“’Tis possible,” Connor conceded.
She sighed and rose. “I imagine my parents will be here soon. I should go figure out where they’re going to sleep.”
“No doubt Mrs. Pruitt has matters well in hand.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of. Let’s go.”
Connor walked back to the inn with her. The way seemed shorter than ever. Perhaps he had passed too many decades of his undeath denying himself the company of other goodly souls. He was not unhappy to be remedying that. There was much to be said for amiable company and the inn certainly seemed to provide it.
He hadn’t put foot to the inn’s garden path, however, before he heard quite unwholesome and less-than-friendly sounds coming from inside.
“Trouble,” Victoria said with a sigh.
“Fellini,” Connor identified.
“Heaven help me.”
Connor suspected even heaven couldn’t do anything with that miserable excuse for a man, but he followed her to the inn just the same. He passed through the entryway after her and frowned fiercely at the goings on there.
“I will not give up my room!” Fellini bellowed. “I don’t care who’s here!”
“In a time of crisis,” Mrs. Pruitt said crisply, “we are all called upon to make sacrifices. Whilst Mistress Victoria’s kin are under me care, they’ll have suitable chambers. There is ample room in the King of Denmark’s room for a cot. You and His Majesty may come to blows over who takes it, but do not do so in me entryway!”
Fellini was in midscreech as Thomas walked out of the dining room.
Fellini shut his mouth with a snap.
Thomas threw Connor a look before he walked over to the treacherous viper. “Are there problems with the rooms?” he asked in an easy voice.
“No, no, of course not,” Fellini said.
Mrs. Pruitt scowled, but said nothing.
“I’m sorry to displace you,” Thomas continued, “but Mrs. Pruitt was kind enough to rearrange things so my wife and I could stay here in the inn. You know, this being the site of the tragedy and all.”
Fellini nodded, but to Connor’s eye seemed to be having a hard time swallowing his rage.
“Let me take you out to dinner tonight in return for your flexibility,” Thomas continued with a smile. “I’m interested in how you think the play is going. And I understand from Victoria that you’ve had an amazing career. If you have the time, I’d like to hear all about it.”
Brave man, Connor thought to himself. That would have been a duty far beyond his own capacity to endure.
“I’ll go move my stuff, of course,” Fellini said, suddenly all smiles and friendliness. “I didn’t realize you were the one, um, who would be, you know—”
“Kicking you out?” Thomas said with a conspiratorial smile. “Sorry about it, but I appreciate your understanding.”
“Of course. Shall we do an early dinner?”
“That would be great. It’ll give us plenty of time to talk. I don’t want to rush any of your stories.”
And with that, Thomas clapped a companionable hand on Fellini’s shoulder and sent him scurrying up the stairs.
“I’ll need someone to move my bags,” Fellini tossed back down over his shoulder.
Thomas caught Victoria by the elbow before she headed for the staircase. “Don’t you dare,” he said in a low voice. “He can move them himself.” He paused, then smiled at his sister. “Besides, it sounds like Mom and Dad are here. Can’t you hear Dad griping already?”
Connor leaned back against the sideboard and waited for the onslaught of the rest of Victoria’s family. She looked uneasy, as if she would rather have been anywhere but where she was. Connor caught her eye and nodded for her to join him. She did, looking somewhat relieved.
“Prepare to be outnumbered,” she said with a wan smile.
“So many McKinnons, so little time to do them all in,” Connor began, but then the door opened, Victoria’s parents swept inside, and there was no more time for pleasantries.
Connor looked first at her sire, who enveloped Victoria in a fatherly embrace. He was a large, powerfully built man, not unlike Thomas in stature. He scanned the entryway with a wary eye, though, as if he expected to be assaulted at any moment. Connor stroked his chin thoughtfully. Perhaps the man had had his own experiences with the Boar’s Head lads.
