Chapter 3
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.
She giggled. “Of course you’re invited. Do you think you can get time off at Christmas?” She listened, looking pensive. “Oh. Then I’ll look forward to seeing you in June.” As she said goodbye, her eyes grew glassy, reflecting the lamp’s light like liquid pewter.
Humph! She shouldn’t use the bloody telephone if it made her forlorn. If it continued to cause her distress, he’d do them both a favor and misplace the damn thing. The piping tune it played whenever it wanted her attention was annoying as hell, anyway.
She brushed at a tear and pocketed the telephone.
“Onward and upward,” Beth muttered.
He eyed her warily.
#
In a dusty storage room, Beth smiled as she ran a careful hand over the small icon-like portrait she’d unearthed. “It’s about time.”
Centuries of grime and mildew coated the painted wood in her hands, but she felt sure she’d found what she’d been looking for, her ghost’s portrait.
Clutching it to her chest, she pushed back through the mountain of antique furnishings she’d piled behind her in her quest to find his likeness. Outside the storage room, she reexamined the other canvases she’d set aside, beautiful portraits and landscapes that would add interest to the keep’s great hall. After a bath, she’d research their dates against the forty-odd journals she’d found in the library. It would be fun discovering who the individuals were. Hopefully, she could learn enough in the next six months to dazzle her guests with stories seeped in love, gallantry, and mayhem.
Sighing, she held her specter’s portrait at arm’s length to study the deep blue eyes and heavy beard. “Is your chin square, dear ghost, under all the black fuzz?” She hoped so.
Because he always appeared dressed in a swatch of tartan, a sleeveless furred tunic and a wide leather belt whenever she spied him hovering behind her, she knew Duncan had shoulders and arms that could make any woman swoon. Her ghost’s legs were equally attractive if one was into heavily muscled thighs and long powerful calves. She sighed, an unprotected corner of her heart wishing he were flesh and blood.
#
“Good riddance,” Duncan grumbled as the electricians scrambled into their launch and headed for Drasmoor. To escape their clamoring, he’d spent the better part of the day bored out of his mind on the keep’s parapet.
Beth had evidently found the men equally disturbing since she’d spent the afternoon churning earth along the bailey’s east wall. Wondering what she was up to now, he entered the keep.
“Where in hell did she find that? ” He frowned at the small portrait leaning against the solar’s hearth. He had ordered the ugly rendering burned before its pigments had dried.
Beth had any number of better paintings to choose from if she wanted to brighten the room. Why on earth had she chosen his portrait?
As artists went, his cousin would have made a fine butcher. The portrait only proved what Duncan had known all along. The youth’s only talent lay in wielding a sword. Yet, here the ugly portrait was again after six hundred years. His ferret heir would be the death of him, if he weren’t already dead.
And where was she?
He prowled the upper floors looking for her without success, and then descended to the hall. He didn’t find her in the great room, but saw that two of his favorite chairs were suddenly there. Apparently, she’d found the fop’s reclining throne as offensive as he had and banished it. He caressed the recently oiled rosewood falcons at rest on the chairs’ high backs.
He’d brought the chairs to Blackstone from Normandy; one of the few prizes he’d been able to salvage after the battle of Rouin. The leather seats were now cracked and brittle, but ‘twas good to see them again in the great hall, nonetheless.
Minutes later, he found Beth sitting before the cistern-fed water heater, filthy and looking dejected, a pile of spent matches at her side.
He examined the firebox. She’d put in enough kindling, but she’d stacked the bricks of coal like a meticulous mason, eliminating any chance for a draft. She was down to her last match and muttering.
She struck the match, watched the kindling flare, and then just as quickly snuff out. She kicked the firebox door closed.
Tears welling in her eyes, she shouted, “I can’t live like this!” She stalked away. “I don’t care if I starve, I’m ordering a real water heater tomorrow.”
Her kick caused her carefully laid coal to shift, and Duncan quickly fanned the dying embers. When the kindling ignited with a whoosh, he thumped the tank and caught her attention.
