“Pebble-counting!” Fulbert thundered, ale sloshing madly over the edge of his cup onto the floor. “I’ll have you know me nevvy does a proper day’s work!”
“As does she!”
“When she can remember her place of employment!”
The two glared at each other furiously for a long, highly charged moment, then they lunged, bellowing clan mottos and other such slogans appropriate to the moment.
“Oh, by the saints,” Ambrose exclaimed, striding out into the chamber and interrupting the fisticuffs. “Now’s not the time for quibbling over tiny faults. We’ve serious work to do!” He turned a dark look on his cousin. “Hugh, cease with this meaningless bickering.”
Hugh wanted to do anything but that—that much was apparent by the white-knuckled grip he had on the hilt of his still-sheathed sword.
“Hugh,” Ambrose warned.
Hugh scowled, then ducked his head and gave his polished boots a closer look. “As ye will, Ambrose,” he muttered.
Ambrose turned to his brother-in-law. “Fulbert?”
Fulbert looked to be chewing on a word or two, but finally nodded briefly and sought comfort in his cup.
“Then ’tis settled,” Ambrose said, pulling up a chair and settling into it. “Sit, lads, and let us speak one last time of our plans. The pair’s set to arrive on the morrow.”
“Ha,” said Fulbert, pursing his lips. “We’ll be fortunate indeed if she manages to find her way—”
Ambrose held out his hand to stop Hugh from throwing his chair rather ungently in Fulbert’s direction.
“Actually, Fulbert,” Ambrose said, turning to him, “your brother’s son—albeit many times removed—was the one I was most concerned about. He was particularly difficult to convince.”
“And how would you know?” Fulbert demanded. “ ’Twere me own sweet self that saw to getting him here. And I can’t say as I blames him not wanting to come, what with all the important work he does.” He cast a pointed look at Hugh. “Unlike that girl—”
“There’s naught a thing wrong with me wee granddaughter,” Hugh declared. He paused, looked faintly puzzled, then frowned. “I suppose I could consider her such.”
“Indeed, you could, Cousin,” Ambrose said, with a nod. “And, to be sure, there is naught amiss with her.” He ignored Fulbert’s snort. “Now, lads, let us turn our minds back to the good work set before us.” He looked at his kinsman. “You saw to the other establishment, did you not?”
“Aye,” Hugh said, with a smile. “No room at the inn, as it were. Not that it was all that difficult, it being the season and all.”
Ambrose nodded in approval. “I’ve seen to it that there will be none but the two reservations available here for the holidays and given instructions to Mrs. Pruitt on who shall receive them. All we must do is wait for the morrow and then lend a hand where needed.”
“I still say we should have planned something in particular,” Fulbert grumbled. “Perhaps a reprise of my performance for that Dickens fellow.”
Hugh snorted. “ ’Twere bad fish he ate that gave him those foul dreams.”
“Dreams? He bloody immortalized me Christmas visit in print!”
Ambrose suppressed the urge to throw his hands up in despair; it was a wonder he saw anything accomplished with these two underfoot. Even though the telling of tall tales went hand in hand with proper haunting, there was no time for such happy recollections now. If he allowed Fulbert any more room for speaking, they’d be listening to him boast till dawn.
“We’re best served by seeking our rest,” he said, rising. “We’ve a full fortnight ahead of us.”
“But, wait, Ambrose,” Hugh said, holding up his hand. “Ye never told us where ye went to find me wee one.”
Those were memories Ambrose didn’t care to discuss. After all, they had been surely the most traumatic events of his afterlife. He, Ambrose MacLeod, powerful laird of an even more powerful and noble clan, had taken his pride and courage in hand to do what no other laird (alive or otherwise) had done before him. His sires and grandsires who had passed on before him had no doubt held their collective breaths until his task had been accomplished.