Lord McKinnon then turned to Thomas and pulled his son into a brief, manly embrace, taking the opportunity to slap him on the back several times. Connor nodded in approval. He had, once or twice, received the same sort of affection from his own father. It said much about Victoria’s sire that he was free with his admiration.
He would have considered that further, but he caught sight of Victoria’s mother and found her far more pleasing to look upon than her husband. She was all that a wench of Scottish descent should be: strong, capable, and quite beautiful. ’Twas little wonder Victoria and Megan both were so lovely to look upon.
Though Connor had to admit, he had a preference for the former.
He would have clapped his hand to his forehead to hopefully dislodge a bit of sense, but he was interrupted by the sight of yet another McKinnon wench coming into the inn.
“Jenner!” Victoria said in surprise. “What are you doing here?”
“Offering an extra pair of hands,” the young woman said, throwing her arms around Victoria. “You look terrible.”
Victoria pulled back and scowled at her. “I open in four days. I always look like this four days before I open.”
“That is Victoria’s sister, you know. Jennifer.”
Connor jumped, then glared at Ambrose, who had appeared next to him. “Would you cease with that business? Announce yourself next time!”
Ambrose only smiled. “She is a brilliant musician, from all accounts, and a very fine actress.”
“Why is she not in Victoria’s play?”
“She neither acts nor wields her fiddle, but I can’t say why not,” Ambrose said. “She works with her mother, fashioning clothing for wee ones.” He paused. “She is unwed.”
Connor looked at Ambrose suspiciously. “The poor wench isn’t on your list, is she?”
“Lad, they’re all on my list.”
Connor considered that for quite some time. So, all the McKinnon siblings were on Ambrose’s list? Connor could see that Megan had wed quite happily to that de Piaget lad with vats full of funds. He supposed that Thomas was happy enough with Iolanthe MacLeod. Jennifer, that youngest of Thomas’s sisters who was so beautiful, had obviously, and no doubt happily, remained beyond Ambrose’s clutches—at least up until now.
He paused.
What of Victoria?
He chewed on that thought until he could spew out the question that burned in his mouth like a live coal. “Have you a match in mind for Victoria?” he blurted out.
Ambrose stretched, cracked his knuckles, took an inordinate amount of time examining his fingernails, then smoothed a hand over his silver locks. It was only after he’d settled them to his satisfaction that he turned to Connor.
“Wouldn’t you like to know,” he said with a wink.
And with that, he disappeared.
Connor was so surprised he found himself quite unable to speak. Damnation, but aye, he would most certainly like to know! And then once he knew the name of the whoreson, he would immediately set about making his life a living hell.
Then he found that his jaw had slid south as if it were unhinged. Why, by all the saints, did he care who Victoria McKinnon wed?
Before he had the chance to truly convince himself of the truth of that disinterest, he was joined by Victoria on one side of him and Thomas on the other. He recaptured his favorite frown, on the off chance that they might read his thoughts in his expression.
“Jen can take the cot in Mom and Dad’s room,” Victoria said. “You and Iolanthe take Ambrose’s bedroom. I’m sure he won’t mind.”
“We’ll be better guests than Fellini,” Thomas agreed. “But
what about you?”
“Mrs. Pruitt has one more cot. I’ll put it in the library. No one goes in there much, anyway. Or at least they won’t now.” She looked at Connor. “Meet my family.”
“A fine group,” he managed.
Thomas began to cough. Victoria looked at Connor.
“Excuse me.”
She went around and pounded on her brother’s back until he held up his hands in surrender.
“I’m all right. I just want to know why this madman here is so nice to you when and he spent half a year trying to chop my head off.”
“He’s mellowed,” Victoria said. “I think Dad wants to go right up to the picnic site. I’ll tell you all about Connor’s metamorphosis later.” She looked at Connor. “Do you want to come?”
