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The Presence
Heather Graham
The ultimate moneymaking plan—buy the ancient, run-down Scottish castle and turn it into a tourist destination.Toni Fraser and her friends will put on reenactments combining fact and fiction, local history, murder and an imaginary laird named Bruce MacNiall. Just as someone arrives, claiming to actually be Laird MacNiall—a tall, dark, formidable Scot somehow familiar to Toni—the bodies of young women are found, dumped and forgotten in the nearby town. But even stranger, how is it possible this laird exists?Toni invented Bruce MacNiall for the performance…yet sinister, lifelike dreams suggest he's connected to the recent deaths. Bruce claims he wants to help catch the murderer. But even if she wants to, can Toni trust him…when her visions seem to be coming from within the very eyes of the killer himself?



Praise for the novels of Heather Graham
“An incredible storyteller.”
—Los Angeles Daily News
“Graham does a great job of blending
just a bit of paranormal with real, human evil.”
—Miami Herald on Unhallowed Ground
“A fast-paced and suspenseful read
that will give readers chills while
keeping them guessing until the end.”
—RT Book Reviews on Ghost Moon
“There are good reasons for Graham’s
steady standing as a bestselling author.
Graham’s atmospheric depiction of a lost city
is especially poignant.”
—Booklist on Ghost Walk
“Graham’s latest is nerve-racking in the extreme,
solidly plotted and peppered with
welcome hints of black humor. And the ending’s
all readers could hope for.”
—RT Book Reviews on The Last Noel
“[A] spooky post-Katrina mystery … Dream
messages and premonitions, ghostly sightings,
capable detective work and fascinating characters
blend to make a satisfying chiller.”
—Publishers Weekly on Deadly Night
“Mystery, sex, paranormal events.
What’s not to love?”
—Kirkus Reviews on The Death Dealer

Also by HEATHER GRAHAM
NIGHT OF THE VAMPIRES
GHOST MOON
GHOST NIGHT
GHOST SHADOW
THE KILLING EDGE
NIGHT OF THE WOLVES
HOME IN TIME FOR CHRISTMAS
UNHALLOWED GROUND
DUST TO DUST
NIGHTWALKER
DEADLY GIFT
DEADLY HARVEST
DEADLY NIGHT
THE DEATH DEALER
THE LAST NOEL
THE SÉANCE
BLOOD RED
THE DEAD ROOM
KISS OF DARKNESS
THE VISION
THE ISLAND
GHOST WALK
KILLING KELLY
THE PRESENCE
DEAD ON THE DANCE FLOOR
PICTURE ME DEAD
HAUNTED
HURRICANE BAY
A SEASON OF MIRACLES
NIGHT OF THE BLACKBIRD
NEVER SLEEP WITH STRANGERS
EYES OF FIRE
SLOW BURN
NIGHT HEAT
the
PRESENCE
HEATHER

GRAHAM


www.mira.co.uk (http://www.mira.co.uk)
For Rich Devin, Lance Taubald, Leslie and
Leland Burbank, Connie Perry, Jo Carol,
Peggy McMillan, Sharon Spiak,
Sue-Ellen Wellfonder, Kathryn Falk and Rubin,
with much love—and to great memories of
streams and castles in Scotland.

Prologue
Nightmares
The scream rose and echoed in the night with a bloodcurdling resonance that only the truly young, and truly terrified, could create.
Her parents ran into the room, called by instinct to battle whatever force had brought about such absolute horror in their beloved child.
Yet there was nothing. Nothing but their nine-year-old, standing on the bed, arms locked at her side, fingers curled into her fists with a terrible rigidity, as if she had suddenly become an old woman. She was screaming, the sound coming again and again, high, screeching, tearing, like the sound of fingernails dragged down the length of a blackboard.
Both parents looked desperately around the room, then their eyes met.
“Sweetheart, sweetheart!”
Her mother came for her unnoticed and tried to take the girl into her arms, but she was inflexible. The father came forward, calling her name, taking her and then shaking her. Once again, she gave no notice.
Then she went down. She simply crumpled into a heap in the center of the bed. Again the parents looked at one another, then the mother rushed forward, sweeping the girl into her arms, cradling her to her breast. “Sweetie, please, please …! ”
Blue eyes, the color of a soft summer sky, opened to hers. They were filled with angelic innocence. The child’s head was haloed by her wealth of white-blond hair, and she smiled sleepily at the sight of her mother’s face, as if nothing had happened, as if the bone-jarring sounds had never come from her lips.
“Did you have a nightmare?” her mother asked anxiously.
Then a troubled frown knit her brow. “No!” she whispered, and the sky-blue eyes darkened, the fragile little body began to shake.
The mother looked at her husband, shaking her head. “We’ve got to call the doctor.”
“It’s two in the morning. She’s had a nightmare.”
“We need to call someone.”
“No,” her father said firmly. “We need to tuck her back into bed and discuss it in the morning.”
“But—”
“If we call the doctor, we’ll be referred to the emergency room. And if we go to the emergency room, we’ll sit there for hours, and they’ll tell us to take her to a shrink in the morning.”
“Donald!”
“It’s true, Ellen, and you know it.” Ellen looked down. Her daughter was staring at her with huge eyes, shaking now. “The police!” she whispered. “The police?” Ellen asked.
“I saw him, Mommy. I saw what that awful man did to the lady.”
“What lady, darling?”
“She was on the street, stopping cars. She had big red hair and a short silver skirt. The man stopped for her in a red car with no top, like Uncle Ted’s. She got in with him and he drove and then … and then …”
Donald walked across the room and took hold of his daughter’s shoulders. “Stop this! You’re lying. You haven’t been out of this room!”
Ellen shoved her husband away. “Stop it! She’s terrified as it is.”
“And she wants us to call the police? Our only child will wind up on the front page of the papers, and if they don’t catch this psycho murdering women, he’ll come after her! No, Ellen.”
“Maybe they can catch him,” Ellen suggested softly.
“You have to forget it!” Donald said sternly to his daughter.
She nodded gravely, then shook her head. “I have to tell it!” she whispered.
Ellen seldom argued with Donald. But tonight she had picked her battle.
“When this happens … you have to let her talk.”
“No police!” Donald insisted.
“I’ll call Adam.”
“That shyster!”
“He’s no shyster and you know it.”
Donald’s eyes slid from his wife’s to those of his daughter, which were awash in misery and a fear she shouldn’t have to know. “Call the man,” he said.
* * *
He was very old; that was Toni’s first opinion of Adam Harrison. His face was long, his body was thin, and his hair was snow-white. But his eyes were the kindest, most knowing, she had seen in her nine years on earth.
He came to the bedside, took her hand, clasped it firmly between his own and smiled slowly. She had been shaking, but his gentle hold eased the trembling from her, just as it warmed her. He was very special. He understood that she had seen what she had seen without ever leaving the house. And she knew, of course, that it was ridiculous. Such things didn’t happen. But it had happened.
She hated it. Loathed it. And she understood her father’s concern. It was a very bad thing. People would make fun of her—or they would want to use her ability for their own purposes.
“So, tell me about it,” Adam said to her, after he had explained that he was an old friend of her mother’s family.
“I saw it,” she whispered, and the shaking began again.
“Tell me what you saw.”
“There was a woman on the street, trying to get cars to stop. One stopped. She leaned into it, and she started to talk to the man about money. Then she went with him. She got into the car. It was red.”
“It was a convertible?”
“Like Uncle Ted’s car.”
“Right,” he said, squeezing her hand again.
Her voice became a monotone. She repeated some of the conversation between the man and woman word for word. Perspiration broke out on her body as she felt the woman’s growing sense of fear. She couldn’t breathe as she described the knife. She was drenched with sweat at the end, and cold. So cold. He talked to her and assured her.
Then the police arrived, called by neighbors who were awakened by her screams.
The two officers flanked her bed and started firing questions at her, demanding to know what she had seen—or what had been done to her.
Despite the terror, she felt all right because of Adam. But then huge tears formed in her eyes. “Nothing, nothing! I saw nothing!”
Adam rose, his voice firm and filled with such authority that even the men with their guns and badges listened to him. They left the room. Adam winked at her and went with the men, telling her that he would talk to them.
A month later, the police came back to the house. She could hear her father angrily telling them that they had to leave her alone. But despite his argument, she found herself facing a police officer who kept asking her terrible questions. He described horrific things, his voice growing rougher and rougher. Somewhere in there, she closed off. She couldn’t bear to hear him anymore.
She woke up in the hospital. Her mother was by her side, tears in her eyes. She was radiant with happiness when Toni blinked and looked at her.
Her father was there, too. He kissed Toni on the forehead, then, choking, left the room. An older man in the back stepped up to her.
“You’re going to move,” he told her cheerfully. “Out to the country. The police will never come again.” “The police?”
“Yes, don’t you remember?”
She shook her head. “I’m sorry … I’m really sorry. I don’t know who you are.”
He arched a fuzzy white brow, staring at her. “I’m Adam. Adam Harrison. You really don’t remember me?”
She studied him gravely and shook her head. She was lying, but he just smiled, and his smile was warm and comforting.
“Just remember my name. And if you ever need me, call me. If you dream again, or have a nightmare.”
“I don’t have nightmares,” she told him.
“If you dream …”
“Oh, I’m certain I don’t have dreams. I don’t let myself have dreams. Some people can do that, you know.”
His smile deepened. “Yes, actually, I do know. Well, Miss Antoinette Fraser, it has been an incredible pleasure to see you, and to see you looking so well. If you ever just want to say hello, remember my name.”
She gripped his hand suddenly. “I will always remember your name,” she told him.
“If you ever need me, I’ll be there,” he promised.
He brushed a kiss on her forehead, and then he was gone. Just a whisper of his aftershave remained.
Soon her memory faded and the whole thing became vague, not real. There was just a remnant in her mind, no more than that whisper of aftershave when someone was really, truly gone.
InterludeWhen Cromwell Reigned




From his vantage point, MacNiall could see them, arrayed in all their glittering splendor. The man for whom they fought, the ever self-righteous Cromwell, might preach the simplicity and purity one should seek in life, but when he had his troops arrayed, he saw to it that no matter what their uniform, they appeared in rank, and their weapons shone, as did their shields.
As it always seemed to be with his enemy, they were unaware of how a fight in the Highlands might best be fought. They were coming in their formations. Rank and file. Stop, load, aim, fire. March forward. Stop, load, aim, fire….
Cromwell’s troops depended on their superior numbers. And like all leaders before him, Cromwell was ready to sacrifice his fighting man. All in the name of God and the Godliness of their land—or so the great man preached.
MacNiall had his own God, as did the men with whom he fought. For some, it was simply the God that the English did not face. For others, it had to do with pride, for their God ruled the Scottish and Presbyterian church, and had naught to do with an Englishman who would sever the head of his own king.
Others fought because it was their land. Chieftains and clansmen, men who would not be ruled by such a foreigner, men who seldom bowed down to any authority other than their own. Their land was hard and rugged. When the Romans had come, they had built walls to protect their own and to keep out the savages they barely recognized as human. In the many centuries since, the basic heart of the land had changed little. Now, they had another cause—the return of the young Stuart heir and their hatred for their enemy.
And just as they had centuries before, they would fight, using their land as one of their greatest weapons.
MacNiall granted Cromwell one thing—he was a military man. And he was no fool. He had called upon the Irish and the Welsh, who had learned so very well the art of archery. He had called upon men who knew about cannons and the devastating results of gunpowder, shot and ball, when put to the proper use. All these things he knew, and he felt a great superiority in his numbers, in his weapons.
But still, he did not know the Highlands, nor the soul of the Highland men he faced. And today he should have known the tactics the Highlander would use more so than ever. For MacNiall had heard that these troops were being led by a man who had been one of their own, a Scotsman from the base of the savage lands himself.
Grayson Davis—turncoat, one who had railed against Cromwell. Yet one who had been offered great rewards—the lands of those he could best and destroy.
Like Cromwell, Davis was convinced that he had the power, the numbers and the right. So MacNiall counted on the fact that he would underestimate his enemy—the savages from the north, ill equipped, unkempt, many today in woolen rags, painted as their ancestors, the Picts, fighting for their land and their freedom.
Rank and file, marching. Slow and steady, coming ever forward. They reached the stream.
“Now?” whispered MacLeod at his side.
“A minute more,” replied MacNiall calmly.
When the enemy was upon the bridge, MacNiall raised a hand. MacLeod passed on the signal.
Their marksman nodded, as quiet, calm and grim as his leaders, and took aim.
His shot was true.
The bridge burst apart in a mighty explosion, sending fire and sparks skyrocketing, pieces of plank and board and man spiraling toward the sky, only to land again in the midst of confusion and terror, bloodshed and death. For they had waited. They had learned patience, and the bridge had been filled.
Lord God, MacNiall thought, almost wearily. By now their enemies should have learned that the death and destruction of human beings, flesh and blood, was terrible.
“Now?” said MacLeod again, shouting this time to be heard over the roar from below.
“Now,” MacNiall said calmly.
Another signal was given, and a hail of arrows arched over hill and dale, falling with a fury upon the mass of regrouping humanity below.
“And now!” roared MacNiall, standing in his stirrups, commanding his men.
The men, flanking those few in view, rose from behind the rocks of their blessed Highlands. They let out their fierce battle cries—learned, perhaps, from the berserker Norsemen who had once come upon them—and moved down from rock and cliff, terrible in their insanity, men who had far too often fought with nothing but their bare hands and wits to keep what was theirs, to earn the freedom that was a way of life.
Clansmen. They were born with an ethic; they fought for one another as they fought for themselves. They were a breed apart.