Beth bent and examined the scarlet glow. She then straightened and looked about. Brushing way her tears, she tipped her chin and twitched her nose like a fox on the hunt. When she muttered, “Thank you. That was very nice of you,” his knees buckled.
#
Waiting for her bathwater to heat, Beth curled in one of the deep falcon chairs and opened her greatest find of the day, the third volume of the Blackstone Diaries.
The original diary, bound in wood and written on the frailest parchment she’d ever seen, had been written in Latin and in her ghost’s own hand. Had she been able to translate the fading broad script, she still would have hesitated, fearing she’d destroy the volume by simply turning the pages.
The second volume, a translation written in 1640, was nearly as delicate. Scanning the first page she’d cursed. Only someone comfortable with Shakespeare could have readily understood it.
She smiled opening the third volume. In legible English she read, The Diary of Duncan Angus MacDougall, translation by Miles Bolton MacDougall, 1860.
She carefully opened this volume to the twelfth page. So far she’d learned Duncan, a knight who’d earned his spurs at the age of fourteen, had returned to Drasmoor after fighting in France to find his father and brothers dead along with half the clan, and himself now laird. He was awaiting the birth of his first child, angry about a neighboring clan’s recent raid on his kine—-which she took to mean cattle—and worried about another outbreak of the Black Death recently reported in Edinburgh.
The mason guides, cajoles, and shouts. All, hands bleeding, labor day and night, yet I fear ‘tis not fast enough. Surely, if Pope Clement the V could survive the ravages of the ungodly plague by walling his portly self into his chambers as all around him perished, then so shall we on this isle. I pray Blackstone’s walls complete before the scourge finds us again.
Quarantine. That’s why he built this massive structure out here in the middle of the harbor instead of on the high hills surrounding Drasmoor. My word. She turned the page.
‘ Tis laid, the walls’ last stone. Work on the keep continues as women hoard food and water. My Mary’s birthing time draws near, yet she falters not. I have pleaded, begged her return to her father’s stronghold, but to no avail. She loathes his second wife and will not leave. The reeving has subsided after we repossessed our ten kine and six of the Bruce’s as payment for the aggravation he caused me. Death continues its march toward us.
For ten consecutive pages Duncan detailed their progress, his worries shifting like flotsam from men’s injuries to the weather, to his dwindling coffers, to his wife. Daily notations soon changed to weekly, each more worrisome than the last.
On the twenty-second page she read, God has turned his face from me. Three days past, I dug into the frozen earth to lay Mary to rest, our babe in her arms. Like her name namesake, she bore our son in a manger for we have little else for shelter since the keep is only four walls and the Black Death has taken up refuge in the village just south of us. I weep for the lass for she was brave, uttering nary a word. I have yet to inform the Campbell. He will not take well the death of his beloved daughter and with her, the bairn. Well he should blame me. For had I not listened to her pleadings, had I sent her to him (to Dunstaffnage Castle) she and our son might be alive today. Come spring, I will build Blackstone’s chapel above her. It grieves me I have not the means to ease her way to heaven with a Papal Bull, but when able I will praise her selfless devotion as wife with a bronze effigy. I loved her not, nor her I, but I grieve. For the babe and her good soul.
Beth’s cell phone rang, startling her. She fumbled in her pocket for it and snapped it open. “Hello?”
“Tom here, my lady. Are you all right? You sound…hoarse.”
She cleared the thickness in her throat. “I’m fine. I was just reading.” The picture of Mary MacDougall, lying half-frozen, laboring in a bed of straw prompted her to ask after Margaret.
“She’s eating us out of hearth and home.” He chuckled. “I called to let you know you’ve two packages here from New York. May I bring them by tomorrow?”
“Thank you, but I’ll come to you. I’ve let the launch intimidate me for long enough. I need to just do it and get it over with.”
“The telly forecasts a bonnie day. You should be fine. Call me just before you leave, and I’ll keep watch from the quay.”
“Thank you. You’ll be pleased to know that miserable excuse for a water heater is finally working.”
He chuckled. “Just remember to add more fuel every so often and you’ll have warm water come mornin’, as well.”
