, no doubt, send Miss Beth screaming back to America, which wouldn’t do, not at all. He had yet to test her mettle, didna know if she was
the one.
If he found her wanting—-and he suspected he might for she was so...
odd
, then she could stay or go as she pleased.

He again scanned the list entitled Order From Home. Murphy’s Oil Soap was self-explanatory, but what is Soft Scrub? Ah! That must be the cleanser she uses when bathing. He smiled, his mornings looking decidedly brighter. She wanted a case of it.

Reading the second sheet--B and B Provisions, his frown returned. She wanted ten sets of Egyptian cotton sheets and triple the number of towels, all in white. Seemed excessive, even for a woman who bathed daily. And why would she want one hundred bees’ wax candles, twenty down pillows, and five down comforters? They had electricity and used only one bed.

The woman was decidedly odd or a spendthrift, but he could depend on his solicitor. Silverstein would rein her in. Tommy had kept that fop, the previous heir, on a tight purse, allowing him only a minimal draw each month. What the man did with the money, Duncan never knew. Probably drank it away. The fop certainly hadn’t spent it on maintaining the keep.

Duncan looked out the window. Beth and Tom were finally standing. Thank God. She’d be coming in.

With no small measure of shock he realized his current agitation stemmed not from her lists but from feeling lonely. How odd.

~#~

“So you see, since 1395 when Duncan rescued my forbearers Isaac and Rachael from the villagers intent on torching them at the stake, we Silversteins have felt a moral obligation to serve Duncan, even in his ghostly form.

“Each generation has provided an executor, who functions exactly as Isaac did, to serve as a financial advisor to subsequent heirs, overseeing the estate’s limited assets so Blackstone won’t fall to complete ruin as so many castles about Scotland have. So long as there are Silversteins, the ghost will have his home. Our debt to him is enormous. Our line wouldn’t exist today—-I’d not have been born--had Duncan MacDougall not had a strong arm and the moral courage to save Isaac and Rachael.” His lips quirked to formed a lopsided grin. “And each generation has kept a journal of their trials in meeting that obligation.”

Beth sighed. “It’s hard to imagine sane, God-fearing villagers blaming a simple man and his pregnant wife for the plague.”

Tom shrugged. “They were strangers, Beth, Parisian Jews who spoke only broken English and no Gael. Isaac and Rachael couldn’t make themselves understood to the villagers. At the time, French was the language of the court, of the educated wealthy. And keep in mind, just fifty years earlier Europe’s population had been decimated; literally half the population had died from plague. Religious zealots abound. The Flagellants were walking about beating themselves with whips in the belief that if they punished themselves, God would spare them. Others blamed the Jews. When Isaac and Rachael’s arrival happened to coincided with what was thought to be another outbreak...” He raised his hands in a hopeless gesture.

“Well, I, for one, am very glad the MacDougall brought Rachael and Isaac to Drasmoor. I couldn’t manage without you.”

“Thank you, my lady.”

“I’m the one who should be thanking you.”

Dying to know more about her ghost, she asked, “Is there a chance I might read some of your journals?”

Tom grinned, but he shook his head. “Only a Silverstein may read them.”

Masking her disappointment, Beth said, “Speaking of Silversteins, how is your lovely wife?”

“Her back aches, her feet look like pillows, and she canna get out of bed without help. She’s not a happy woman.”

Beth laughed. “Well, give her my best.”

“Aye.” He buttoned his coat, readying to take his leave. “I’ll be bringing the ledger and checkbook to you on my next visit.”

She tried to hide her surprise at this major concession. Tom had been opposed to her handling anything but her maintenance funds—-a meager six hundred pounds per month—just a few days ago.

She grinned. “What changed your mind?”

“The windows, lass.” He chuckled. “And the fact that you’re not packed and on your way to the airport after seeing his querulous lordship.”

“Ah.” Pleased, she ducked her chin to hide the blush she felt creeping up her neck.

Tom didn’t need to know it would have taken a team of horses to drag her out of the keep now that she’d seen her frequently scowling but handsome specter.

Would it be possible for her to establish a companionship of sorts with her ghost? Duncan was, after all, dead, so she wouldn’t really be exposing her heart to another rejection if she tried to garner his attention and failed. Was it possible or just a flight of fancy? Could her ghost speak to her? Keep her company during long winter nights? And if so, what would it take to prompt him into it?

D
uncan found Beth in the kitchen, chattering like a squirrel into her telephone. Frowning, he rested an elbow on the roasting pit mantle.

“It’ll cost how much?” Beth asked the phone, heaving an exasperated sigh. “Then send only the catalogs by air. Ya. I’d kill to be on-line.” She rearranged the spice jars on the table. “Right now? What I miss most are you, Junior’s Cheesecake, and West Wing.”

He scowled in confusion. He could understand her missing a friend or cake, but how could she miss the west wing? ‘Twas one hundred feet long, three stories high and attached to the left side of the keep.

“Silverstein didn’t have a problem with my starting a B and B, but asked that I wait until after my six-month probation. Then I can do as I like.”

Duncan wondered once again what the two B’s stood for. As long as it didn’t stand for
bingeing
and
buggery
and made her happy, he supposed it didn’t matter. This would be her home after all. His and hers to share. Alone. Until--or rather, unless--he decided to take her.