MacNiall was a part of that breed. As such, he must always ride with his men, and face the blades of his enemy first. He must, like his fellows, cry out his rage at this intrusion, and risk life, blood and limb in the hand-to-hand fight.
Riding down the hillside, he charged the enemy from the seat of his mount, hacking at those who slashed into the backs of his foot soldiers, and fending off those who would come upon him en masse. He fought, all but blindly at times, years of bloodshed having given him instincts that warned him when a blade or an ax was at his back. And when he was pulled from his mount, he fought on foot until he regained his saddle and crushed forward again.
In the end, it was a rout. Many of Cromwell’s great troops simply ran to the Lowlands, where the people were as varied in their beliefs as they were in their backgrounds. Others did not lay down their arms quickly enough, and were swept beneath the storm of cries and rage of MacNiall’s Highlanders. The stream ran red. Dead men littered the beauty of the landscape.
When it was over, MacNiall received the hails of his men, and rode to the base of the hill where they had collected the remnants of the remaining army. There he was surprised to see that among the captured, his men had taken Grayson Davis—the man who had betrayed them,
one of Cromwell’s greatest leaders, sworn to break the back of the wild Highland resistance. Grayson Davis, who hailed from the village that bordered MacNiall’s own, had seen the fall of the monarchy and traded in his loyalty and ethics for the riches that might be acquired from the deaths of other men.
The man was wounded. Blood had all but completely darkened the glitter of the chest armor he wore. His face was streaked with grimy sweat.
“MacNiall! Call off your dogs!” Davis roared to him.
“He loses his head!” roared Angus, the head of the Moray clan fighting there that day.
“Aye, well, and he should be executed as a traitor, as the lot of us would be,” MacNiall said without rancor. They all knew their punishment if they were taken alive. “Still, for now he will be our captive, and we will try him in a court of his peers.”
“What court of jesters would that be? You should bargain with Lord Cromwell, use my life and perhaps save our own, for one day you will be slain or caught!” Davis told him furiously. And yet, no matter his brave words, there was fear in his eyes. There must be, for he stood in the midst of such hatred that the most courageous of men would falter.
“If you’re found guilty, we’ll but take your head, Davis,” MacNiall said. “We find no pleasure in the torture your kind would inflict upon us.”
Davis let out a sound of disgust. It was true, on both sides, the things done by man to his fellow man were surely horrendous in the eyes of God—any god.
“There will be a trial. All men must answer to their choices,” MacNiall said, and his words were actually sorrowful. “Take him,” he told Angus quietly.
Davis wrenched free from the hold of his captors and turned on MacNiall. “The great Laird MacNiall, creating havoc and travesty in the name of a misbegotten king! All hail the man on the battlefield! Yet what man rules in the great MacNiall’s bedchamber? Did you think that you could leave your home to take to the hills, and that the woman you left behind would not consider the fact that one day you will fall? Aye, MacNiall, all men must deal with their choices! And yours has made you a cuckold!”
A sickness gripped him, hard, in the pit of his stomach. A blow, like none that could be delivered by a sword or bullet or battle-ax. He started to move his horse forward.
Grayson Davis began to laugh. “Ah, there, the great man! The terror of the Highlands. The Bloody MacNiall! She wasn’t a victim of rape, MacNiall. Just of my sword. A different sword.”
Grayson Davis’s laughter became silent as Angus brought the end of a poleax swinging hard against his head. The man fell flat, not dead—for he would stand trial—but certainly when he woke his head would be splitting.
Angus looked up at MacNiall.
“He’s a liar,” Angus said. “A bloody liar! Yer wife loves ye, man. No lass is more honored among us. None more lovely. Or loyal.”
MacNiall nodded, giving away none of the emotion that tore through him so savagely. For there were but two passions in his life—his love for king and country … and for his wife. Lithe, golden, beautiful, sensual, brave,
eyes like the sea, the sky, ever direct upon his own, filled with laughter, excitement, gravity and love. Annalise.
Annalise … who had begged him to set down his arms. To rectify his war with Cromwell. Who had warned him that … there could be but a very tragic ending to it all.

1
“Imagine, if you will, the great laird of the castle! The MacNiall himself, famed and infamous, a figure to draw both fear and awe. Ahead of his time, he stood nearly six foot three, hair as black as pitch, eyes the silver gray of steel, capable of glinting like the devil’s own. Some say those orbs burned with the very fires of hell. His arms were knotted with muscle from the wielding of his sword, his ax, whatever weapon fell his way in the midst of battle. It was said that he could take down a dozen men in the opening moments of a fray. Passionate for king and country, he would fight any man who spoke to wrong either. Passionate in love, his anger could rage just as deeply against a woman, if he felt himself betrayed.
“Imagine, then, being his beloved, his bride, his wife, burdened with the most treacherous of advisors, men determined to find a way to bring down a man so great in battle, to further their own aims. Imagine her knowing that she had been betrayed, maligned, and that her laird husband was returning from the blood of the battlefield … intent upon a greater revenge. There … there! He would come to the great doors that gave entry to the hall.”
Toni stood at the railing of the second-floor balcony, pointing to the massive double doors, high on sheer exhilaration. A crowd of awed tourists were gathered below her in the great hall entry, staring up at her.
This was really too good, far more than they had imagined they could accomplish when she and the others had set their wild dream about procuring a run-down castle and creating a very special entertainment complex out of it. So far, David and Kevin had rallied their crowd magnificently by playing a pair of hapless minstrels in the reign of James IV, when the current structure had been built upon the Norman bastion begun by thirteenth-century kings. Ryan and Gina had done a fantastic job playing the daughter of the laird and the stable boy with whom she had fallen tragically in love during the reign of Mary, Queen of Scots. Thayer—the wild card in their sextet—had proved himself more than capable of portraying a laird accused of witchcraft in the time of James VI. And they had all run around as kitchen wenches or servants for one another.
Beyond a doubt, the crowd was into the show. Below, they waited. So Toni continued.
“Alas, it was right here, as I stand now, where, tragically, Annalise met with her husband, that great man of inestimable prowess and, unfortunately, jealousy and rage. Believing the stories regarding his beautiful wife, he curled his fingers around her throat, squeezing the life from her before tossing her callously down the staircase in a fit of uncontrollable wrath. Since he was the great laird of the castle, his servants helped him dispose of the body, and Laird MacNiall went on to fight another day. He was, however, to receive his own just rewards. Though he had bested many, and countless troops had been slaughtered beneath his leadership, Cromwell was to seize the man at last. He received the ultimate punishment: being castrated, disemboweled, decapitated, dismembered and dispersed. His pieces were then gathered by his descendants, and he now lies buried deep within the crypt of these very stone walls! Ah, yes, his mortal remains are buried here. But it’s said that his soul wanders, not just around the castle itself, but through the surrounding hills and braes, and he is known to haunt the forest just beyond the ruins of the old town wall.”
Her words were met with a collective “Ooh!” that was most encouraging. Toni flashed a smile to Gina, hovering in a room off the second-floor landing, watching. Any minute now, Ryan would come riding into the main hall.
“They say he roams his lands still, hunting for his wife, anxious to see her face, filled with love and lust … and a fury seizes him each time he would hold her in all her spectral beauty!”
She glanced at Gina, frowning. Ryan should have made his appearance by now.
Gina looked at her and shrugged, then lifted her hands, indicating that Toni should finish up, however she could manage.
“That night the great laird of the castle came bursting through his doorway!”
As if on cue, a fantastic flash of lightning suddenly tore through the darkness, followed by a massive roar of thunder.
The doors burst open … and a man appeared. Toni inhaled on a sharp breath of disbelief. It wasn’t Ryan. The man was on the biggest black stallion Toni had ever seen. She thought that the prancing animal might breathe fire at any instant.
And the rider … He was damp from the rain, but his hair appeared to be as black as pitch. And though he was atop the giant horse, he appeared massive himself. If his eyes had glowed like the devil’s just then, she didn’t think that she could have been any more surprised. He was the great Laird Bruce MacNiall, the warrior in mantle and kilt, just as she had described him.
Again lightning flashed and thunder rolled and roared.
Toni let out a startled scream, and a collective squawking rose from the audience.
Perfect! Toni thought. It was time to announce that the laird had come home, in all his glory—and wrath. But for once in her life, words failed her. Like the others, she was mesmerized, watching, afraid to breathe, thinking she must have conjured a ghost.
He dismounted from the stallion with such ease that anyone there with a question would still be in the dark as to what a Scotsman wore beneath his kilt. He looked around the great hall with dark, narrowed eyes and a jaw of concrete.
“Who is running this charade?” he demanded harshly.
The spellbound crowd still seemed to believe it was all part of an act.
David, down with the crowd, jumped to life. “The lady at the top of the stairs!” he informed the stranger, pointing up to Toni. Then he did his best to vacate the place as quickly as possible. “And there we are, at the end of the show. Ladies, gentlemen, thank you for your attention!” he said.
The crowd burst into applause, staring at the newcomer as they did so.
The stranger’s scowl deepened.
“Thank you again,” David said. “And now let’s adjourn into the kitchen, where we’ll have the promised tea and scones!”
As Toni watched the crowd disappear, she heard Gina whispering frantically to her. “What is it? What the hell …?” She stepped from the bedroom, moving out on the landing. “Is it Ryan? What on earth has he done now?”
“It’s not Ryan,” Toni murmured beneath her breath. Kevin had followed David and the crowd into the kitchen, but not before looking up the stairs and glaring at her, lifting his hands in a “what the hell …?” motion himself. Thayer must have gone out to help Ryan, since it appeared that Toni and Gina were alone with the irate stranger, who was now slowly striding his way up the stairs.
“Oh, God!” Gina breathed. “You said you made him up!”
“I did!”
“Then who or what is walking up the stairs? Never mind—I can tell you. It’s one very angry man.”
He was angry? Suddenly Toni, who had been so stunned and awed herself, was angry, as well. Who the hell was he, charging in on them? They had a lease option on the castle, and whatever he might be, Great Britain had laws, and he surely had no right here.
“Hello,” she said, determinedly putting ice and strength into her voice. “Can I help you?”
“Can you help me? Aye, that you can!” he snapped. Now that he was close, she could see that his eyes were gray, a dark stormy gray, right now. “Who in the hell are you people and what in God’s name do you think you’re doing here?” If his eyes were a storm, his voice was the thunder that cracked through it. He was a Scotsman, definitely—it was clear from the burr of his words—but his clean, crisp enunciation suggested that he had traveled, as well, and spent a great deal of time in other places.
“Who are we?” she said, frowning. “Who are you?”
“Bruce MacNiall, owner of this castle.”
“The MacNialls are all dead,” she told him.
“Since I am a MacNiall, I beg to differ.”
Behind her, Gina groaned. “Oh, Lord! It sounds as if there’s been some terrible mistake.”
“There’s been no mistake,” Toni said softly to Gina. “There can’t be!” To the stranger who had arrived in perfect theatrical form, she said, “We have a rental agreement, a lease-purchase agreement, as a matter of fact.”
“Whatever you have is not legal,” he said crisply.
“We honestly believe that it is.” Gina stepped forward, smiling ruefully and trying the polite approach. Gina was petite, with a wealth of lustrous brown hair, and green eyes that surveyed the world with intelligence and an easy courtesy. Her forte was public relations. “This,” she continued politely, “is Antoinette Fraser. Toni. I’m Gina Browne. Honestly, sir, we’ve gone through all the right steps and paid a handsome sum for the right to be here. We’re registered and have a license as tour guides. I can’t begin to imagine why you’ve suddenly burst in here tonight. The people in the village, including the constable, know that we’re here. If there was a problem, why are you appearing only now?”
“I have been traveling. The constable didn’t throw you out because he hadn’t had a chance to talk to me, and find out if, for some reason, I had decided to rent the place. I just arrived back in the village this evening, and learned that my home was being turned into the Pete Rose Circus!”
“Oh! Really!” Gina sucked in air.
Toni looked at her, smiling grimly. Gina looked stricken, and certainly she felt the depth of the insult herself. “I quite enjoy the Pete Rose Circus,” she said. Arms crossed over her chest, she turned back to the stranger. “Look, we’re truly baffled by your sudden appearance, especially since we didn’t know that you existed and because we do have legal forms. Perhaps people here keep their own counsel, but surely someone might have mentioned you to us! And … we walked right in here, without even having to acquire keys—we found a set on a hook by the door. Perhaps you’re out of town too frequently, Mr. MacNiall.”
“It’s Laird MacNiall,” he said, his tone dry. “And I could hardly expect to come home and find—”
“Aha!”
The roar of the word sounded along with a new clatter of hoofbeats, cutting off Laird MacNiall. Ryan Browne had at last arrived, sword drawn, risen in his stirrups. He realized almost immediately that the room was emptied of people and filled with a huge black horse. He reined in swiftly, his eyes following the steps until they fell upon the upper landing, and he stared at the three of them.
“The great laird returns to his castle?” he said weakly.
“Where he finds …?”
The black stallion let out a wicked-sounding snicker.
Ryan’s horse, their handsome roan named Wallace, shied. “Another great laird with a bigger horse! Okay … This great laird is leaving,” he said quickly, getting the gelding under control. “But I’ll be back,” he promised.
He turned and left, the roan clattering its way out of the castle.
“I really will have the lot of you arrested,” Bruce MacNiall said. It was more like a growl than a spoken comment. “How dare you burst in here, mocking Scottish history? Americans!”
“Excuse me, I think that we’ve explained all this. We have a lease, a legal document,” Toni said. “And we’re not mocking Scottish history, we’re here because we love it.”
“Listen to me one more time, you addled woman! I own the place, and it has never been for sale or lease!”
It simply couldn’t be, yet his irritated aggression was so vehement that Toni found herself suddenly afraid that something could be really wrong. Gina looked stunned, and equally worried.
