“Expecting vampires any time soon?” she asked the woman behind the counter.
The white-haired woman leaped to her feet as if she’d been catapulted out of her chair.
“Ye’ve no idea,” she whispered frantically. Her eyes darted from side to side and she kept looking over her shoulder as if she expected to be attacked from behind at any moment.
Megan opened her mouth to suggest that perhaps the garlic might do the woman more good if she wore it around her neck, then thought better of it. The innkeeper looked as if one good push would topple her right over the edge as it was.
“Yer name, lass?” the woman asked, leaning forward as if to keep the walls from overhearing.
“Megan,” Megan began slowly. “Megan McKinnon.”
The woman’s hand flew to her throat and she gasped. “A McKinnon in the house! The saints preserve us all!”
“This isn’t good,” Megan said, biting her lip. This was all she needed, to be kicked out on account of her ancestry. “My mother was a MacLeod,” she offered.
“Even worse!” the woman exclaimed.
“I’m from America,” Megan said quickly. “Does that help? No, wait, don’t say anything else. I don’t want to know. Let’s just get down to business and forget all the rest. Ye Olde Tudor Inn called over and made a reservation for me. You did get the call, didn’t you, Mrs.... ?”
“Pruitt,” the woman moaned. “And, aye, I’ve got yer roo—” her voice cracked, then she cleared her throat. “Room,” she managed. “If ye’re sure ye want it.”
“Oh, I want it,” Megan assured her.
“Ye’ve a private bath, too,” Mrs. Pruitt added. “Up the stairs, down the hallway on yer left. If ye’re certain here is where ye truly want to stay—”
A pen suddenly slapped itself down next to Megan’s hand. Mrs. Pruitt screeched and leaped back, making Megan jump. Megan took a deep breath to calm her suddenly racing heart. Then she remembered the splashing one who’d been kneeling beside her, dusting off his precious computer. He’d obviously decided to interrupt Mrs. Pruitt’s tirade by throwing his pen at her. Maybe he was antsy to get checked in. Megan turned toward him, ready to give him a lecture on not frightening potential hostesses.
Only he wasn’t standing next to her anymore. He was talking on his cell phone, looking for a plug for the laptop he’d already unearthed from its case.
Odd. Megan looked back at Mrs. Pruitt. Maybe this quaking creature had produced the pen with a clever sleight of hand trick. But if she’d been the one to do it, why had she screeched like a banshee? Megan decided it was best not to give that any more thought. Mrs. Pruitt owned a hotel possessing a room with a private bath. At this point, that was all that mattered.
She signed her name and held out the pen. Mrs. Pruitt looked at it in horror.
“Okay,” Megan said, setting the pen down carefully. “You don’t seem to want this. I’m not sure why, but I’m certain I don’t want to know. What I do want to know is if I can get dinner here.”
“In an hour,” Mrs. Pruitt blurted out. “In the dining room. The saints preserve us through it!”
“Okay,” Megan agreed. “I’m sure it will be just lovely. Now, where do I go—”
“Up the stairs. Last door on the left.” The woman practically flung the key at her.
Megan caught it neatly and gathered up her shoulder bag.
“Do ye need yer other bags carried up?” Mrs. Pruitt asked.
Megan paused. Her lack of luggage certainly hadn’t aided her cause previously, but at least this time she had the key already in hand.
“My luggage was stolen,” Megan admitted.
“Oh merciful saints above!” the woman exclaimed. “What’ll happen next to ye?”
“It wasn’t all that bad—”
“Ach, but ye’ve no idea,” the woman interrupted, her eyes practically rolling back in her head. “No idea—”
“BY THE SAINTS, MRS. PRUITT, QUIT YER BABBLING. AND YOU, MEGAN, GO UP TO YER BLOODY BEDCHAMBER!”
Mrs. Pruitt gave vent to another screech and ducked down behind the desk. Megan whirled around with a gasp, incensed that a perfect stranger should speak to her so rudely.
“What did you say?” she demanded of the delectable hunk of manliness with no manners.
He didn’t look up.