“Aye,” Fulbert said, suddenly perking up. “Just where was it you went to fetch that fidgety, harebrained—”
Ambrose cut him off by suddenly sitting back down. Why his sweet sister had chosen to marry an irascible Englishman, Ambrose would never know, but there it was. He took the mug Hugh handed him, and had a long swallow of ale, just to shore up his strength.
“Well,” he began slowly, “it was a tad more difficult to track her down than I’d thought it would be.”
Fulbert smirked. Hugh looked primed to say something nasty in return, so Ambrose quickly told the worst of it to distract them.
“I began in a Colonial fast-food establishment,” he announced.
Both Fulbert and Hugh gaped at him, stunned into silence.
Ambrose took a firmer grip on his cup. “Indeed, I was forced to venture into more than one.”
Gasps echoed in the kitchen.
“Failing to find her there, I searched further and learned that she had taken other employment.” He paused. “In a theme park.”
Fulbert tossed back the remaining contents of his cup and lunged for the jug. Hugh went quite pale in the face.
“Is there more?” Hugh asked, in trembling tones. “I beg ye, Ambrose, say us nay!”
Indeed, there was more, and Ambrose was loath to give voice to the telling of it. He looked about the chamber, just to avoid the eyes of his companions.
“I discovered,” he admitted, his voice barely audible, “that she had been dressing up as a mouse.”
“By the saints, nay!” Hugh gasped.
Fulbert made gurgling noises as he struggled to express himself. Finally he managed a word or two.
“You!” he exclaimed, pointing an accusing finger at Ambrose. “After all these years of proper haunting . . . consorting with cartoon characters! By the saints, Ambrose, what were you thinking!”
“I did what was required,” Ambrose said stiffly. “And once she was found, I paid a short visit to her brother. He was quite willing to send her off on an errand here and more than happy to believe a healthy case of indigestion had given him the idea.”
“Och, but the indignity of it all,” Hugh breathed. “Traveling all the way to—” his voice trailed off meaningfully.
No one could voice the word.
California.
And, worse yet, the southern region of it! Aye, ’twas enough to give any sensible shade the shakes.
“ ’Tis just that,” Fulbert said darkly, “which leads me to believe that perhaps the lass is not quite—”
“The lass?” Hugh interrupted indignantly. “No matter where she’s been—” He swallowed audibly and then pressed on. “At least she possesses some spark of creativity. I’m less than certain about that lad of yers—”
Fulbert leaped to his feet, cast aside his cup and drew his sword. “I’ll not have me nevvy slandered by a man in skirts!”
“Skirts!” Hugh gasped, hopping up from his chair and flinging aside his goblet also. He drew his sword with relish. “Outside, ye blasted Brit. I’ll need room fer me swingin’.”
Ambrose gave one last fleeting thought to the peace and comfort of his ancestral home in the Highlands before he thundered a command for the lads to cease. He shook his head in disgust. “By the saints,” he said, “have you nothing better to do than fight with each other?”
Fulbert looked faintly surprised. “Actually Ambrose, ’tis fine enough sport for me—”
“Aye,” Hugh agreed. “Passes the time most pleasantly—”
Ambrose thrust out his arm and pointed to the door. “Begone, the both of you and leave me to my ale.”
Fulbert opened his mouth to protest. Ambrose gave him the quelling look he’d given to more than one adversary over the course of his long and successful career. Fulbert shut his mouth with a snap and
vanished from the kitchen. Hugh made Ambrose a quick bow and bolted as well.
Ambrose leaned back in his chair and sighed. Now that he finally had peace for thinking, he turned over in his mind the events of the past pair of months, gingerly avoiding the memories of his trip to the Colonies. Perhaps he shouldn’t have meddled, but how could he have helped himself? Young Megan was his granddaughter—never mind how many generations separated them. Despite the personal indignities he’d suffered already in this venture, how could he not feel a certain responsibility to her and her happiness? And he had to admit Fulbert’s lad was a good one, despite his preoccupation with modern inventions.
Aye, he would simply do all he could for them, then pray they had the good sense to finish falling in love by themselves.