Toni stepped up to the plate, ready to do battle. “You’re wrong,” she informed the man claiming to be the living MacNiall. “We have an agreement.”
“The hell you do!”
“We should have you arrested, since you’re doing your best to destroy the tour,” Toni told him, aware that she was taking a slight step back despite her words. “And you’ve certainly no right to call me an addled woman. We have papers that prove we have leased the place. Now you say that you own it! It was filthy and in horrid disrepair. It was obvious that no one had given the least care to this place in years. We’ve been through here repairing electrical connections, replacing wires, plastering and painting—just to keep the place from falling apart completely. The first day, David and Kevin shored up the front wall. We’ve worked our asses off to make it livable.”
“I told you, I’ve been out of the country.”
“All of your life?” she said sharply. “Because if not, you should be ashamed. This place is incredible. If I had owned it since birth, I’d have never let it come to this!”
“My castle is not your concern,” he said icily.
“But it is, because for the next year—at the least—it’s our castle,” she said tightly.
“No, it is not,” he said. “I own the place and I did not lease it!”
Toni was forced to feel another moment’s unease. There was definite conviction in his voice.
“I can see that you’ve put time and work into the place,” he told Gina. “For that, I’m sorry. But the place is not now, nor ever will be, for rent. I would have stopped you, but as I said, I’ve been out of the country.”
“Well, that’s just amazing,” Toni said, stepping in before Gina could reply. “In this day and age, one would have thought that someone in this little village might have known where you were and called you, or at least said something about you when we were buying the paint and materials!”
“Right!” Gina said.
At that moment Ryan came striding back into the great hall. Being Ryan, however, he paused. “Great horse!” he said, staring at the stallion. “What a beautiful animal.”
Bruce MacNiall started back down the stairs. “He’s a mix of long and careful breeding.”
“Draft horse … look at the muscle and the size! And there’s Arab in the history somewhere. He’s almost got the legs of an American Thoroughbred,” Ryan said.
Bruce MacNiall kept walking down, talking to Ryan as easily as if they were friends meeting at a horse show. “Good eye,” he commented. “The mare was a cross between an American Thoroughbred and one of our own stallions. He is something. He’s got the strength of a Belgian, the grace of an Arab and the dignity of a Thoroughbred.”
“Majestic,” Ryan agreed.
Toni and Gina stared at one another, then followed MacNiall’s path down the stairs. The men were both standing at the stallion’s head, admiring the length of his neck and the wide set of his very large eyes.
“Excuse me, but we have a problem here,” Toni reminded them.
“Yeah, what’s up?” Ryan said. He flashed a smile. “Has Toni’s invention come to life? I’m Ryan, by the way. Ryan Browne. Gina’s husband.”
“Pleasure, but I’m afraid that I’ve been very much alive and well for quite some time,” MacNiall said, staring at Toni. She seemed to be the one capable of really drawing his wrath.
Ryan cast his brown gaze toward Toni worriedly. “Didn’t the rental company tell us that the family had died out?”
“They did,” Toni said.
“They lied,” MacNiall informed them. He stared
straight at Toni. “Either that or you’re lying.” His words didn’t seem to include the others, only her. “And you are all trespassing. Which you should know, because it’s obvious that you’ve gotten hold of family history and local lore and rumor.”
“I did not lie!” she protested indignantly.
“Well then, you ‘imagined’ an incredible facsimile of the truth,” he said.
She shook her head. “I knew that a family named MacNiall had owned the place, but that was it. Bruce is a common enough Scottish name. Since we have been working our butts off here, we didn’t really get a chance to question the community on the past!”
“Six-three, pitch-black hair, gray eyes … like the devil’s own,” Gina murmured, staring at the man, then looking at Toni.
“I swear, I made it all up!” Toni said irritably.
“We do have documents,” Ryan said.
Toni bit her lip. Ryan’s approach might work better than her own.
“All right, look, maybe you have some kind of documents—an agreement, a lease, whatever. The point is—” he paused to stare at Toni “—no matter what you have, I’m afraid that you’ve been taken in. Unfortunately, it does seem to be something that happens to Americans now and then. They believe in the almighty Internet, and don’t really research what they’re doing. This is Europe.”
He was beyond irritating. Toni looked at Gina. “Imagine that. This is Europe.”
“You’ve been taken, and that’s that,” MacNiall said flatly to her. “In American? Screwed, Miss Fraser.”
Toni stared at the man without blinking, feeling her facial muscles grow tense. “Gina, perhaps you could show the nice man our documents.”
“Oh, yes! Of course!” Gina turned and went flying down the hallway.
MacNiall shook his head, looking at her.
“We put so much into this—years of saving!” Ryan said with dismay.
MacNiall wasn’t budging. “I’m sorry,” he said flatly.
“Everything,” Ryan murmured.
“Wait a minute, we have to find out the truth here. There’s no reason we should vacate simply on this man’s say-so,” Toni stated. “He’s claiming that we have no right to be here, but how do we know that he really has a right to be here?” The man had called her a liar. She stared straight at him and smiled sweetly. “There are a lot of penniless gentry running around Europe, as we all know. Maybe Laird MacNiall is unaware that government powers have taken control of the property because of nonpayment of taxes or the like?” she suggested.
For a moment, she could well imagine the man strangling her in truth. He did, however, control his temper. His eyes scorned her to the core as he said, “I assure you, that is not the case.”
Gina came running back down the hallway, their lease agreement and licenses in hand.
“Look, Mr. MacNiall … Laird MacNiall.”
Papers fluttered. They all started scooping them up, including MacNiall.
MacNiall righted and studied the documents, shaking his head. “I grant you, they look good. And your licenses and permits appear to be in order. You simply haven’t any right to this place because you were taken in by fraud. I’m very sorry about that, but—”
“Bruce?” A sudden shout came from down the stairs. “Everything all right?”
The new voice came from the entryway. Toni saw that the village law had arrived in the form of Constable Jonathan Tavish. They’d met briefly in town. He was a pleasant man in his early thirties, with sandy hair and a beautiful voice. His R’s rolled almost hypnotically when he spoke. Though he hadn’t mentioned that there was a living descendant of the once great lairds, he had seemed to view their arrival and their plans with worry and skepticism.
Her heart began to sink, and yet, inside, a voice was insisting, No! This just can’t be!
“Everything is just fine, Jon,” Bruce said, eyes coolly set upon Toni once again. “But perhaps you could assure these nice people that I am indeed the owner of the property.”
“The Laird MacNiall,” Tavish told them solemnly. “Owns the castle, half the village and the good Laird above us all knows just what else.”
Toni stared at the man incredulously. Now her heart seemed to thump straight downward into the pit of her stomach. The stunned confusion remained, and once again her temper soared.
Toni suddenly found herself furious with the constable. How could the man have let them all do this without saying a word if there might have been a problem? “Constable Tavish, if this is all true, sir, you might have informed us that there was a living MacNiall who rightfully owned the property and wasn’t known to rent it out!” Toni said, trying very hard to keep her voice level.
The constable looked at her, grimacing ruefully. “If I’ve added to your confusion and distress, lass, I am, indeed, sorry. You never suggested to me that you weren’t aware that Laird MacNiall existed. And until I saw Bruce, I couldn’t be certain that he hadn’t rented the property … though I definitely found it a surprise that he might have done so,” Tavish said.
A crack of lightning showed them that Tavish had not come alone. Behind him was Eban Douglas, a man who had introduced himself as the jack-of-all-trades for the place. They’d explained that they’d put just about everything they had into the rent on the castle and for the repair materials. He’d seemed very pleased, but then again, he always seemed pleased. He was a small, wizened man with tufts of white hair on his skeletal face. Gina referred to him as Igor, and was convinced that he might have made a fortune in life performing as Riff-Raff for the Rocky Horror Picture Show.
He’d actually talked to them a great deal. At times, he’d appeared to help. And never once—in any way, shape or form—had he mentioned that there was a Laird MacNiall who still owned the place.
Despite that—and his rather creepy appearance—he had certainly seemed decent enough. Toni had seen him working about the grounds and had assumed that he was paid by the agency that had rented the castle to them.
A shopkeeper in town had told them that he lived in a little carriage house just beyond the hill in back, a piece of landscape created by the fact that the moat that had surrounded the castle no longer existed.
“You, Eban!” Toni said. “Why didn’t you tell us about Laird MacNiall?” she demanded.
“Y’didna ask,” Eban told her, then grimaced. “I didna know myself—perhap His Lairdship had decided such folks as yerselves might ha been good fer the old place.” He shrugged. “After all, y’were doin’ a fine job of settin’ ‘er ta rights, that y’were!”
“Well, thank you for that acknowledgment, at least! I think we’ve been really good for it,” Toni said, feeling her jaw clench.
“Ah, then, back to the buses!”
David, who had apparently been charming the guests in the massive kitchen, came bursting back into the hallway, the large group of tourists behind him.
“Now, now!” David said as his group began to splinter. “The buses are waiting!” But he had lost control, and their guests began to mingle before leaving, stopping by Toni, Gina, Ryan and Bruce. The four of them, including Bruce MacNiall, received glowing compliments for their performances.
“Oh, it was great!” a woman named Milly—from Chicago, if Toni remembered correctly—cooed to Bruce MacNiall. “I mean, it was all just so wonderful. And then you on this magnificent beast here—pure magic! Thank you so very much. I’ll never, ever, forget this trip to Scotland. What a dream fulfilled it has been!”
“Thank you, dear,” Kevin said, quickly sweeping up behind her to draw her away.
“I loved it!” Milly said.
“Buses are waiting!” Kevin said cheerfully. “Mustn’t hold them up!”
“Really!” Milly called to Bruce MacNiall as she was ushered out.
He had the grace to slightly incline his head to her. “I’m delighted that you’re enjoying Scotland,” he said.
The crowd moved on, passing by the constable and Eban, the tourists chatting and boisterous as they moved out to the courtyard, ready to board their buses.
Thayer, however, was now in the room.
“My cousin! He is a Scotsman!” Toni said. Her words sounded defensive, as though, because Thayer was a Scot, they couldn’t possibly be in a mess here.
“A Scotsman, or an American of Scottish descent?” MacNiall queried.
“Glasgow, born and bred,” Thayer said, frowning. He stepped forward, offering a hand. “Thayer Fraser, sir. I’ve overheard just a bit of this. And I’m really sorry regarding this and my own confusion. We may well be at your mercy. Toni did the paperwork from the States after finding this rental through the Internet. The agreements went through a rental agency, a corporation. But we had a lawyer—and I saw the ads for the place myself, down in Glasgow.”
MacNiall shook his head. Toni once more felt a fierce irritation. Again, the men’s club was meeting, and she and Gina were entirely ostracized. MacNiall was decent enough about horses, and give him a fellow Scotsman and he could almost resemble polite.
“There’s definitely a problem, I’m afraid.”
“Aye, but they been good, Bruce, really good a fixen ‘er up!” Eban announced suddenly.
“We really have put a lot of hard work into it,” Ryan said.
Apparently the tourists had been loaded back onto their buses. David and Kevin came back into the hall.
For a moment, they were all a tableau, at an impasse. David moved up awkwardly. “Laird MacNiall?” he murmured. “David Fulton, and my friend, Kevin Hart. We’re only beginning to understand the gist of what went wrong, but, honestly, no group could have put more toil and loving effort into making improvements here. If you’ll take some time and look around, you’ll see what very real elbow grease has gone into our stay here.”
Then, to Toni’s amazement, Bruce MacNiall uttered an oath beneath his breath, and made what to him must have been a very generous statement. “All right. It’s Friday night. Jon is here with us and can validate who I am, but the legal offices are in town and they won’t be open again until Monday morning. Until then, I believe you’ll have to stay.”
“We’ll have to stay because we paid a great deal of money to be here, and we have legal documentation,” Toni said stubbornly.
Gina jabbed her with an elbow to the ribs. She winced, realizing that maybe she was pushing it. But she wasn’t going to blindly believe this man, or even the local-yokel constable, when she had brought the agreement to an attorney, and he had read over the deal.
“We do have an attorney!” she murmured.
“Solicitor,” Thayer murmured to her softly. “We have solicitors here.”
“I get the feeling he knows what an attorney is,” Toni murmured back softly.
Jonathan Tavish cleared his throat. “Ladies and gentlemen, I’m truly sorry now that I didn’t try to stop you. As I said, I didn’t know for certain that Bruce hadn’t decided to rent out the old ancestral place. But I am afraid that someone knew about the castle—and how much Bruce traveled—and took you for a soaking.” He cleared his throat and looked at Bruce with an uncomfortable shrug.
“Should I take those papers now? Not much I can do on this till Monday, though. Law enforcement spends the weekends goin’ after the dangerous fellows running around out there, I’m afraid. All the law offices are closed.”
“We’ll keep the papers until Monday,” Toni said. Gina stared at her, but the papers were all that they had. She wasn’t letting them out of their own keeping.
“Fine,” Tavish said. “When you come in Monday, bring all your papers.” He cleared his throat. “If you say that everything is in order for the night, Bruce, I’ll be going.”
Bruce MacNiall inclined his head toward the constable, as if he weren’t just the laird here, but world royalty. “Thanks, Jon,” he said. “Come Monday morning, we’ll get these papers they’re talking about into the hands of the proper authorities. Hopefully they’ll be able to track down the frauds who soaked them for their money.”
“Hopefully,” Jonathan Tavish agreed. He gave a smile that seemed to offer some sympathy to the group. “Don’t feel too badly. Won’t be the first time Americans have been taken in. And it won’t be the last. We’ll see what we can do.”
“Thank you,” Thayer said.
Jonathan Tavish gave them all a nod.
“Good night!” Gina called cheerfully.