“God, I hate that tank. And the kerosene stove stinks. Literally.”
“I know. Hopefully, the markets will improve and you’ll have more coins to work with in the coming months.”
“From your lips to God’s ears.”
He laughed. “Give me a ring when you set out tomorrow.”
“I will. Give Margaret a kiss for me.”
She snapped her lifeline to the outside world closed. Here she was complaining about cold water and a smelly stove with the tale of the MacDougall’s bride still spread on her lap. How self-absorbed could a body be? Had she been born in the early fifteenth century, could she have survived what this woman had not? She shuddered and thanked God for placing her in this century where—-should she ever give birth—there were hospitals and epidurals.
She’d never have made it in the fourteenth century. First, she couldn’t imagine living under the thumb of ancient Catholicism. The tithes Duncan paid were crippling. The period’s mandatory daily worship services made her cringe. And the needless guilt Duncan carried because he couldn’t afford a Papal Bull—-a coin, according to the footnote, one could purchase from the Pope to ensured the deceased would bypass purgatory and go straight to heaven—only re-enforced her distrust of organized religions. Yup, she much preferred her one-on-one relationship with God, whereby she thanked and complained on a regular basis, and He, on rare occasions, acquiesced and answered a prayer.
She sighed and turned the page. “What’s this?” Before her disbelieving eyes was written a decidedly clever but cold-blooded plot for murder.
#
Duncan squinted against the blinding sunlight bouncing off the sea as he paced the parapet.
Since muttering “thank you” yesterday, Beth had thrice spun around and looked him in the eye. Once, she’d even had the audacity to wave and wink! He shuddered.
Had she the sight ? Nay. Surely. To aggravate him further, the wee ferret had found his diaries. He would now have to keep an even closer eye on her.
He raised his gaze and saw Beth standing on Drasmoor’s quay, dressed in a bright yellow slicker and rubber boots. “Finally.”
His agitation grew as she made her way across the bay to the castle. She maneuvered the launch, which sat gunwale deep in the water and was nigh on to overflowing with packages, like a drunkard, weaving right then left, and on more than one occasion completely broadside to on-coming breakers. His heart was in his throat by the time she docked.
“The daft woman should be kept under lock and key for her own good.”
He took the spiraling stairs two at a time to the great hall, his determination to call her to task for risking her life growing with each step. Her knowing of his existence and grinning about it was one thing. Suffering the fury of his wrath in the next few minutes would be another, entirely. “And obey me she will, by God! For she be woman, and I, her laird, be man !”
He charged into the great hall just as Beth, looking disgustingly pleased with herself, with her arms loaded with packages, came in from the opposite doorway. Before he could roar his displeasure, Will Frasier dropped the wires he held for his father and yelled, “My lady! Let me help ye with those.”
A piercing scream then rocked the chandeliers.
They spun and found the elder Bart Frasier—caught in a web of arcing wires—-vibrating like a crazed puppet, his face contorted into a ghastly mask of agony. Acrid smoke filled the air.
“ Da! ” Will bellowed.
Beth, screaming, opened her arms. Her packages toppled as her booted foot slammed into the old man’s chest. Freed from the killing current, Bart dropped like a felled tree to the floor.
Dodging the dangling, still sparking wires, Beth crouched at the old man’s side. “Oh, God. Please, God,” she pleaded, while running trembling fingers along Fraser’s neck. She listened to the man’s chest, and then threw her cell phone at Frasier’s son. “Call for help!”
To Duncan’s shock, Beth next tipped back the electrician’s head, swiped the foamy spittle from his lips, and started blowing into the dead man’s blue mouth. Not once, but repeatedly. To Duncan’s utter amazement, Frasier’s mottled skin began to pink.
Beth stopped breathing into Bart’s mouth and again ran her fingers along his neck.
Will collapsed to his knees beside her. “The police are coming.”
Beth nodded and breathed again into the old man.
“Is he alive?” Will asked. “Will he be all right? Ack! ‘Tis all my fault.”
Beth, looking no less terrified than the son, didn’t answer but pressed her ear to the elder Fraiser’s chest. When she lifted her head a quivering smile took shape. “He’s breathing on his own now.”