Though, considering the pair due to arrive on the morrow, the only good sense to be found in the inn would be his own.
Chapter One
MEGAN MACLEOD MCKINNON stood on the side of the dirt road, stared at her surroundings, and wondered why in the world she’d ever agreed to any of this. She’d known the British Isles could be damp, but she’d never suspected they would be this damp. And what happened to that dry rain that supposedly fell strictly for atmosphere? Maybe she’d taken a wrong turn somewhere, like at Kennedy. She should have boarded that plane bound for Italy. How rainy could it be in Italy this time of year?
Of course, if things had gone according to plan, she would have been ensconced in a cozy inn, reading Dickens and sipping tea while toasting her toes against a cheery fire.
Instead she found herself trudging up a muddy road on the Scottish border in the middle of what had to be the worst storm in two hundred years. In December, no less. With only the clothes on her back.
This was not exactly a Currier and Ives kind of Christmas vacation.
She turned her face into the wind, picked her way around a puddle and kept walking. She wouldn’t go home until she’d done what she came to do. She’d bungled every other job she’d ever had, but she wouldn’t bungle this one. No matter how awful things got.
Rain began to leak past her collar. As her back grew increasingly damp, her thoughts turned to her brother. This was, of course, entirely his fault. If he hadn’t been bitten by that search-for-your-ancestors bug, he never would have bought a castle and all that went with it, and he never would have sent her to look it over. Surely he should have known what would befall her on this ill-fated trip.
Hadn’t he had an inkling that her row-mate on the flight over might be a screaming two-year-old? Shouldn’t he have warned her that her luggage might vanish as she stood innocently in line to buy a train ticket north? Should there not have been some doubt in his overused brain that the weather in December might be a tad bit on the wet side? Hadn’t he felt the slightest desire to rethink his plans for her as he booked her a room in a no-stoplight town at an inn that would subsequently lose her reservation?
Megan hopped over another pothole and gave her missing reservation more thought. Had it been merely missing or deliberately mislaid? Had the desk clerk taken one look at her bedraggled, luggageless self and come to a hasty decision about her desirability as a guest?
After making certain she understood there was no room for her at his inn, he had offered to make her a reservation at the only other hotel within miles. A quiet place, just a wee bit up the road—conveniently near the castle, he’d said. Megan had been overjoyed that there was actually another bed waiting for her within walking distance, especially since she hadn’t seen anything resembling a taxi since the train had paused long enough for her to jump down onto the platform. Maybe Thorpewold didn’t see all that many visitors.
She lurched to a stop, braced herself against the wind and peered into the mist. She frowned. Had she taken a wrong turn somewhere? Just how far was “wee” anyway?
Then she froze. Either the wind was revving up for a new round of buffeting, or that was a car approaching. She listened carefully. Yes, that was a car, and it sounded like it was heading her way. Megan stood up straighter and dragged a hand through her hair. No sense in not looking her best for a potential ride. The car came closer. She put on her best smile and started to wave. It was the Cinderella parade wave she’d perfected but never had the chance to use.
Even the headlights were now visible. Good. At least she wouldn’t get run over before she could beg a ride.
“Hey,” she shouted as the car materialized from the mist, “can I have a—”
She barely had time to close her mouth before the tidal wave struck. The car whizzed by, drenching her from head to toe. Megan looked down at her mud-splattered self, then blinked and looked up. The taillights faded into the drizzle.
She hadn’t been seen. That was it. No one was in such a hurry that they would drive past a dripping maiden in distress and not offer so much as a “keep a stiff upper lip” in passing. Well, at least the car seemed to be going somewhere. That was reassuring. Megan wiped her face and continued on her way.
Fortunately it took her only minutes to reach civilization. The mist lifted far enough for her to see a sturdy, comfortable-looking inn. The lights were on and smoke was pouring from the chimneys; these were very good signs. Maybe she would actually be able to hold on to her reservation this time.