“And thank you,” Kevin added.
“I’ll be movin’ along, too, then, lest y’be needin’ me,” Eban Douglas said, looking at Bruce MacNiall.
“I think I can manage, Eban,” MacNiall said.
Eban turned and left. He didn’t have a hunched back, nor did he limp, but he somehow gave the appearance of both.
“Do you, uh, stay here when you’re in town?” Ryan asked politely.
The answer was a little slow. An ironic smile seemed to twitch MacNiall’s lips. “With the ancestral home filled with unbelievers? Indeed.”
“Want me to see to the horse? I did some work in the stables. He isn’t usually there, is he?” Ryan asked. “I only ask because the stables were in serious disrepair, and this fellow is so obviously well tended.”
“He was boarded in my absence.”
“How long were you gone? Twenty years?” Toni muttered.
Once again Gina jabbed her fiercely in the ribs.
“I’ll take him out, bed him down,” Ryan offered.
Toni wanted to knock him in the head for the offer, but she knew that he wasn’t being subservient. Ryan simply loved horses. And she had to admit that the animal was magnificent.
“Sure,” MacNiall said. “Thanks. His name is Shaunessy.”
“Shaunessy?” Toni couldn’t quite help herself. “Not Thor, Thunder or King?” Gina’s third strike against her rib cage nearly caused her to cry out. She winced. “Shaunessy,” she said. “Great name.”
Ryan came to lead the horse out. “I’ll give you a hand!” Kevin offered quickly, and they departed.
“There’s tea!” David said suddenly into the awkward silence. “And scones. Great little scones.”
“Wow, tea! I’d love tea!” Gina said. “You’d love tea, too, Toni!” Gina grabbed Toni’s hand. “And we’d love for Laird MacNiall to join us so we can explain about how and why we rented the place … talk about all the work we’ve done here, and find out about Laird MacNiall, while we’re at it?” She looked at him hopefully.
“Since you’ve been so kind to let us stay while we get to the bottom of this, would you be willing to join us, Lord MacNiall?” Thayer asked.
“Thanks. I had a long flight in today, a lot of business and a long drive, only to find out that the castle had been … inhabited,” MacNiall said. “I’ll just retire for the night, if you don’t mind. Please feel free to enjoy your tea, however. And the hospitality. Until Monday.”
“Until Monday?” Toni said, and her reward was a final jab from Gina. This time she protested, staring at Gina. “Ow!”
“Good night!” Gina said, “And thank you.”
“Your papers,” MacNiall said, handing them back to Gina.
“Thank you,” Gina said again. “And thank you for … for letting us stay until Monday. Until this is all straightened out. I don’t know where we’d go, especially at this hour.”
He inclined his head. “I sympathize with your situation,” he said. “Good night, then.” He took one long last look at Toni and turned away.
Toni opened her mouth, about to speak, but Gina clamped a hand over her mouth, desperately whispering, “Just say, ‘Good night, Laird MacNiall!'”
MacNiall looked back, all six feet three inches of him. His eyes now appeared to be more of a true blue, and as sharp as a summer’s sky. Something strange
ripped through Toni. She was caught, frozen. She felt as if she knew him, knew the way that he looked at her. Had known him before. And would know him again. A tremor ran down her spine. Ice. Fire. She had invented him!
He was just a man, she told herself—irritating, superior and angry that they were in his house.
Not true. If his hair were a little longer, his clothing a bit different, just a bit different … “Good night,” he said.
The ice and fire, and a feeling of foreboding so intense she trembled, became too much, far too intense. She turned herself and hurried down the stairs. Ran. Yet a voice whispered to her all the while. You can’t run away. You can’t run away. And something even softer, an afterthought. Not this time …

2
Gina caught up with Toni at the bottom of the stairs.
“What are you doing?” she asked in dismay.
“What am I doing?” Toni echoed. Now that she was away from him, from the way that he looked at her, the trembling had stopped. The strange moment was gone. He was just a man. Tall, wired, muscled, imposing—and irate that they were in what he claimed to be his property.
“Gina!” she said, determined that they would not be groveling idiots, no matter what the situation turned out to be. “Do you hear yourself? You’re thanking him for throwing us out on Monday, after all this!”
“Shh!”
Gina pulled her along, anxious that Laird MacNiall not hear any more of her comments. They moved from the great hall, through a vast dining area and then through another door to the kitchen, a large area where a huge hearth with antique accoutrements still occupied most of the north wall.
There were concessions to the present, however, including the modern stove, freezer, refrigerator and microwave. The huge island counter in the center of the room, set beneath hanging pots and pans, was surely original, and at one time had certainly hosted huge sides of venison, boar and beef. Now cleaned and scrubbed, it was a dining table with a multitude of chairs around it.
The fact that MacNiall hadn’t joined them had opened the floodgates of emotion. Thayer, Gina and Kevin all accosted Toni immediately.
“How the hell did this happen?” Kevin demanded.
“We all saw the agreements! And signed them,” Toni reminded them. She looked around. These were her friends, her very best friends. Gina and Ryan, whom she’d met three years ago while working at a Florida tourist attraction. And David Fulton! Tall, dark and handsome, with the deepest dimples and warmest smile in both hemispheres, David had been Toni’s friend in college. Brokenhearted by the loss of a lover, he’d quickly rallied when he and Toni had gone to a concert with Gina and Ryan, and he had met Kevin—who had immediately fit in.
Toni had been the loner in their group, but in a strange way that had changed when they had come to Scotland together six months ago. They had visited a castle bought by some of its clan members, who had then opened the house to visitors for whatever money they could bring in, thus affording to restore the place. And their wild scheme had hatched. If others had done it, why couldn’t they? It was possible if they pooled their resources.
And that was where Thayer had come into the picture to complete their group of six. Thayer was her cousin, a Fraser. A distant cousin, Toni assumed, since their respective grandfathers had been cousins, which made Thayer … exactly what, she wasn’t sure. He was certainly intelligent and attractive, but he was something even more important to their enterprise—an authentic Scot. Not only was he fluent in Gaelic, he understood the customs and the nuances of doing business in the small community. He acted as their interpreter—in more ways than one.
Her friends and her kin stared at her, almost accusingly. She stared straight back.
“Think about it! Maybe he doesn’t have a right to be here. We just don’t really know, do we?”
“Well, not positively,” David murmured, but he spoke without conviction.
That MacNiall might be in the wrong, and they were the ones with the right to the place, was a nice hope. Unfortunately, none of them really seemed to believe it. Toni didn’t even believe it herself.
“The constable said that MacNiall owned the place,” Thayer reminded her wearily.
“So? Constable Tavish is a local. He has loyalties to an old family name. We really don’t know the truth. Our lawyer may be American, but he still knows the law. We need to get more serious legal advice, and get it fast.”
“Legal advice from the States may not help us now,” Kevin reminded her. “Thayer?” Toni said.
He shrugged, shaking his head. “I saw the ads for the place in Glasgow, and I saw the same thing on the Internet that you did. And yes, I read the rental agreements, just as we all did. Gina, can I see the papers?” he asked.
Gina set them down before him.
“Even Laird MacNiall said that they look real or proper or … whatever!” Toni murmured.
“Yeah, they look legal,” Ryan said bitterly. “Tons of small print.”
“We actually rented from Uxbridge Corporation,” Thayer murmured. “We’re going to have to trace it down. When you sent the euro-check, Toni, was there an exact address?”
She groaned, sinking into one of the chairs.
“What? What is that groan for?” Ryan demanded.
“The address was a post office box in Edinburgh,” she admitted.
“Okay!” Kevin said, reaching over to squeeze her hand and give her some support. “That will give the police a trail to follow, at least.”
“It will help the police,” David said softly, offering Toni a half smile despite his words. “But I’m not real sure what it will do for us.”
“Toni, why didn’t you want the constable to take the papers tonight?” Gina asked, frowning. “Wouldn’t it have been better for him to have gotten started on this as quickly as possible?”
“Those papers are all we have,” Toni said. “What if I’m right and this man has lost his family castle yet still has illusions of grandeur in his head? If the constable is his loyal subject, our papers could disappear.”
“She has a point,” David said.
“She has a point, but this fellow isn’t broke. You can’t be broke and own a horse like that,” Ryan told them.
“Sorry, but it looks like we’ll have to suck up to this guy if we want to make it through the weekend,” Thayer said.
“Maybe he borrowed the horse,” Toni said.
“Oh, honey, come on. You’re just getting desperate here,” David said softly.
“Well, hell, it is desperate!” Toni said.
“Everything we’ve saved has gone into this!” Gina breathed, sinking into a chair, as well.
“Maybe we can arrange a new rental agreement,” Toni said.
“With what?” Thayer asked. “We put a fortune into this. Unless one of you won a lottery before you left the States …?”
“No. But I still say we have to have some rights!” Toni insisted.
“The sad thing is,” Kevin told her, “unfortunately, people who have been screwed don’t generally have a right to anything. They’re just …”
“Screwed,” David said.
Toni shook her head, rising. She felt a pounding headache coming on. “I’m going to go to bed. Tomorrow afternoon, I’m calling the lawyer in the States. He can give us some advice, at the very least.” She started toward the door, then turned back. “I am sorry, so very sorry. At best, this is really a mess.”
“Amazing,” Gina said suddenly.
“What?” Toni demanded.
“That he looks just like your MacNiall—the one in your phony family history. I mean … it’s incredible that you could invent a man who existed down to the last de tail.”
“No, not to the last detail. The MacNiall I invented died centuries ago,” Toni said bitterly.
“Yeah, but apparently, there was one of those, too,” Gina said.
“Look, I don’t believe it, either!” Toni said.
“Toni,” Kevin said softly.
“Yes?”
“We don’t blame you just because you were the one who found it on the Internet and got us all going. We all—every one of us—read the agreements.”
She hesitated. They were staring at her sorrowfully. And despite the denial, she felt a certain amount of blame. Sure, they’d all wanted to do this, all been excited. But she’d pushed it. She’d been the one to do the actual work. But what had there been to question?
She bit her lip, feeling a little resentful and a lot guilty. If this really was totally messed up, to herself, at least, she would be the fall guy.
“Thanks,” she said.
“Get some rest. We’ll all get some rest. When we’re not so tired and surprised, we’ll be much better at sucking up!” Kevin said cheerfully.
Toni nodded, gave him a weak smile and departed.
In the great hall, she paused. They had been so happy here. This place had truly been a dream. And they had been like kids, so excited.
She hurried up the stairs to the upper landing. There were rooms on the third floor, as well, but the main chambers were here. Servants had once slept above. Her group had chosen rooms in the huge U that braced around the front entry to the main keep of the castle. Hers was to the far right and she had assumed that it had once been the master’s chamber. It was large, with both arrow slits and a turret with a balcony that looked out over the countryside. After claiming the room she had discovered that it also had the most modern bath, and that the rug and draperies were the cleanest in the castle. Still, she remembered uneasily that her room also contained the huge wardrobe that had been locked tight—something to explore at a later time.
As she walked to the room, she felt a growing wariness. She hesitated, her hand on the antique knob, then pushed the door open.
There was a naked man in her bedroom. Nearly naked, at any rate.
A fire was beginning to burn nicely in the hearth. The dampness was already receding. A reading light blazed softly near the huge wing-backed chair before the fire.
The chair was occupied. Bruce MacNiall was seated, already showered, his hair wet, smooth and inky-black, his form covered in nothing but a terry towel wrapped around his waist. He was reading, of all things, the New York Times.
“Yes?” he said, looking up but not setting the paper aside. “Don’t you knock in the States?” “Not when I’m entering my own room.”
“Oh?”
“I’ve been living in here,” she informed him. “But it’s not your own room, is it?” he queried. “So … this was your room,” she murmured. “Is mine.”
Suck up! They had all warned her. But she was tired—and aggravated.
“If you’re the one in the right,” she reminded him, regretting her words at once.
“I do assure you that I am,” he said solemnly.
“At this particular moment, I don’t really have any legal proof that you’re telling the truth, so I’m not entirely convinced that it is your room, that you have the right to claim it from me,” she said. “You’ll note my things at the dressing table. They do look like mine, unless you customarily wear women’s perfume, mascara and lipstick.”
He stared at her politely, and maybe a bit amazed.
“My wardrobe, you’ll notice,” he pointed out. “Since you’re ever so observant, I’m sure you noted that when you came in and made yourself so thoroughly at home, you had no place to actually hang clothing since the wardrobe was locked.”
He had won from the beginning and she knew it. She didn’t know why she was still arguing. She loved this room, though, and she was settled into it.
Maybe she was just incapable of giving up a fight, or accepting the fact that they could have been taken, that their dreams had been dashed.
“My suitcases,” she said, pointing to the side of the bed.
He set the paper aside and rose suddenly. She prayed the towel wouldn’t slip.
“Would you like me to help you gather your things?” he asked politely.
There was something about the man that irritated her to such an extent that she couldn’t keep her mouth closed—or prevent herself from behaving with sheer stupidity.
“No. I’d be happy to help you relocate, though.” “You really do have … what it is the Americans say? Balls,” he told her. She flushed.
“I’m not relocating,” he said flatly. “Unless you have the deed to this place right here and now,” she said sweetly, “neither am I.”
He stared at her a long moment, and she found herself flushing.
“Do you think I keep my important papers under a mattress or something?” he queried. “My documents are in a bank vault.” He shrugged, then took his seat before the fire once again, retrieving his paper. “If you’re staying in here, do your best to keep quiet, will you? I have a hell of a headache coming on.”
“You are the headache!” she murmured beneath her breath.
He had heard her. Once again, his eyes met hers. “I believe that you’re supposed to be sucking up to me, Miss Fraser. I am trying to be patient and understanding. I’ve even offered a helping hand.”