Duncan rocked back in surprise. ‘Twas a bloody miracle!
Young Frasier’s tears started falling in earnest as he caressed his father’s brow. “Da, I’m so sorry.” To Beth he said, “Thank you.”
Within minutes the police launch arrived. They secured the still unconscious Fraser onto a board and shuttled him out.
On the quay, Duncan stood at Beth’s side as she waved the men off. He then followed her hunched-shouldered progress into the keep, up and out on to the parapet.
As she watched the police launch cross the bay—her face now a horrid mess of black streaks—she whispered, “Go with God.”
His odd but brave wee heir then began to quake and sob in heartbreaking earnest.
Deciding she should not, he murmured at a volume she might hear, “There’s no need for tears, lass, for ye did well. Verra well, indeed.”
Heart once again bounding, Beth jerked. Did Duncan Angus MacDougall, her resident voyeur, just speak to her? She held her breath while every nerve in her body focused on hearing.
She turned, hoping. Her gaze shifted from one corner of the high parapet to the next. Nothing.
“Ah,” murmured her ghost. “Why is it, lass, that ye canna see me now, yet on occasion, ye can?”
Her heart slammed into her ribs. His voice rumbled from only two feet away. She reached out a tentative hand.
He chuckled, “Ye canna touch me in my present state, lass. Oh, that I wish you could, but ‘tis not time.”
“Why…?” She didn’t know where to begin her inquisition, her nerves still rattled by all that had just happened.
“Because, I’m dead, lass.”
“No…I understand that you’re dead.” She grinned as she dashed away tears. “I meant to ask, why have you finally decided to speak to me?”
“Ye appear to be in need of someone at the moment.”
“Ah.” Her handsome specter was compassionate. “I’m Beth.”
“Aye, I know that. I’m Duncan Angus MacDougall, also called The Black, the MacDougall, or laird.”
“Do you have a preference?”
“Hmm.”
She waited, focusing on the dense cold hovering before her.
“From what little I know of ye, I’d be pleased ta have ye address me as Duncan.”
Oh, my. He wanted to be on a first name basis with her. Her excitement multiplied at the prospect. She wanted to ask if he felt cold, if he ate, slept, or why he’d chosen to speak to her when he hadn’t talked to Tom. For some inexplicable reason she asked, “Are you ever lonely?”
“Aye, at times.”
“Me, too.” Burning started at the back of her throat again, a familiar sting at the back of her eyes. A dead man was making her life palatable and she was happy about it. What’s wrong with this picture, Beth?
“Duncan, do you mind my being here?”
“Nay, lass. I’m quite pleased you’ve come. ‘Tis a big place for one wee man.”
She grinned, sniffing back tears. “From what I hear, there’s nothing wee about you.”
His laughter rumbled like wooden barrels rolling down a long hall. “To be sure, lass, there is naught on this body that’s wee.”
She felt a blush creep up her neck, turned from the mass of cold air and studied the harbor. Did ghosts miss making—
Good gravy. She was definitely in worse shape than she’d thought.
Beth watched the police launch dock at Drasmoor and men scramble out of the waiting ambulance. As soon as the elder Frasier was loaded into the ambulance, it took off, lights flashing and sirens woo, woo, wooing, which to Beth’s ears didn’t sound near as serious—as urgent—as its high-pitched, screaming New York City’s counterparts.
“As I said, lass, ye did verra well.”
“I pray he recovers consciousness soon.”
“God’s hand was on ye shoulder. Fraser will be fine.”
When the ambulance disappeared from view she turned to watch the sun set, something she hadn’t been able to enjoy very often in a city filled with skyscrapers.
Looking like a giant orange, the sun slowly slid behind a distant line of molten silver. Wide swatches of orchid, flame, and daffodil surrounded the spectacle. She thought it a fitting close to her first week as owner of Castle Blackstone.
“Do you sleep?” she asked her specter.
“Of course.”
“Where?”
“Where I choose.”
Of course he did. “Do you eat?”