“Hey,” she said, coming to stand next to him, “I asked you a question.” She dripped on him for good measure.
He looked up and blinked at her. “Yes?” he asked, tipping his phone away from his mouth.
Megan looked at him with narrowed eyes. “Who said you could order us around like that?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Hey,” Megan said, wagging her finger at him, “don’t give me that changing your voice routine either. Where’d that obnoxious accent go?”
There was a groan and a thump. Megan looked over to find that Mrs. Pruitt had fallen to the floor in a dead faint.
“I haven’t the foggiest notion of what you’re going on about,” the man said, looking very perplexed. Then he turned back to his computer and said no more.
Megan looked from him to their fallen proprietress and then back to him. He was already entrenched in his business again. Obviously good looks and good manners did not necessarily come in the same package. She sighed. So much for a handsome stocking stuffer this year.
She turned and walked back across the foyer. It took only a touch on the arm to have Mrs. Pruitt roused from her swoon and screeching again.
“It’s just me,” Megan said, flinching. “I think you fainted.”
“I’m f-fine,” Mrs. Pruitt said, her teeth chattering like castanets. She accepted Megan’s help in getting back to her feet. “Just go up to yer room, miss, quick as may be.”
“But I think you might need help. Is there somewhere you could lie down? I’ll fix you a cup of—”
“OH, BY ALL THE BLOODY SAINTS . . .”
Megan froze. She met Mrs. Pruitt’s terrified eyes and swallowed, hard. Then she looked over her shoulder. The Corporate One was still gabbing into his cell phone, completely ignoring them. Megan turned back to Mrs. Pruitt.
“The wind?” she offered.
Mrs. Pruitt turned her around and pointed her toward the stairs. “I’ll bring ye some dry clothes as quick as may be,” she said, pushing Megan across the entryway. “Just go on up, lass. Please.”
Megan hesitated at the bottom of the staircase. What sort of loony bin had she signed herself into? Men doing business in entry halls, innkeepers begging their guests to move along, voices coming from nowhere?
“I’m beginning to wonder if I should even stay,” Megan said slowly.
The front door flew open and slammed back against the wall. The next gust of wind blew Megan up half a dozen stairs. Mrs. Pruitt fled around the desk and hid behind it. Megan saw the rude one rise, shut the door and then return to his hunched down position near the wall.
She shook her head, then turned and climbed slowly up the remaining steps. It was either stay here or head back out into the storm, and the latter was a very unappealing alternative. So what if everyone else in the house was bonkers? With any luck, her room would have a heavy-duty lock on it and she could bolt herself inside except for meals.
The front door must not have closed very well because the wind seemed to howl in spite of it. Megan shivered. Mrs. Pruitt’s jumpiness was starting to rub off on her.
She let herself into her room and closed the door behind her. A hot bath awaited. She smiled for the first time in hours. Yes, indeedy, things were certainly looking up.
Maybe the trip would be worth it after all.
AMBROSE MACLEOD SIGHED as he stepped into the fray and forcibly removed Hugh’s fingers from about Fulbert’s throat.
“Dinnae order me gel about!” Hugh thundered.
“She wasn’t moving bloody fast enough to suit me,” Fulbert threw back, rubbing his offended neck. “And she called me accent obnoxious!”
 
; “Which it is, especially since we agreed not to converse with them unless absolutely necessary!” Ambrose exclaimed, glaring at Fulbert. “And you needn’t have spoken to the child in such a coarse manner.”
Fulbert scowled. “She should have gone straight up to her chamber instead of chattering on with that blasted Mrs. Pruitt. Besides, she kept adrippin’ all over his confounded . . . ah . . . confounded scribbling machine,” he finished, looking less than sure of his terminology.
“That’s computer, dolt,” Hugh snarled. “Any fool knows that—argghh!”
Ambrose applied himself this time to removing Fulbert’s beefy fingers from about Hugh’s throat.
“By the saints, cease!” Ambrose put one hand on Fulbert’s shoulder and the other on Hugh’s and held them apart. “How are we to do any proper matchmaking when all you two can do is go at each other? I’m of a mind to banish you both outside until the deed’s done.”