“Sorry,” she said swiftly, though she couldn’t help adding a soft, “I think!”
But she had lost and she knew it. Now she just had to accept it. She entered the room, slamming the door behind her. After gathering up what she could hold of her toiletries, she headed back to the hall.
“Next door down is the bride’s chamber for this room. It’s very nice,” he told her absently, studying his paper again.
“I’ve seen it. I got down on my hands and knees and scrubbed in there—just as I did in here.”
“Yes, very nice, actually,” he told her. “Good job. As I said before, I can help you move your things.”
“Wouldn’t want you to have to get dressed,” she said.
“I don’t have to get dressed, actually. Just go through the bathroom.”
“These two rooms share that bath?” she murmured.
She felt like an idiot. She knew that. She’d also cleaned the bathroom!
“This is a castle, with some modernization—not the Hilton,” he said. “Most of the rooms share a bath. Since you’ve been living here, surely you know that.”
She only knew at that moment that she wished she had chosen a room on the other side of the U.
He rose and grabbed one of her suitcases. “Through here,” he said, walking down the little hallway to the bath, and through it.
The next room was one of the nicer ones, not as large as the one she had vacated, but there was a fireplace, naturally—it was a castle, not the Hilton—and a wonderful curving draped window. “Widow’s walk out there,” he pointed out. “You’ll love it, I’m sure.”
“Naturally, I’ve seen it,” she snapped.
“Right. You cleaned that, too.”
“Yes, we did.”
“Lovely.”
He deposited her suitcase on the floor.
It was fine, it was lovely. But … it attached to his room. How did she know that the man wasn’t … weird? What if, in the middle of the night, he came through the connecting doorway? No, there were other vacant rooms. She should choose one of them.
He must have read her mind, for a small smile of grim amusement—and a touch of disdain—suddenly played upon his features. “Rest assured, you can lock your side of the bathroom door.”
“I should hope so,” she murmured.
“Really? Seems I’m the one who should be concerned about locking doors. Have no fear, Miss Fraser. There’s really not a great deal for you to worry about. From me, at any rate.”
His look assured her that he found her less appealing than a cobra. For some reason, that was disconcerting.
Because the bastard looked good in a towel? she mocked herself. More than that, he had assurance and self-confidence. Sharp, intelligent eyes, well-sculpted, masculine, handsome features. And his other assets were well sculpted, too.
“I’ll keep my door locked, too,” he assured her.
“You do that,” she said sweetly.
He turned and walked back through the connecting bath. The towel, amazingly, remained just as it had been tied.
Toni shut the door in his wake. She leaned against it, wondering how such a brilliant night could have possibly ended in such disaster. And how she had not only invented a historical figure who had actually existed, but one with a seriously formidable, modern-day descendant who was here, in the living—near naked—flesh?
Fear trickled down her spine, but she ignored it. It was very late now, and she was determined to get organized and get some sleep. And that was that.
She looked around, trying to forget the man on the other side of the door and keep herself from being cowed by him in any way. Surveying her surroundings, she decided it was more than just a fine room. Really. It was a better room.
She moved away from the door, telling herself that she liked it just fine, that she was going to move right in—even if it did prove to be just for the next few nights.
So determined, she went about arranging her toiletries
and unpacking some of her belongings. But despite her resolve to settle in and get some sleep, she was restless and disturbed. First, this really was one total mess. She couldn’t believe that they had been taken by some kind of a shyster. But worse, it bothered her that his family history, which she thought she’d made up, had turned out to be true.
Finished with hanging a number of her garments, she gathered up her toothbrush, toothpaste and flannel nightgown and headed for the bathroom. She hesitated at the door, then decided that for whatever length of time she’d still be in the castle, she had to take showers. She gritted her teeth, knocked tentatively and heard nothing. She went in. The shower-tub combination was to her left, and a large vanity with double sinks to her right. The last time anyone had redone the bathroom had been many years ago, but it was still decent with artistic little bird faucets and a commode and bath and shower wall that had surely been state-of-the-art at the time.
The doors to the master’s chamber and the bride’s room were directly opposite one another. She stared at the door to the other room for several seconds, then walked over to it and tapped on it.
“Yes?”
She opened the door and peeked in. He was still in his towel, deeply engrossed in the paper, and he had a fire going. The entire room seemed much warmer than hers.
A little resentment filled her until she remembered that there was a fireplace in her new room. She could build her own fire.
“I was going to use the shower. I just wanted to make
sure that you didn’t need it.” And that you don’t intend to barge into the bathroom.
She had a sudden, absurd image of him riding the great black stallion into the tiny bathroom.
He arched an ebony brow. “My apparel would seem to show that I’ve already bathed,” he said.
“Right. Well, I’ll unlock the door from this side when I’m done.”
“Yes, please do,” he said, and looked back at the newspaper.
She couldn’t resist. “The Times, huh? You apparently like American newspapers better than American people.”
“I usually like Americans very much,” he said. There was the slightest accent on the second word he spoke.
She closed the connecting door and locked it, swearing beneath her breath. The situation was bad enough. If there had to be a living MacNiall, why couldn’t he have been eighty, white haired and kind!
Fighting her irritation, she stripped and stepped into the shower. The hot water didn’t last very long; she was probably the last one getting to it that night.
Still swearing beneath her breath, she stepped out, towel-dried quickly and slipped into a flannel gown. In her room, she debated the idea of attempting a fire. She’d had one herself in the other room, but David and Kevin had built it for her. Despite her Chicago homeland, she’d never built a fire.
Using the long matches from the mantel, she tried lighting the logs in the hearth. But nothing happened. Some kind of kindling was needed. Perhaps a piece of newspaper or something. Looking around the room, she saw nothing to use.
Lightning suddenly flared beyond the gauzy drapes that covered the door to the widow’s walk. It was an actual balcony, she thought, not a little turret area, as was found in the master’s chambers.
Immediately after, thunder cracked. The wooden door that led outward to the old stone area swung in with a loud bang as the wind blew it open with a vengeance. She hopped up and hurried over to the door. It was a nasty night, not the kind she had imagined here!
She closed the door with an effort and bolted it. Staring through the slender openings of the arrow slits, she saw another flash of lightning. She should count her blessings that they hadn’t been thrown out that night.
She gave up on the fire and curled into the canopied bed, then hopped up again. The only light switch for the room was apparently right next to the bathroom.
With it out, she was plunged into a darkness so deep it was unnerving. Shaking her head, she opened the bathroom door, turned the light on, hesitated, then left the door on her side of the room ajar—she would have killed herself trying to get into bed in the pure ink that had filled the room.
Was she being an idiot? No, this fellow truly had no interest in her. Maybe she should be insulted, she thought wryly. At five-nine, with deep blue eyes and light hair that had deepened over the years to a dark blond, she was usually considered to be attractive. But apparently not to the ogre in the next room.
Bruce MacNiall. She must have heard the name somewhere.
Lying in the great bed, she shivered as she hadn’t shivered in years.
No! It was not some kind of precognition coming
back to her. She had stopped all that years ago, closed her mind, because she had willed that it would be so! Still …
She tossed and turned, wishing that there was a television in the room. Or a fire. Watching the flames would have been nice.
Her mind kept racing, denying that this could be happening when they had tried so hard to do things right. There had to be a mistake. There had to be something to do!
How had she come up with the name Bruce MacNiall?
At last, she drifted to sleep.

Bruce had just lain down when he heard the ear-piercing scream. Instinct brought him bolt-awake, leaping from the bed. A second’s disorientation was quickly gone as he heard a second cry of terror.
It was coming from the next room.
He raced through the connecting bathroom to see his uninvited guest sitting up in the bed, pointing in front of her, a look of terror on her face.
“Miss Fraser … Toni! What is it?”
He realized only then that she wasn’t really awake. Racing to her, he took her by the shoulders and gave her a gentle shake. Her reaction stunned him. She jerked from his hold and leaped with an incredibly lithe and agile motion to her feet and stared down at him.
She was a rather amazing sight, mane of gold hair caught in the pale light, shimmering like a halo around her delicate, refined features. Her eyes were the size of saucers, and in the soft-colored flannel gown, she might have been a misplaced Ophelia.
Something hard inside him wondered just what new act she was up to now. Something else felt a moment’s softness. The terror in her eyes seemed real. For the first time she seemed vulnerable.
“Toni,” he said firmly, stretching out his arms to catch her around the middle and lift her down. “Toni!
Wake up!”
She stared at him blankly. “Toni!”
With a jolt, she blinked and stared straight at him.
He thought she was going to scream again. Instead, she blinked once more and quickly stepped back, eyeing him up and down. Luckily he had donned a long pair of men’s cotton pajama pants.
“I think you were dreaming,” he said.
She frowned, flushed and bit her lower lip. “I screamed?”
“Like an alley cat,” he informed her. He stepped back himself. In this pale light, in this strange moment, he suddenly realized just how arresting a woman she was. Not just beautiful, but fascinating. Eyes so intensely blue, bone structure so perfect and refined, her mouth so generous. Her features seemed carefully drawn, as if they had been defined by an artist. And despite the vivid color of her hair and her eyes, there was a darkness about them, as well.
“I woke you,” she murmured. “My deepest apologies.”
“I wasn’t actually sleeping, but I am surprised you didn’t wake the entire castle. Or maybe you did,” he added. He couldn’t refrain from a dry smile. “Maybe they’re creeping down the hall now, afraid to come in and find out what’s happening.” He left her and walked to the door, opened it and looked out. Then he shrugged. “Well, castle walls have been known to keep the sounds of the tortured from traveling too far.”
She still stood there, tall, elegant, strangely aloof. He found that he was annoyed to be so concerned. She seemed to be the head of this wretched gang that had the gall to “invent” history and entertain others with their perception of the past. “Are you all right?” he asked her.
“I just … I’m fine. And I’m truly sorry.” Her words were sincere. Her eyes were still too wide. And she seemed to be afraid of something.
Him? No. Something in her nightmare?
Bruce hesitated. Leave! he told himself. He didn’t want them here. Lord, with everything else going on …
She shivered as she stood there. That was his undoing.
“The wretched room is freezing. Why didn’t you build yourself a fire?” he demanded.
“I …”
The uncertainty seemed so unlike her. She’d been a tigress, arguing with him before. Impatiently he strode to the fireplace, dug behind the poker stand for kindling, laid it over the logs and struck a match. Hunkered down, he took hold of the poker to press it deeper into the pile of wood. He wondered if that had been a mistake, if she was going to think that he’d turn and take the poker to her.
But she was still standing, just as he had left her. To his sincere dismay, he felt a swift stir of arousal. The flannel should have hung around her like a tent, but it was sheer enough for the light to play with form and shadow. And there was that hair … long, lustrous, blond, curling around her shoulders and breasts.
“A drink. You need a drink,” he told her. Hell, he needed one.
She lifted a hand suddenly, obviously regaining some of her composure. “Sorry, I don’t have any.”
“Thankfully you didn’t jimmy the wardrobe,” he told her. “I’ll be right back.”
He went back through the bathroom and opened the wardrobe, found the brandy and poured two glasses from the left-hand shelf. Returning to the bride’s room, he found that she had taken a seat in one of the old upholstered chairs in front of the fireplace.
He handed her a glass. She accepted it, her blue eyes speculatively on him. “Thanks,” she told him.
“They say it will cure what ails you,” he told her, lifting his glass. “Cheers.”
“Cheers,” she returned. A little shiver snaked through her as she took a long swallow. “Thanks,” she said again.
He set his glass on the mantel, hunkered down and adjusted the logs again. A nice warmth was emanating from the blaze now.
He stood, collected his glass again and took the chair by her side.
“So … do you want to talk about it?”
A twisted smile curled her lips. She looked at him. “Sure. It was you.”
“Me! I swear, I never left that room,” he protested.
“I know. It was very strange. It was as if I had wakened and … there you were. Only, it wasn’t really you. It was you—as you might have been—in historical costume. It was very, very real. Absolutely vivid.”
“So I was just standing there, in historical costume? Well, I can see where that might be a bit unsettling, but those screams … It sounded as if the devil himself had arrived.”
She flushed slightly.
“You were in more than costume.”
“Oh?”
“Were it a picture, the caption might have read, ‘Speak softly and carry a very big and bloody sword,'” she said.
“Ah. So I was about to lop off your head. Sorry, I may be irritated and rude, but I do stop short at head-lopping,” he told her, then turned, getting comfortable in the chair. “Don’t you think you might have gotten a bit carried away with your historical fiction?”
“I have to admit, I’ve scared myself a bit,” she murmured. “I made up a Bruce MacNiall, only to find out that he exists. Well, in the here and now, that is.”
Bruce shook his head, wary now. “You must have known some of the local history.”
“No, not really. We hadn’t ever been to this area when we decided to attempt this venture,” she assured him.
It sounded as if she was telling the truth. And yet …
He swirled the brandy in his glass, studying the color. Then he looked at her again. She couldn’t be telling the truth.
“There was a Bruce MacNiall who fought with the Cavaliers. He opposed the armies Cromwell led and beat them mercilessly many times. At first, he even survived Cromwell’s reign. But he and some other Scottish lairds kept at it, wanting to bring Charles II back from
Europe and see him crowned king. He was eventually caught when one of the lairds supposedly on his side turned coat. That man was killed by MacNiall’s comrades, but unfortunately MacNiall rode into a trap and was caught himself. He had defied the reigning power, which was Cromwell. You know the penalty for that. He received every barbarity of the day that was reserved for traitors.”
She turned to him, blue eyes enormous. Then she closed them and leaned back, looking ashen.
“Hey, sorry. It’s history. I didn’t get the sense that you had a weak stomach.”