“Nay, and I do miss that verra much. The taste of roasted venison I sorely crave.”
“What else do you miss?”
“The men who stood at my side, the sounds of babes at play, the feel of a woman’s skin under my hand.” He chuckled. “The taste of fine whisky, and of course, reeving. Ack, ‘tis nothing finer on a fair night than racing the wind for home on a sturdy mount with yer enemy braying at yer back.”
Whoa! She’d been under the impression he’d done it simply to get his cattle back. Apparently not.
The sun slipped away for the night and she shivered.
“‘Tis time to go below, lass, before ye catch yer death.”
She nodded. As she headed for the stairs, she asked, “Will I ever see you clearly?”
Silence answered back.
#
Beth, exhausted but still awake, reached for the ringing phone. “Hello?”
“Tom here, my lady. Just thought you’ll like to know Bart Frasier has awakened in hospital. He’s a bit befuddled and missing a good bit of hair, but the doctor says he’ll recover.”
“Thank God. Is his son okay?”
“Aye. Young Will finally settled once his Da was alert and talking. How are you?”
“I’m…can you hold on a moment?” She reached for her compact and scanned the solar. Finding herself alone, she whispered, “Tom, he spoke to me. Up on the parapet.”
“Who?”
“ The ghost…Duncan! ”
“Are ye sure ye’re not imagining things, lass, after the shock—”
“We had a conversation , Tom.”
“My word. Did he materialize?”
“No. He said it wasn’t time.”
Tom muttered, “I must tell Margaret at once,” then said, “Lass, do be careful. Ye understand he has a mighty temper when provoked.”
“I will. Margaret told me what he did after Sheffield died, and about the night he nearly destroyed the hall. Did they really find his claymore stuck in the ceiling?”
“Aye. Our laird dinna take well that lad’s death. According to my grandfather, the MacDougall had been verra fond of Kyle, had made himself known to lad from the cradle.” Tom fell silent for a moment, and then said, “If ye can, get some rest.”
“I’ll try. Do keep me abreast of Mr. Fraser’s progress and don’t forget to call as soon as the roses arrive.”
“Will do. Goodnight, Beth.”
She snapped the phone closed and scanned the room once again with the mirror. Her ghost had apparently retired, which was just as well. She wasn’t sure she could handle anymore tonight.
#
“ Ha! ” It had taken a week but he finally had her cell phone.
Contemplating the joy he’d take in pitching the noisy thing into the sea, Duncan cautiously lifted the cover. As he examined the lighted screen and buttons, it shrilled out to her. Startled, he dropped it.
“God’s breathe!” Did the thing have eyes? He then heard Beth’s quick footsteps on the stairs. He scooped up the phone and placed it on the dresser where he’d found it. “Later,” he hissed, retreating to a corner.
Panting, Beth ran into the room and flipped open her phone. “Hello?” After a pause she said, “I’m fine, Margaret. Thank you for asking.” She listened for a moment. “Terrific. Did they deliver all four varieties? Ah huh. No problem. I’ll come right over. No need. I’m turning into quite the sailor.” She started straightening the bed with her free hand. “I’ll see you soon. Bye.”
Duncan cursed as Beth dropped her phone onto the dresser and walked into the bath chamber. In the confusion following Bart’s accident, he’d forgotten to ban her from using the bloody launch.
He looked out the window. Cloudless cobalt blue hung over Drasmoor and its flat-as-glass harbor. He could see no evidence of wind and see no clouds on the horizon. Should he deny her a few hours reprieve when all looked calm and safe? Nay. Had he the opportunity to leave the isle, he would. He heaved a resigned sigh. Some did say “practice makes perfect.”
Hearing water running into the tub lifted his mood only marginally. He walked to the bath chamber.
“You’d better leave,” Beth muttered as she poured her rose and lily crystals into the water. “You’re not the only one around here who can pitch a fit when provoked.”
Cursing and not yet kenning how she sensed his presence, he backed into the solar.
He looked at the cell phone. He could dispose of the piping box later. ‘Twas more important he check the launch; to be sure there were no leaks, enough petrol, and that the oars were in place should the damn engine fail.