Fulbert folded his arms over his chest and clenched his jaw. Hugh scrunched up his face in what Ambrose readily recognized as his determined expression.
“I’m beginning to think neither of you wants to see this come about.”
There was more clenching and scrunching. Ambrose knew it was time for drastic measures. He’d never see anything finished if he had to spend all his time reprimanding the troops.
“Very well,” he said, with his sternest look, “I’ve come to a decision. Since Fulbert has had his turn urging young Megan along the proper path, ’tis only fair Hugh should have his turn with Gideon. I daresay he’ll know what needs to be done first.”
Hugh eyed the laptop with barely restrained glee. Fulbert huffed in outrage.
“He’ll damage the boy’s livelihood! The saints only know what’ll happen to his person!”
Ambrose clapped Hugh on the shoulder. “He’ll only do what he must. Perhaps you’ll have a bit more care with Megan the next time.”
Fulbert harrumphed and vanished. Ambrose smiled pleasantly at his cousin.
“I’m off for a stroll, Hugh. I’ll expect a report on your progress before nightfall.”
“Aye,” Hugh said, advancing on Gideon.
Ambrose walked through walls and such until he came to the overgrown garden. He clucked his tongue at the sight. He’d have to have another chat with Mrs. Pruitt about her care of the inn. If she’d only stop screaming long enough for him to give her his list of instructions.
Truly, women could be so confounded irrational at times.
Chapter Two
THE HONOURABLE GIDEON de Piaget, president and CEO of Artane Enterprises, suppressed the urge to take his cellular phone and smash it through the wall.
“Put the fool on the phone, Humphreys,” Gideon growled.
“I fear, my lord Gideon, that your brother is engrossed in a medieval text at the moment.”
“I don’t doubt it!” Gideon shouted. “Interrupt him!”
Humphreys tsk-tsked. “Really, my lord. Such displays of temper do not become you.”
“I’ll have you sacked!” Gideon roared.
“I believe Lord Stephen retains that privilege. Have a pleasant holiday, my lord,” Humphreys said.
Gideon listened to the line go dead. Damn Stephen! As if this bloody holiday was actually going to relax him! He had mergers to contemplate, acquisitions to make, huge sums of money to move about. The entire company would go under in two weeks with Stephen at the helm. If he held true to form, he’d stay buried in some blighted old manuscript while billions of pounds floated merrily off down the Thames!
Gideon closed up his laptop and jerked the plug from the wall. He’d check in and then get down to some serious work in spite of his entire staff. And once this enforced holiday was over, he’d return and sack every one of them. Starting with his personal secretary.
Gideon ground his teeth at the thought of her. Alice had taken Stephen’s suggestion that she go on holiday without so much as a by-your-leave from him personally. And this only after passing on to the rest of the employees Stephen’s instructions for the entire company to refuse Gideon’s calls. Gideon scowled. They could refuse to talk to him, but they couldn’t control what he did four hours away from London. He would hook up his modem and pretend he was at the office. Stephen would never be the wiser.
Go on holiday or I’ll sack you.
Gideon grunted as he gathered up his gear. His brother had walked into his office two days ago and said those words, as if Gideon would actually take them seriously! Stephen had been inspired, he’d said, to send Gideon off to his own favorite retreat. It would do him a world of good, or so Stephen had claimed. Gideon had thrown his brother out of his office bodily.
Of course the board meeting the next day had been a little unsettling, what with Stephen having led a unanimous vote for Gideon’s holiday on pain of termination. Protests had gotten him a signed motion requiring him to leave that day and hole up in some deserted inn on the Scottish border for a fortnight. Alice had been smirking as she’d taken notes. The old harridan had probably instigated the entire affair.
Gideon strode purposefully toward the reception desk. The woman behind the desk stood, looking quite frankly unsettled. Perhaps she wasn’t used to her guests assaulting outlets in her entryway. Or, more likely, she was used to Stephen who retreated here once a year to do nothing more than ensconce himself in the blasted library and bury his nose in yet another book. Gideon looked at the proprietress.