She shook her head. “I don’t,” she said flatly, and he realized that the particular history he was giving her was more disturbing to her than it was to him.
She looked at him. “He didn’t murder his wife in a fit of jealousy, did he?”
Bruce shrugged, watching her closely. “No one knows. There was some rumor that she kept company with a certain Cromwellian soldier—whether true or a pure invention, I don’t know—and that she disappeared from the castle. It’s historical fact that MacNiall was castrated, disemboweled, hanged, beheaded and generally chopped to pieces. But as to his wife, no one knows for certain. She disappeared from history, right when he was caught. He was trapped in the forest. And executed there, after a mock trial. At the time he died, he had a teenage son running with Charles II in France. Very soon after MacNiall’s execution, Cromwell died, and the people, very weary of being good, were anxious to ask him back to take the throne. Charles proved to be a very entertaining king, and a truly interesting man. He might have dallied with dozens of mistresses, but he steadfastly refused to consider a divorce from his wife. So after him, his brother became king, and that was another disaster for history to record.”
It’s … horrible!” Toni said.
He smiled grimly. “From what I hear, you didn’t mind fleecing the public with such a horrible story.”
“But it wasn’t true when I told it!” she protested.
He waved a hand in the air impatiently. “Say you’re telling me the truth—”
“Are you accusing me of lying?” she demanded indignantly. The anger was back in her eyes.
“I don’t know you, do I?” he asked politely. “But even if you think you’re telling the truth, it’s quite possible that you heard the story somewhere else. Because you made it up to a tee.”
She waved a hand in the air. “The land belonged to the MacNialls. And if there is anyone famous in Scottish history, it’s Robert the Bruce. Bruce. A very common name here!”
“Aye, that’s true. But you went a step further.”
“How?”
He stared at her. She was either the finest actress in the world, or she really didn’t know.
“MacNiall’s wife,” he said slowly, watching her every reaction.
“You just said that history didn’t know about her!”
“Aye, that’s true enough.”
“Then …?”
“Her name,” Bruce said softly. “Lady MacNiall. That would be fairly obvious!” she said disdainfully.
“No, Toni. Her first name. Her given name. Annalise.”

3
Could anyone act so well, or even lie with such aplomb?
“What?” Her eyes were saucers, and her color was as close to pure white as he had ever seen on a human being.
“Annalise. Our famous—or infamous—Bruce MacNiall was indeed married to an Annalise.”
She shook her head. “I swear to you, I had no idea! It has to be … chance. Coincidence. Okay, the most absurd coincidence imaginable, but … I honestly have never heard this story before. Stories like it, sure—your ancestor wasn’t the only man to meet such a fate.”
He wondered if she was trying to convince him or herself.
“Aye, that’s true enough,” he said. She was an audacious interloper in his home, he reminded himself. And yet … At this particular moment, he couldn’t add to her distress. She needed some color back. Hell, she could pass out on him at any moment. She could be such a little demon, as self-righteous as Cromwell himself. But right now, she was simply far too vulnerable, and that vulnerability was calling out to whatever noble and protective virtues he might possess.
“Yes, it’s true!” she said, desperately clinging to his words. “I’ve been to Edinburgh. I’ve seen the tomb built for Montrose, who was a Cavalier and who sided with the king, finally meeting his end in such a manner. And there were others … but I had no idea there was really a MacNiall! Or,” she added, wincing, “an Annalise. Look!” She sat up straight, finding her backbone again, and stared at him with sudden hostility. “We did not come here to mock your precious history or your family. I am telling you, I did not know about your MacNiall or that he might have even existed!”
“Well, he did,” he said flatly, and stared at the flames, anger filling him again. He loved this place. Granted, he hadn’t given it much attention lately. Though he’d always intended to do so, there was always something else that needed to be done first. And now, with everything that had been going on …
“Don’t you understand?” she demanded. “There’s never been anything the least disrespectful in what we wanted to do. Every one of us came here and simply fell in love with the country. Unfortunately none of us is independently wealthy. Gina, however, is a marketing genius. She decided that she could take all of our talents and market them. That way, we could acquire a castle, work hard and give some of the magic to the public.”
“Stupid idea,” he murmured hotly, looking at the fire again.
“It’s not a stupid idea!” she protested. “You saw how the people came.”
“The locals will never enjoy such a spectacle.”
“Maybe not, but the shows aren’t intended for the locals. They will help the economy all around, don’t you see that? People who come to the castle for the history, the splendor or even the spectacle will spend money in other places. It will be good for local stores, for restaurants … for everyone around.”
“I don’t agree,” he said, fighting the rise of his temper again.
“Then you’re a fool.”
“Oh, really?”
“Indeed, a blind fool!” She turned toward him, no longer ashen, passion in her voice, fire in her eyes. “You saw those people when they left here! They were thrilled. And they loved Scotland. Don’t you want people to love your country?”
“Not a mockery of it,” he told her.
“I told you, we’re not mocking it!” She shook her head, growing aggravated. “Others give tours of the closes and graveyards in Edinburgh. People are fascinated. We like to think that we’ve come far from doing horrible things to one another, even under the pretext of law. We’re not saying that the Scots were especially brutal, we’re explaining that it was just a different time!”
“Voyeurs!” he said roughly, waving a hand in the air. “And that’s Edinburgh. A big city. We’re talking about a small village here.”
“It’s hard these days to buy a castle in the middle of town,” she said sarcastically.
“Many people don’t want to be reminded of mayhem and murder,” he said.
She let out a sigh of exasperation. “Don’t you ever do anything for fun?” she asked him. “Have you ever seen a movie? A play? Gone to the opera?”
He looked at the fire again. “The point is, this is a small, remote village. It could be a dangerous place for tourists to wander.”
“Dangerous!” she said dismissively.
He felt tension welling in him.
“There are forests, crags and bogs. Hillsides. Crannies and cairns. Places where the footing is treacherous at best,” he said. “Places that are remote, dark and, aye, believe me, dangerous.” His own argument sounded weak even to him.
Maybe he was a fool for being so suspicious, wary … when he need not be. But the lasses were gone, were they not?
Gone. Two of them. Found dead. Here.
“What are you talking about?” she demanded.
He had no intention of trying to explain what had happened, or why he was so concerned. Even Jonathan Tavish thought it was a problem for others, for big-city authorities. After all, the women had not disappeared from here. They had just been found here.
“Antoinette Fraser,” he said suddenly, determined to change the subject. “So … your father was Scottish, or Scottish-American?”
“He was half, but born here. His dad married during the war. On his side, my grandmother was French. My mother was Irish.”
“Was?”
“I lost her my first year of college.” “I’m sorry.” “Thanks.” “And your father?”
“I lost him, too,” she said softly. “A few years ago. His heart gave out. I think that he missed my mother, actually.”
“I’m sorry again.”
“Thanks.” She hesitated, then asked, “If you are the laird, then …?”
“Indeed, my parents went together. An automobile accident in London.”
“I’m sorry,” she murmured.
“Thank you,” he acknowledged. “It was over a decade ago, now.”
“You still miss people,” she said.
“Indeed, you do.” He didn’t want the two of them growing morose together, so he brought a small smile to his lips. “Still …” he murmured.
“What?”
“You couldn’t have bought a castle in Ireland, eh?”
She halfway smiled, but her eyes flashed. He realized that he had been breathing in her scent. She really was a stunning woman. Brilliant as an angel one second, claws extended, blue fire in her eyes the next.
She shouldn’t be here.
He looked at his brandy glass again and swirled the liquid. “The truth of the matter is, I didn’t rent this castle to anyone. I do own it, and you are trespassing.” He added the last very quietly, and swallowed more of his brandy. The warmth was delicious.
She was quiet for a moment, then said, “I’ll admit to having the sinking feeling that we were taken by a British scam artist.”
“Might have been an American. They are here, you know, in vast numbers.”
Ah, yes, that goaded her temper again. Was he doing it on purpose? Enjoying the rise of her breasts, the flash in her eyes? Wondering what it would be like to suddenly strike a bargain for total peace, draw her in front of the fire and find some real truth in those generous, sensual lips?
“If something was pulled off, it was done by someone over here,” she said vehemently.
He realized that he was actually enjoying watching her trying to control her temper.
“You’ve got to understand! We’ve sunk a fortune into this!” she told him.
“Aye, that I do believe. I’ve seen the work.”
She frowned, staring at him. “How do you know exactly what I made up?” she demanded. “You didn’t ride in until … well, it was almost as if you’d ridden in on cue!”
“I’d meant to stop it before it started,” he told her. “Eban had heard you rehearsing, and though he was pleased with all the work being done, he wasn’t pleased to hear the family slandered.”
“But you said the story I made up was true!”
“I never said that Bruce MacNiall strangled his wife.”
“She did disappear.”
“She disappeared from the pages of history.”
Lightning suddenly filled the sky again, followed with rocketing speed by thunder that caused the castle to shake. Startled, Toni let out a little scream, jumping to her feet. Seeing him, she flushed, lost her balance in her attempt to regain her seat quickly and toppled over—directly into his lap.
Long elegant fingers fell against his bare chest. The silky soft sweep of her hair caressed him. Warm and very solid, her scent, that of lavender soap and femininity, caused an instant physical reaction in him that he prayed wasn’t evident through the sheer fabric of his pajama pants.
“Oh, God! I am so sorry!” she swore, struggling to get up. Trying to brace against his knee, she missed. Her flush deepened to something of a painful crimson, and her apologies came out in a garbled stream.
“It’s all right!” he expelled, plucking her up, setting her on her feet and remaining vertical himself. “It’s very late. If you’re sure that you’re fine …”
“Yes, yes, I’m fine,” she said, looking toward the window. He had the strange feeling that she was expecting to see someone there. Or that she was afraid that she would.
“You know, I’m not exactly tired, but I can see that you are. Go to sleep. I’ll get the newspaper and study the pages here, in this chair. That way, if you have a nightmare about me being in your room, you won’t panic, because you’ll know that I’m here,” he said.
“I’m a big girl. Really,” she told him.
“I’d rather read the paper than fall asleep to another scream,” he told her.
“It’s all right,” she said, tossing back a length of hair. “I don’t want you to feel that we’re any more of a burden than you already do.”
“So go to sleep,” he said.
“I won’t scream again, really.”
“I’m going for the paper,” he told her.
When he returned, she was still standing there uncertainly. There was a conflict of emotions in the deep blue of her eyes. She obviously wanted to tell him to jump in a lake, but she was doubting her own rights. For her own sake, and that of her friends, she didn’t want him as angry again as he had been when he had first arrived.
Yet … he sensed a strange touch of fear in her, as though she really didn’t want to dream again. That she would prefer a living, flesh-and-blood stranger in her room to being alone in it with her dreams.
“Look, I’m serious!” he said. “Go to bed, get some sleep. I’ll be here.”
“You’re going to sleep in the chair all night?”
“Frankly, there’s not a lot of night left. When the dawn breaks, I’ll head over to my own bed. If you wake up then, it will be light so you won’t panic. It always works that way.”
“How do you know?” she demanded suspiciously.
“Because people never panic in the daylight. You know, the light of day. Reason and sanity. They go together.”
She stared at him uncertainly, then headed for the canopied bed.
“This isn’t fair to you,” she said, turning her back to him.
“Go to sleep.”
She crawled on top of the bed and pulled the covers around her.
He shook out the paper and took a seat before the fire. But though he tried to read, he couldn’t pay attention.
He glanced over to the bed. So much for her having difficulties sleeping. Her eyes were closed. She was on her side, facing his way. An angel at rest. Ivory features so artistically sculpted. Full, dark lips, parted just slightly. Arms embracing a pillow.
Oh, to be that pillow!
She had to be a shyster, he told himself angrily. No
matter how innocent or vulnerable she appeared, she couldn’t have just made up his history, not down to the name Annalise. He had to take care around her, despite the fact that she could twist something deep inside of him. Or maybe because of that. Annalise.
Impatiently he tried to read again, but then he gave up, folded the paper and simply watched her sleep, doing his best to stretch his length out comfortably in the chair.
After a while, he dozed.
Then … he awakened with a violent start.
He didn’t scream; he made no noise. But his dream had been no less the terrible.
He had seen her … facedown, hair flowing in the bubbling water of the little brook in the forest. Facedown … as he had found the murdered girl.
He reached for his brandy glass and swallowed the pinch of deep amber remaining within it. He gave himself a fierce shake. Looking to the window, he saw that the dawn was breaking at last. Silently he rose. One more brandy and maybe he could get a few hours of sleep. One more brandy … and he might quell the tension that was ripping up his insides.
He walked to the door of the dividing bath and then paused. He returned to the bedside.
She slept, an angel still. That spill of hair …
It might have been any hair.
He hardened his jaw and swore softly, decrying his own nonsense. It was fucking dawn. He needed to get some sleep.
Thayer Fraser shivered as he walked along the path, heading down toward the stream, valley and forest. “A
nice brisk walk in the lovely morning air!” he said, speaking aloud. “Actually, that would be fucking cold morning air! “ he added. His voice sounded strange in the silence of the very early morning as it echoed off the stone walls of the run-down castle. Eerie, even.
At the base of the hill, he turned back. Most folks outside the country didn’t know that there were still many such places as this castle—smaller castles, family homesteads, not the great walled almost-cities-within-cities such as the fortified castles at Edinburgh and Stirling. They could be found, and some of them poor, indeed, much smaller than many a manor house. And naturally, in a far sadder state of being.
He stared up at the stone bastion, beautiful against the sky this morning. There was not a drop of rain in sight, not a single cloud. Ah, yes! This was the stuff of postcards, coffee-table books and calendars, the kind of thing American tourists just had to capture in a million and five digital pictures!