Her eyes narrowed at the sight of her errant would-be rescuer’s car parked so tidily next to the inn. A tall figure headed toward the door and a horrible thought occurred to her. What if her room was the last one and this person sweet-talked his way into it?
She bolted for the steps. The man entered before her, but Megan didn’t let that deter her. She grabbed the door behind him, then elbowed her way past him and sprinted to the little desk in the alcove under the stairs. She plopped her shoulder bag onto the counter then smiled triumphantly at the woman behind the desk. In fact, the thrill of victory was making her light-headed. She clutched the edge of the desk as she felt herself begin to sway.
And then, quite suddenly, her feet were no longer under her. She squeaked as she felt herself being lifted up by what seemed to be remarkably strong arms. She threw her arms around very broad shoulders—just in case her rescuer decided she was damp enough to warrant dropping. She let go with one hand to push her soggy hair back out of her eyes. She opened her mouth to tell him his actions would have been more timely had they occurred fifteen minutes earlier, then completely lost track of what she’d intended to say.
Maybe all that water had seeped into her brain. Or maybe she’d just never seen anyone quite this handsome before. This was the kind of man she wouldn’t mind finding under the Christmas tree with a bow on his head.
His face was ruggedly chiseled, with only the fullness in his mouth to soften his features. His dark blond hair was, irritatingly enough, perfectly dry and casually styled, as if he’d just shaken it out that morning and it had behaved simply because he’d wanted it to. Megan stared into his bluish-green eyes and found that she was fanning herself. There was something so blatantly, ruthlessly handsome about the man that she felt a bit weak in the knees. All right, so his driving habits left a lot to be desired. The man had saved her from a possible faint and, considering how he looked up close, she thought she might be able to forgive him.
“Thanks,” she managed, surreptitiously wiping a bit of drool from the corner of her mouth.
He only frowned back at her.
Even his frown was beautiful. Megan smiled her best smile. “Thanks,” she repeated, wondering if it would sink in this time, “but I wasn’t going to faint.”
He pursed his lips and set her down well away from where she’d been standing.
“You were dripping on my laptop,” he said, reaching down to give his computer bag a quick swipe. He looked back at her. “And you’re also dripping on the carpet,” he noted.
Megan blinked. That certainly didn’t sound like an undying declaration of love, nor an offer to stuff himself in her stocking. Perhaps her current state of drowned-ratdom was getting in the way of his fa
lling at her feet and pledging eternal devotion. She flipped her wet hair to the other side of her face, hoping to achieve a more windblown, ruffled look.
The man looked down at the new drops of water on his computer bag, then scowled at her.
“How did you manage to get so wet?” he demanded.
Megan frowned. Maybe hers wasn’t the only brain that had taken on too much water. “You would know,” she said.
He blinked. “I would?”
“You splashed me,” she reminded him.
“I did?”
“With your car!”
“Hmmm,” he said, then glanced down at his computer. Something must have caught his attention because he knelt down and started unzipping the bag. Megan watched as he pulled out a cell phone and fired it up.
Megan gritted her teeth. Somehow his manly good looks had distracted her, but she was feeling much better now. This was not the kind of man for her, no sir. No matter how finely made he was, if he couldn’t remember his moments of unchivalry and apologize properly for them, she wanted nothing further to do with him.
She turned her back on him and his bad manners and planted herself resolutely in front of the little desk that seemed to serve as the check-in point. When he could tear himself away from work long enough to apologize, then she would think about forgiving him. Until then, he could suffer. She would ignore him until he begged her to stop.
That resolved neatly, she gave her attention to the matter at hand: throwing herself upon the mercy of the innkeeper. She took in the sight of the sad attempts at making the reception area seem dressed for the holidays, hoping to find something there she could gush over. A little buttering up of the proprietress couldn’t go wrong. The desk was decorated with a few sprigs of holly and a ribbon or two. Megan looked up. Garlic hung in great bunches above the desk area, draped liberally on the overhang made by the stairs.