#
Rocked by a sudden gust of cold wind, Beth looked up from her task of securing her rosebushes in the boat’s bow to see ominous, lead-bellied thunderheads gathering on the horizon. Frowning, she looked beyond the quay and found Drasmoor’s once glass-smooth harbor churning with whitecaps. “Not good.”
She’d dallied longer than intended, enjoying her visit with Margaret—who’d filled Beth with tea, scones, and gossip—and the infamous gardener Ms. Crombie, but now she had to hurry.
Untying the rope that secured her launch to the dock, Beth said, “I’m must apologize, Mrs. Crombie, but I’m afraid we’ll have to continue my lesson another time.” She pointed to the sky. “I need to start back before that storm hits.”
“Ack! And here I am prattling on.” The old woman clasped Beth’s hand with fragile, gnarled fingers. “Please come often, my lady. I’d love to spend more time with ye, if ye’re of a mind.”
“Thank you. I’d love to.”
Beth settled at the rear of the boat. With an eye on the sky, she yanked on the starter cord and the engine coughed to life. Please, God, get me home safely.
Apprehension mounting, she waved a final time to Mrs. Crombie and headed out into the choppy water.
#
On Blackstone’s parapet, Duncan’s gut churned as he strained to see Beth through the sheeting torrent. Cursing himself for allowing her to go, he caught sight of her—stark white in a heaving world of gray—-just before the wind shifted and drove the rain sideways yet again, obliterating his view.
He raced to another break in the parapet’s battlement hoping for a clearer line of sight to no avail. His futile efforts were wasting precious time. He had to shift, to materialize. He was useless to Beth in his present state.
Against every instinct that clamored to keep her in view, he closed his eyes. He suppressed the vision of Beth’s terrified expression and focused on becoming one with the elements, focus on all things solid and whole, his only hope to help her.
Seconds felt like hours as he concentrated on simply being.
When he suddenly felt rain for the first time in centuries and cold for the first time in decades, he gasped, threw back his head and threw wide his arms. He roared as he opened his eyes to the brutal assault of the sheeting rain. He’d done it.
Relieved to his marrow, he resumed his search. On the next flash of lightening he caught sight of Beth, eyes wide in terror, just as she and the boat, now sideways, disappeared beneath a crushing wave.
“ Nayyy! ” ripped from his throat as he dove over the parapet.
#
Duncan, clutching Beth’s unconscious half-frozen body tight to his heaving chest, raced up Blackstone’s stairs to the solar.
Fearing he’d found her too late, he laid her on the bed and ran a shaking hand along her throat. Though her skin wore a worrisome blue cast and felt like ice, to his monumental relief he felt a strong pulse throb beneath his fingertips. He threw the bed covering across her and frantically rubbed her near frozen limbs.
“Can ye hear me, lass?” Getting no response, he shook her. “Lass! Do ye hear me? Ye canna die. Nay, ye be The One .”
He blinked back tears as he blew on her hands. “Please, God, after bringin’ her to me, ye canna be thinking of takin’ her back.” He’d not—would not—lose this lass. Nay, not after waiting so many lifetimes for her. She had the mettle, the fortitude, to break the curse.
Heart pounding, he scrambled over her and stood before the carved headboard. He reached above his head and turned the woodcock’s head until it came loose in his hand.
Reaching into the four-inch thick wood, he extracted a brittle leather pouch. He tore it open and dropped the Brooch of Lorne—-Robert the Bruce’s ornate clasp—onto the bed. He stared at what remained in his hand, at the gold and pigeon-blood ruby ring he’d not seen in centuries. His breath caught as the key to his redemption glittered in his palm.
Beth had yet to finish the diary, dinna know all that had gone before, but he had no choice. Before she was lost to him, he had to take her.
He dropped to his knees, cradled her in his arms, and kissed her cold forehead. “Wee ferret, I pray ye can forgive me for what I’m about to do.”
He tightened his hold on her. As he kissed her dusky lips, he slipped his wedding ring onto the middle finger of her left hand and the world turned lightening blue.