So far—though they all claimed to be in the bad times together, just as they were in the good—they were all secretly blaming Toni. For she had been the one to find the property on the Internet. She had been the one to write to the post box. And she had been the one to receive the agreement, bring it to her lawyer and then pass it on to all of them.
So, yes … they were blaming Toni. But pretty soon they’d be looking at him.
After all, he was Scottish, born and bred. He’d seen the advertisements in Glasgow, and had told Toni that it looked fitting for their purpose.
“Shite!” he muttered aloud.
He looked to the forest. Hell, he’d actually never known what they called the damned place. They should understand that. Most Americans had never seen their own Grand Canyon. Why should he be supposed to know about every nook and cranny of Scotland?
Hopefully they would continue blaming Toni, his American cousin. His kin. With her wonder and exuberance, she had convinced them that they could do it. He could remember first meeting her, how pleased she had been to meet a Fraser, an actual—if slightly distant—member of her father’s family. He’d been bowled over by her. Indeed, he’d found her gorgeous, stimulating, though she’d rather quickly squelched any thoughts of more than a brother-sister relationship between them.
It wasn’t as if he didn’t have enough blokes for friends in Glasgow, but she and her American group had been a breath of fresh air. In Glasgow, it was too easy to get into the old work by day, live for the pub at night mentality. The Americans had nothing on the Scots when it came to alcoholism and drug addiction. The working class was the working class, and therein lay the pub, the delights of escape, drugs—wine, women and song.
And though Toni might not want a hot roll in the old hay with him, she trusted him. Liked him. Relied on him.
He smiled grimly. Oh, aye! Americans, God bless them, just loved to look back to the old homeland. Give them an accent and they were putty.
He stared at the forest again, a sense of deep unease stirring in him. He never had known the damned name of the place, and that was a fact.
The forest was still as dark as a witch’s teat in the glory of dawn. Dense, deep, remote. And he realized that he was just standing there, staring into it. Time had passed, and he hadn’t moved. He’d been mesmerized.
It was an effort to draw himself away, to shake the sudden fear that seized him. It was almost as if he had to physically tear himself away from the darkness, as if the trees had reached out, gripped him … and held him tight.
“Fooking ass!” he railed against himself as he turned and hurried back to the castle.
Jonathan Tavish sat at his breakfast table, morosely stirring the sugar in his tea.
His home might be old by some standards—built around 1910—and it might have a certain thatched-roof, quaint charm. But it sure as hell wasn’t any castle.
Through the window, he could see the MacNiall holding, just as he had seen it all of his life. A dilapidated pile of stone, he told himself.
But it wasn’t. It was the castle, no matter what else. It was Bruce MacNiall’s holding, because he was the MacNiall, and in this little neck of the world, that would always mean something, no matter how far the world moved along.
Bruce had been his friend for years.
“Wonder if he knows what I’ve felt all these years?” Jonathan asked out loud. “You’re a decent chap, Laird MacNiall, that y’are! Slainte, my friend. To your health. Always.”
He smiled slightly. Aye, he could have told the Americans easily enough that there was a Bruce MacNiall. Then again, why the hell should he have done so? Bruce had never seen it necessary to explain his absences from the village, or suggest that Jonathan keep an eye on things or, heaven forbid, ask his old chum to keep him informed when he was away. And that was often. Bruce spent time in Edinburgh, confiding often enough with Robert, his old friend from the service, delving into matters though he’d been out of it all long enough himself. Of course, with the events of the last year or so …
Then there were his “interests” in the States. Kept an apartment there, he did. Well, money made money, and that was a fact.
Hell, who had known when he would return this time. It was all legitimate that he hadn’t said a word to the new folk about there being a real Bruce. And those folk had, amusingly enough, done real work at the place. Bruce sure hadn’t kept up the place. In fact, there were times when it seemed that he hated the castle and the great forest surrounding it, even the village itself.
That, of course, had to do with Maggie….
“Well, old boy,” he said aloud softly, “at least you had her once. She loved you, she did. She was my friend, but she loved you.”
Maggie had been gone a very long time. There was no sense thinking about those days anymore.
Impatiently Jonathan stood, bringing along his tea as he walked to the window. There it was, the castle on the hill. Bruce’s castle. Bruce was the MacNiall. The bloody MacNiall. Laird MacNiall.
“To you, you bloody bastard! These are not the old days, my friend. I am not a subject, a serf, a servant. I’m the law here, the bloody law.”
He stared at the castle and the forest, the sun shining on the former, a shadow of green darkness enveloping the latter.
“The bloody law!”
A crooked grin split his lips.
“Y’may be the MacNiall, the bloody great MacNiall, but I am the law. I have that power. And when it’s necessary for the law to come down, well … friend or nae, I will be that power!”

4
“What are we going to do about tonight?” Gina asked Toni.
They were alone in the kitchen. Gina had been the first up. Ever the consummate businesswoman, she had apparently been worrying about the tour they had planned for Saturday night since waking up. In fact, she might not even have slept.
Toni was still feeling fairly haggard herself. When she woke, she had found the chair empty and the dividing doors shut. She’d tapped lightly at the bathroom door, but there had been no answer. She had entered, locked the other side, gotten ready and unlocked it. She hadn’t heard a sound and assumed that he was at last sleeping. The night seemed a blur to her now.
Even the absolute terror that had awakened her seemed to have faded. And yet … something lingered. A very deep unease.
“Toni, what on earth are we going to do?” Gina repeated.
“Maybe he’ll just let us have our group in,” she said.
Gina folded her hands in front of her on the kitchen table, looking at Toni. “We could have had our butts out on the street last night. You have to quit aggravating the guy.”
“Wait just a minute! I was actually in the right last night. How did we know—until the constable came—that he really was who he said he was.”
“You have to quit being so hostile to him,” Gina insisted.
“I talked to him again last night. And I wasn’t hostile,” Toni told Gina.
Gina instantly froze. “You … talked to him again?” She sounded wary and very worried.
“I told you, I wasn’t hostile!”
David, looking admirably suave in a silk robe, walked into the kitchen. “Did I hear that Toni was talking to our host again?” He, too, sounded very worried.
“Hey, you guys! This isn’t fair. When he came bursting in like Thor on a cloud of thunder, I assumed we were perfectly in the right,” Toni said, exasperated. “And we were. We did everything right.”
“Well,” David said, opening the refrigerator, “for being right, we’re looking awfully wrong. We have tourists coming in tonight. What are we going to do?”
“What else? I’m going to get on the phone and cancel,” Gina said. She laid her head on the table and groaned. “Where am I going to get the money for refunds?”
David smoothed back his freshly washed dark hair and shut the refrigerator. “Wow, we sure have made this home. Do you think it’s still all right if I delve into the refrigerator?”
“Yes, I’m sure,” Toni said. “It is our food in there. There wasn’t a thing in the place when we arrived, except for a few tea bags!”
“Hey, I know. I’m going to whip up a really good breakfast. Think Laird MacNiall will like that? You know, Toni, you’re going to have to be careful when making things up from now on. This guy turned out to be real, and you have his ancestor being a murderer! From now on, invent characters that are noble and good.”
“Hey, Othello was noble, and he killed his wife,” Toni said.
“That breakfast doesn’t sound like a bad idea,” Gina said.
“We should make Toni cook,” David said.
“No!” Kevin protested, standing in the kitchen doorway. “We’ll definitely get kicked out if we do that.” He grinned, taking the sting out of his words, and surveyed the kitchen. “Imagine this place if we had a few more funds! I’d love to see baker’s rows of copper pots and pans and utensils.”
“It’s not our place anymore,” Gina reminded him.
“Soft yellow paint would bring in the sunlight,” David mused.
“How the hell can you be so cheerful this morning?” Gina asked him.
“I’m eternally and annoyingly cheerful, you all know that,” Kevin said. “Things will work out. Hey, whoever made the coffee did a full pot, right?” he asked, moving to the counter.
David closed the refrigerator door and leaned against it, looking at Kevin. “Think that Scottish lairds like eggs Benedict?”
“Shouldn’t we do something with salmon?” Kevin countered.
“Good point,” David agreed.
“I’m glad you two can worry about breakfast,” Gina murmured. “What are we going to do?”
“We’re going to sit down like the good friends we are and figure a way out of this,” David said flatly. “Where’s your husband, Gina?”
She shook her head. “He wasn’t in the room. He’s out somewhere … walking, playing in the stables, Lord knows.”
Thayer came walking into the kitchen, bearing the newspaper from Stirling, the nearest major city. He set it on the table, offering them all a grimace. “Good morning, we can at least hope.”
“Maybe, but only if we start over with the coffee. Gina, did you make this?” Kevin asked, tasting the brew. “What did you use, local mud?”
“It’s strong, that’s all,” Gina protested.
“So, what do we do?” Thayer asked.
“We’ll wait for Ryan and then figure out what we can do. Of course, we have until Monday before we need to worry about where we’ll sleep!” Gina sighed. “I should call the travel agency in Stirling and start canceling the arrangements for tonight.”
“Sixty people at twenty-five a pop—pounds sterling,” Thayer said woefully. “My place in Glasgow is small, but if we buy a few pillows we’ll be fine.”
“We all quit our jobs,” Kevin reminded him.
“And we can get new ones,” David said.
“There has to be some recourse here,” Toni said.
“Toni has been talking to Laird MacNiall again,” Gina warned, trying to keep emotion from her voice.
“I wasn’t fighting with him!” Toni protested.
“Well, you didn’t exactly offer him warm and cuddly Southern hospitality,” David reminded her.
“I’m not Southern!”
“You could have faked it,” Kevin said.
“Actually, you are from the south—the south side of D.C.,” David offered.
She glared at him. “Look, I had a conversation with him, and he wasn’t miserable at all,” Toni said.
David gasped suddenly and walked around to her, looking down into her eyes. He squeezed her shoulders. “You didn’t … I mean, Toni, we’re in trouble here, but you don’t have to … you don’t have to offer that kind of hospitality, no matter how dire things are looking!”
“David!” she snapped, feeling a flush rise over her cheeks. “I didn’t, and I wouldn’t! How the hell long have you known me?”
Gina giggled suddenly. “Hey, I don’t know. In the looks department, he’s really all right.”
“What she really means is,” Kevin teased, “if it weren’t for Ryan, she’d do him in a flash.”
Gina leveled a searing gaze at him. “The breakfast better be damned good.”
“Look!” Toni said. “I talked to him but I didn’t sleep with him. He was in my room, but …”
“What?” David demanded, drawing out the chair at her side and looking at her, his dark eyes very serious.
“It seems that I was in his room, so I moved into the next one,” she told him. “We had to talk and we were both cordial, okay?” she said.
“You just talked to him … without …”
“Being bitchy?” Kevin asked bluntly.
“Dammit! I was polite.”
“Okay, okay!” David said.
That was it. She was offering no further explanations of how she might have gotten into a cordial conversation
with the laird. “And now I’m thinking that if we ask really politely, maybe he’d let us do tonight’s performance so that we can recoup some of our losses.”
“She’s got a good idea there,” Thayer said.
“Omelettes!” Kevin said suddenly. “Salmon and bacon on the side. So who gets to ask Laird MacNiall if we can do the tour tonight?”
“Toni,” David said, suddenly determined. “She has to ask him. She’s the one who’s talked to him.”
“Toni? Oh, I don’t know about that,” Thayer protested. He looked across the table as she glared at him. “Sorry! But you seem to have a hair-trigger temper with the guy. It’s kind of like sending in a tigress to ask largesse of a lion!”
Toni groaned. “I don’t have a hair-trigger temper. Ever. He was very aggravating last night, and I thought that I was defending us.”
“You were,” David assured her.
“All right,” Gina said. “Toni, you ask him.”
“Ask him what?”
They all jolted around. Bruce MacNiall was standing in the kitchen doorway with Ryan. This morning, he was in jeans and a denim shirt. Apparently, he hadn’t been sleeping. His ebony hair was slightly windblown and damp.
“I’ve got to get dressed,” David said. “Excuse me.”
“I might have left the water running,” Thayer murmured. “I’ll be right back.”
“Got to plan the menu!” Kevin said, hurrying for the door. “Mr. MacNiall … Laird MacNiall, we’re going to cook a great … uh … brunch. In thanks for your hospitality, whether intended or not.”
Ryan, staring at all of them as if they’d lost their senses, came striding in, heading for Gina and Toni. “The countryside! My God, I thought I’d taken a few good rides, but you should see the sweeping hills! There is nothing like seeing this place through Bruce’s eyes!” Ryan loved both horses and free spaces. His work the last several years as a medieval knight at the Magician’s Court right outside Baltimore had seldom allowed him a chance to spend time with his beloved animals that wasn’t part of training in closed-in spaces. He must have been happy.
“Why don’t you tell me about it upstairs, sweetheart?” Gina said, rising.
“Why upstairs?” Ryan demanded.
“Toni wants to talk to Laird MacNiall,” Gina said. She rose, caught hold of his shirtsleeve and dragged him along with her, smiling awkwardly as she passed Bruce MacNiall.
Toni was left alone at the table. Bruce was aware that his arrival had caused an exodus, and he was evidently somewhat amused. Especially since it had been so very far from subtle.
“They’re afraid of me?” he queried.
Toni inhaled. “Well, it seems that we’re all realizing that you do actually own this place and that we have been taken.”
“Good,” he said, striding toward the counter.
Toni winced. “The coffee is a bit …”
He’d already poured a cup and sipped it.
“Like mud. It will do for the moment,” MacNiall said. He turned and leaned against the counter, looking at her. “What are you supposed to ask me?”
“Well …”
“Well?”
He might be in jeans and tailored denim, leaning against a counter with a coffee cup, but she could well imagine him in something like a throne room, taking petitions from his vassals.