“Mrs. Pruitt, I presume?” he said, dropping his suitcase with a thud. “I’m Gideon de Piaget.”
“Aye, Lord Blythwood,” she said, in shaky voice. “Your b-brother said you’d be arriving today.”
“No doubt,” Gideon said curtly. “And it was against my will, as it happens.”
Mrs. Pruitt held out the key. Her expression was such that Gideon couldn’t help but feel a faint fondness for her. She looked as if she were sentencing him to certain death.
“I couldn’t agree more,” he said, taking the key from her trembling fingers. “My room?”
“Up the stairs,” she said, her very essence seeming to become more frantic. “First door on the right.”
Gideon frowned. “You do have a phone in the room, don’t you?” he asked. “And an outlet?”
“Aye, my lord.”
What else did he need? Gideon attributed her actions to far too much inclement weather and not enough hustle and bustle. After all, what sort of mental stimulation could a sleepy old inn in the midst of nowhere provide a person? It was no wonder Stephen loved the place. He could read in peace.
Gideon started up the stairs, eager to finally get settled in and down to work.
He frowned as he fought to reach the upper floor. His bags weren’t that heavy. He looked quickly behind him, but no one was there. He could have sworn someone was tugging on his laptop. Taking a firmer grip on his things, he leaned forward and applied himself to just getting up the steps.
And then, quite suddenly, he lost his grip. He made a frantic grab for the computer, deciding in a split second that his suitcase would better survive the trip back down to the entryway. The phone had flown upward and Gideon quickly positioned himself to catch it when it came back down.
And then he watched in complete astonishment as it flew past his outstretched hand, back down the stairs and smashed into the front door. Mrs. Pruitt screeched and fled. Gideon looked at the pieces of his phone scattered in the entry.
It just hadn’t been his day.
He sighed deeply as he descended and retrieved his suitcase. He turned his back on the wreckage and climbed the steps. What good was his cell phone anyway? It wasn’t as if anyone would talk to him.
He entered his room, tossed his suitcase on the bed and looked about for a desk. Espying a choice antique vanity, he removed all the paraphernalia and set up his machine. Miracle of all miracles, there was a phone nearby. He unplugged it and secured the modem cable. Finding an outlet wasn’t as convenient, but he’d purchased an extra long cord for just s
uch a situation.
He shrugged out of his mac, stripped off his stifling sweater and sat down to work in his shirtsleeves. He turned the computer on, then called in to his company server. He drummed his fingers impatiently against the wood of the vanity. Remote access was irritatingly slow, but he’d make do.
He typed in his password and held his breath.
And then he smiled for the first time in seventy-two hours. Stephen obviously hadn’t been thinking clearly, else he would have locked Gideon out of the system. Gideon opened up his favorite spreadsheet program and pulled up a list of the week’s transactions, already feeling his pulse quicken. This was what he was meant to do. Just looking at the columns and knowing he was responsible for their contents sent a rush of adrenaline through him. The sheer power of controlling these kinds of—
The room was suddenly plunged into darkness.
Gideon swore in frustration. Damned old inn. He heaved himself up from the chair, strode across the room, and threw open the door. To his surprise, there was a light coming from the end of the corridor. Perhaps only his room was acting up. He gathered up his gear and tromped down the hallway toward the light.
He opened the door and entered without knocking. A woman gasped and Gideon pulled up short. He recognized her as the one who had dripped all over his computer downstairs. He frowned at her.
“I need your outlet.”
“What?”
“Your outlet,” he said impatiently. “The power’s out in my room.”
“I’m trying to get dressed here,” she said curtly.
Gideon wrestled his attention away from his outlet search long enough to verify that she was indeed standing there in only a towel.
The sight was enough to make him pause a little longer. He started at her toes, skimmed over nicely turned ankles and continued up. Then he stopped. She had freckles on her knees. For some odd reason, it made him want to smile. It was like seeing sunshine after endless days of rain. She obviously didn’t use much sunblock, or she wouldn’t have had so many sun spots. And what a shame that would have been.