“Ah . . .” He still had not recaptured his balance from his conversation with Ambrose. Who was that man who found himself on Ambrose’s list for Victoria? Not Fellini. Surely not even Ambrose could be that feeble-minded. But if not Fellini, then who? There were not eligible men within Victoria’s cast or crew who were worthy of her. Indeed, Connor was hard pressed to name a man within miles who was not only unwed, but man enough to handle a flame-haired, acid-tongued wench of Victoria’s stature.
He paused.
Well, save himself.
“Connor? Are you okay?”
Connor looked at her in shock. Was he the man Ambrose and his undead cohorts had chosen?
“Victoria, who are you talking to?”
She looked at her father. “The inn’s haunted, Dad, didn’t you know? Let’s get right on our little walk, shall we?”
Her father looked around frantically. “Where? Where are they?”
“Dad, she’s teasing.” Thomas tugged his father toward the door. “Let’s go. Vic’s just hallucinating from lack of sleep. A little fresh air will do her good.”
“You said the idyllic countryside would do her good and look at her now,” their father said. “Victoria, come along. I’m worried about you . . .”
Victoria threw Connor a look of mild panic before she walked off with her father.
Connor waited until they had all left the inn before he followed at a discreet distance. Indeed, he hung back purposefully, but soon found himself walking next to Victoria’s mother. He would have thought it coincidence, but two things convinced him otherwise. One, the woman matched his pace, no matter what that pace was; and two, she could see him.
“Um,” he said in consternation.
“I’m Helen McKinnon,” she said, with a smile. “You are Laird MacDougal, I assume?”
He cleared his throat uncomfortably. “How did you know?”
“My mother knows how to use the phone.”
“She told you of me?” he squeaked. He felt a blush flood his cheeks. By the saints, he never squeaked. Perhaps it hadn’t been a squeak, but rather a manly exclamation of surprise and pleasure all rolled into one. After all, he did have quite fond feelings for Mary.
“She described a very tall, exceptionally handsome Highland laird,” Helen continued, “youngish but in full command of his surroundings, who was graciously allowing my daughter to use his castle for her production.”
“I daresay your son seems to think he owns the bloody place,” Connor said, grasping for something to say. Exceptionally handsome? By the saints, were these McKinnon wenches going to forever keep him off balance?
“We know better, now, don’t we?” she said with a smooth smile. “I can see that my mother didn’t quite give you the credit she should have for graciousness.”
“Your mother is kinder to me than I deserve,” Connor managed. “She is a lovely woman.”
“She is.” Helen looked at him for a moment or two longer, then smiled again. “Thank you for watching over Victoria. She needs it, though she’ll never admit it. I can see why it would be easy for her to rely on you.”
And with that she left him behind, walking on as if she hadn’t a care in the world. Of course, it wasn’t hard to leave him behind, given that she had fair frozen him in his tracks.
Yet another McKinnon wench to admire.
Surely the world would end soon.
He managed to get himself within several feet of Victoria’s family without being noticed. He listened to them discuss the possibilities, the concerns, the complete improbability of their grandmother being kidnapped. Then Victoria’s sire apparently wearied of the discussion, for he broke away from the group and started to tramp off over the farmer’s field.
Thomas caught him by the arm.
“Don’t, Dad.”
“Don’t what?”
“Look at the flowers in that grass. See how they form a ring? You shouldn’t step inside that.”
Lord McKinnon looked at his son as if he’d never seen him before. Connor shared his sentiments precisely. Had Thomas gone completely daft? Had marriage to Iolanthe MacLeod been that taxing?
“Why not?” Lord McKinnon asked.
“Just trust me,” Thomas said.
“What’s there? Poisoned oak? Snakes? Aggressive spiders?”
“Nothing so commonplace. Just stand back and let me look around for another minute.”
Connor watched as Thomas walked about the flowery ring, studying it here, bending to look at it there, as if he actually found something interesting about weeds growing in a circle.
“Daft,” Connor muttered to himself.
Thomas finished with his inspection, then came to put his hand on his father’s shoulder. “Let’s go back to the inn. I have a friend to call who might know something about this. Actually, he’s a relative of Iolanthe’s. Let’s have him come look at this place before we go trampling all over it.”
Connor pursed his lips. Yet another MacLeod in the vicinity. Obviously, he was going to be troubled by them far into his afterlife.
He watched as the entire troupe headed back toward the inn. Victoria seemed to lag behind just a little bit. In time, she was walking a goodly distance behind her family and next to him. She looked up at him.
“Will you keep me company in the sitting room again tonight?” she asked.
“Nay.”
She looked up in surprise. At any other time, he might have been somewhat gratified by her look of disappointment. “Oh,” she said. “I’m sorry. I obviously misunderstood—”
“I won’t sit up with you because you need to sleep and you cannot sleep sitting up in a chair in that sitting chamber. Find a bed, Victoria, and make use of it. You do your granny no service by driving yourself thusly, though I do understand why you do it.”
“I don’t think I can sleep,” she said quietly.
“Come now, woman,” he said sternly, “must I threaten you with a proper haunting to force you to obey?”
She smiled wearily. “No. No, that’s incentive enough.”
He walked on with her, trying not to be overly gratified by her reaction.
The rest of the afternoon passed slowly, as did supper and the final sorting out of the chambers. It was well after dark before Victoria settled into the Boar’s Head Inn’s finely paneled Elizabethan library. Connor watched her go in, then waited an appropriate amount of time before he poked his head through the door to see that she slept.
She lay there with her hands folded over her chest, staring up at the ceiling, not having snuffed out the faint lamp-light first.
He found her in like condition through the first two watches of the night. An hour or two before dawn, he sighed, then walked through the door to sit down in one of the leather chairs before the hearth.
“Bloodshed or haunting?” he asked, resigned.
She turned her head to look at him. Even by the weak light of the lamp he could see that her eyes were quite bright, as if she had tears to shed.
“Am I to be involved in either the bloodshed or the haunting?”
“Normally, I would say you aye, but I fear it would keep you awake. I’m disappointed in your lack of mastery, Victoria McKinnon. You’ve troops to mar
shall on the morrow. A commander is not at his best when he’s bleary-eyed.”
She smiled. “You’re right.”
“I generally am.”
“Then tell me of hauntings,” she said, with a yawn. “I don’t want to hear about your life until I’m awake to enjoy it. Bore me with screams of terror.”
He hadn’t begun but his second tale before he realized that she slept. He stoked a fire with a flick of his wrist and watched her by that light.
By the saints, if he’d had a pair of wits to cast at each other to form a single thought of self-preservation, he would have taken himself and fled for his keep whilst his heart was still intact.
What if he was the match for her?
By the saints, ’twas a mighty thought.
But he couldn’t bring himself to think on it more. So he sat and watched her through what was left of the night. Let her think on him as a distraction, or a useful guardsman, or even as an unwanted protector.
Let her think on him at all and it would be enough.
Chapter 12
Victoria suspected the sitting room might be full of one too many Highland lords.
She sat in a chair and looked around her, wondering how it was that two months ago she had been living a perfectly normal existence in Manhattan, thinking about Shakespeare and reminding herself to buy enough Raid on the way home to take care of her perennial cockroach problem, yet now she was sitting in the cozy sitting room in an Elizabethan inn, surrounded by men—some of whom were actually alive—who would have been at home on a medieval movie set.
She first considered the man sitting across the coffee table from her: James MacLeod, Iolanthe’s grandfather. Maybe Grandfather was just a title of respect. Iolanthe called him my laird just as often, so maybe it was a Scottish thing Victoria just didn’t get. He was certainly too young to really be her grandfather, so maybe Grandfather was what you called a man who looked as if he wielded a sword every day just for fun and probably would have been just as at home if he’d been using it to do business with. He simply reeked of medieval lairdliness. If she’d been casting a Braveheart kind of movie, James MacLeod would have been her first choice for the star, regardless of whether or not he could act.