She stared at him a minute, determined that she wasn’t going to be so intimidated. They weren’t living in the feudal ages, after all.
“We had booked a large tour group for tonight. We don’t want to have to cancel.”
“What?” His question was beyond sharp. It was a growl.
Maybe she shouldn’t have been quite so blunt. He had slept in a chair in her room last night, but that hadn’t made them bosom buddies.
“Look,” she said impatiently, wondering what it was about him that goaded her own temper so severely. “You know that we’re really in a mess here. And if you take a good look around, you’ll have to admit that you owe us.”
“I owe you?” The words were polite, but it was quite evident that he found the mere idea totally ludicrous.
So they were right! she thought with a wince. She was quick to become defensive and then offensive with the laird. But she had gone this far with a brash determination. There was little to do other than play it out.
“Yes,” she said with conviction. “We’ve worked on walls, done masonry, fixed electric wiring … scrubbed on our hands and knees! Quite frankly, we’re more deserving of such a place—at least we’ve put love and spit and polish into it. How you could own such an exquisite piece of history and … let it go like this, I can’t begin to imagine.”
She could see the outrage and incredulity slipping into his eyes. Though he didn’t move, every muscle in his body seemed to tense, making his shoulders even broader.
Inwardly she winced. Great, she thought. So much for playing it out!
She was supposed to be talking him into allowing them to operate their tour, not offending and angering him.
“So now you’re an expert on maintaining a Scottish castle,” he said.
She stared into her cup. A sudden and vivid recollection of falling into his lap came to mind. Her fingers against his flesh, pressing into his … lap. The easy way he rose and simply deposited her down …
Last night his behavior had been courteous—and kind. She realized then that she was attracted to him, and somewhat afraid of him, as well. And her hostility toward him had everything to do with her inner defense mechanism.
Ryan suddenly burst back into the kitchen. Toni was certain that he hadn’t been far away, that he’d been listening in.
“Toni isn’t explaining this very well,” Ryan said, turning toward her with a fierce frown. “We really did do a lot, and not just cosmetic work. We did some structural work, as well. Honestly—”
“Yes,” Bruce said, staring at Toni.
Her heart quickened.
“Pardon?” Ryan said.
“Miss Fraser wasn’t particularly eloquent in her plea, but I do see that you’ve done a lot of labor here. And I quite understand that you’re in a bad position. Your group can come. Apparently you’re going to need the money.” He poured his coffee down the drain and exited the kitchen.
Ryan stared at Toni in amazement. Then he bounded toward her, drawing her from the chair, grinning like a madman. “Yes! Yes!”
Gina came in behind her husband. They hugged one another, dancing around the kitchen.
In a moment Thayer was back in, and then David and Kevin. They were so pleased, Toni wondered if they realized that they hadn’t gained anything but a single night. And though it would keep them from sleeping on Thayer’s Glasgow apartment floor for the next week, it would far from recoup their investment.
“We’re going to cook up the best breakfast in the world,” David said.
“We might want to start by brewing a new pot of coffee,” Toni told them, and she couldn’t help a grimace toward Gina. “Laird MacNiall just dumped yours down the sink.”
“Really!” Gina said.
“So your coffee sucks!” Ryan said cheerfully, kissing her cheek. “You’re still as cute as a button.”
“Get out of here, the lot of you,” Kevin said. “Shoo! We have to cook.”
Toni rose to leave, and as she did so, she glanced at the paper Thayer had left on the table when he’d first come in. The headlines blazed at her: Edinburgh Woman Still Missing. Police Fear Foul Play.
“Wait! Not you, Toni,” David said.
She looked over at him. “What do you mean, not me? You all insult my cooking!”
“But you’re the best washer, chopper and assistant we’ve ever had,” Kevin told her sweetly. “And then there’s the table. We should set it really nicely.”
“Wait, I get to wash, chop and be chef’s grunt?”
David set his arm around her shoulders, flashing her a smile, his dark eyes alive and merry. “Think of it as historical role-playing. Everyone wants to be the queen, but you have to have a few serfs running around.”
“Serf you!” she muttered.
“The others will have to clean up,” he reminded her.
“All right, there’s a deal,” Toni agreed. She walked over to the table and picked up the newspaper, sliding it under the counter so that she could go back for it later.

“Laird MacNiall?”
Bruce had been at his desk—where, he had to admit, the lack of dust was a welcome situation—when the tap sounded at his door. Bidding the arrival enter, he looked up to see that David Fulton was at his door.
“Aye, come in,” Bruce told him.
Fulton was a striking fellow, dark and lean. His affection for Kevin was evident in his warmth, but he also seemed to carry a deep sense of concern for the rest of his friends, as did they all.
Bruce was surprised to discover he somewhat envied the repartee in the group. The gay couple, the married couple, Toni Fraser—and even her Scots cousin. They were a diverse group, but the closeness between them was admirable. Riding with Ryan that morning, he had gotten most of the scoop on the group, how they had met, and how they had first begun the enterprise as a wild scheme, then determined that they could make it real.
“We’re really grateful to you,” David said. “Anyway, we like to think that we’ve prepared a feast fit for a king—or a lord, at the very least. Would you be so good as to join us?”
Bruce set down his pencil, surveyed the fellow and realized his stomach was growling. He inclined his head. “Great. I’ll be right down.”
He waited for David to leave, then opened his top drawer and set the sheets he’d been working on within it, along with the daily news.
He didn’t close the drawer, but studied the headline and the article again, deeply disturbed. The phrase all leads exhausted seemed to jump out at him.
Jonathan Tavish was fine enough as a local constable, but he hated giving up any of his local power, and he just didn’t have the expertise to deal with the situation that seemed to grow more dire on a daily basis.
Down in Stirling, Glasgow and, now, Edinburgh, they believed that the girls were seized off the streets of the main cities, then killed in other locations and finally—with the first two, at least—left in the forest of Tillingham because it was so lush and dense that discovery could take years.
Bruce’s question was this: Were there others, sad lives lost and unreported, decaying in the woods, their disappearance unnoted? And now another.
Stirling, Glasgow and Edinburgh. The killer was striking all over, yet in Scotland, the distances were certainly not major. The first three abductions had taken place in large cities. But if he had found it easy enough to seize women off busy streets, would he grow bolder and seek out quieter locations?
He drummed his fingers on the desk. Thus far, the local populace had not felt the first whiff of panic. But thus far, the girls reported as “missing” had not been what the locals would consider “good” girls. Not that the people here were cold or uncaring; it was quite the opposite. But since the victims had been known to work the streets and to have fallen into the world of drugs, the average man and woman here did not worry.
It was sad, indeed, tragic. Hearts bled. But women who fell into the ways of sin and addiction left themselves open to such tragedy.
But MacNiall didn’t feel that way. There was a killer on the loose. And no matter what the state of his victim’s lives, he had to be stopped.
And he had the power to stop him? MacNiall mocked himself.
He had come home—as far as Edinburgh, at least—when Robert called and told him that there had been no leads on the case and he was just about at wits’ end. Then, just two days after arriving in Edinburgh, Robert had told him of a new missing persons report.
The strange thing was, he’d felt an urge to return even before he’d gotten the phone call. Actually, he’d wanted to ignore the haunting sense that he’d needed to be here. But after speaking to Robert, he’d taken the first flight out of New York.
So here he was. Yet, really, why? There were fine men on the case, and he wasn’t an official anymore.
But they needed … something. Hell, they needed to realize what they were up against.
Bruce was afraid that all available manpower would not be put on the case until the killer upped his anger or his psychosis, or until the “wrong” victim was killed.
By then, God alone knew what the body count could be.
He pressed his fingers against his temples, remembering the other reason he was actually anxious to have the group gone—his dream. How could he explain having such a strange dream?
Then again, maybe it wasn’t so strange. After all, he had found the first body. That vision would never leave his mind.
And now maybe it was natural to meet a woman, find her irritating beyond measure and then sexy as all hell…. And then fear for her.
Annoyed with himself, he snapped the drawer shut and rose to join his uninvited guests in the kitchen.

The setting was a wonder to behold. Toni was certain that Bruce MacNiall thought as much, because he paused in the doorway. And for once, he certainly wasn’t angry. He gave that slight arch to his brow and curl to his lip that demonstrated amusement, then he wandered in and took the seat left for him at the head of the table.
Everyone was there, seated and looking at him. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize that I’d kept the rest of you waiting,” he said pleasantly, taking the napkin that had been arranged into an elegant bird shape from his plate.
“Almost hate to use this,” Bruce said, looking around the table.
“Please, they’re nothing to fold,” Kevin said. “I’ve worked in a number of restaurants. That’s the fate of most theater majors. Actually, though, I’m a set designer.”
“So Ryan told me,” Bruce said.
“We each have special and unique talents,” Gina said.
“I’ve heard a few,” Bruce said.
“That’s right, you were out riding with our Ryan,” Thayer said, clapping his hand on Ryan’s back. “He’s our master of horse and arms! There’s not an animal out there our boy can’t ride.”
“Yes, Ryan is quite skilled,” Bruce agreed.
David lifted a hand. “Costumes,” he said.
“Yes, and he juggles,” Kevin said. “He’s really a fantastic actor, as well, but we are the technical whizzes.”
“And they’re both so humble and modest,” Toni said sweetly.
“Sorry, modesty never gets us the job,” Kevin reminded her.
“Touché,” she agreed.
“And you? What were you doing in Glasgow?” Bruce asked Thayer.
“Piano bar,” Thayer said ruefully.
“I’m marketing and promotions, and whatever else is needed,” Gina said. “The jill-of-all-theatrical-trades, but my major was actually on the business side.”
“Ah.” Bruce stared at Toni then, waiting.
“Writer,” Toni said, certain that he thought her one hell of a storyteller all right.
“Now you see,” Kevin said. “Her imagination is legendary.”
“So it seems,” Bruce mused, staring at her.
“Our Toni is far too modest. She wrote a one-woman show on Varina Davis—she was the one and only first lady of the Confederacy—and spent six months performing it for sold-out audiences in Washington, D.C.,
and then Richmond. She writes, acts, directs, sews and is a regular vixen with a paintbrush. Naturally, we do whatever is needed.”
“Like scrubbing floors,” David said.
“And cleaning latrines,” Thayer added.
“Sewing, wiring, flats, paints … we’ve done it all,” Toni told him.
“And what part of the States are you from?” MacNiall asked them, looking around at the group again.
“I’m from Iowa, originally,” Gina said. “Toni’s from the D.C. area, David’s a native New Yorker, Ryan is from Kentucky and Kevin’s from Philadelphia.”
“We went to college together,” Toni murmured.
“NYU,” David offered.
“Most of us went to college together. Toni, Ryan, David and I went to college together,” Gina corrected softly. “Then, when Ryan got his job with the Magician’s Castle, I moved to Baltimore. Toni moved nearer to D.C., but we stayed close. When she wanted to mount her Queen Varina show, I spent time down there to help her, David did her costume and set. We met Kevin about that time, almost two years ago, and then we finally met Thayer and dragged him in on the scheme the last time we were in Scotland.”
“And that was …?”
“Just about six months ago, right?” Ryan said, looking for agreement from the others. “We were at a castle owned by the Menzies family. Clan members had bought it, done some renovations and then opened it for tours.”
“Ah,” MacNiall murmured, still watching them. Toni wondered what he was thinking. He looked at Thayer. “You were in Glasgow and you just got roped in?”
“I had tried to meet Thayer when we were here just before that. We’ve vacationed in Scotland at least four times since college,” Toni informed him. “But every time I was in the country, Thayer had a job somewhere else. When we finally met …”
“It was as if you’d known one another all your lives?” Bruce MacNiall suggested dryly.
“Actually, yes,” Thayer said.
“I see.”
“I wasn’t roped into anything,” Thayer said, offering Toni a small smile. “Their idea was a good one.”
“Aye, it might have been,” Bruce MacNiall conceded, surprising Toni. “What I saw was wonderfully dramatic.”
“You know, we’ve got a problem tonight,” Ryan said.
Toni realized that he was looking at her. “Yes?”
“I really had trouble going from costume to costume, and then doing the whole horse in the great hall thing last night. Of course, it worked, because—” he stared at Bruce and smiled weakly “—because Bruce showed up, but otherwise you’ll have to stall more.”
“She can’t stall. The timing was great. Suspenseful. We’ll lose them if she has to pad what is a perfect speech!” Gina protested.
“You want Bruce MacNiall to ride into the great hall as he did last night?” Bruce asked. “I can do that for you again. Is that it?”
They were staring at him incredulously.
“You would do that?” Gina said.
“Hey, you’re here, and I already think I’m insane myself. Why the hell not?” he returned.
“There’s a little more to it, as written,” Gina said.
“Oh?” Bruce queried.
David grinned. “You’re supposed to dismount, walk up the stairs and strangle Toni.”
“Ah.” Bruce stared at Toni again, a smile teasing at his lips. “I think I can handle that.”
“You only pretend to strangle her, you know,” Thayer interjected.
“And that might be a lot harder!” Kevin said, winking at Toni.
She wasn’t particularly amused. “I don’t really see how we can ask Laird MacNiall to join in with us. He’s already doing us such a tremendous favor,” she said very sweetly.
“I don’t mind at all,” Bruce MacNiall said, rising. “This was a feast, ladies and gentlemen. If you’ll excuse me, though, I’d like to get into the village before your evening events.”
They watched as he left.
“Well, there you go. The chap isn’t really half bad after all,” Thayer said. “We’ll have to keep an eye on him, though, when he’s up there strangling Toni, eh?”
To Toni, his accent seemed to accentuate a real danger for some reason. But the others were laughing, so it was probably just in her mind.
“Ryan, you’ve just been shoved out of your big moment,” David said.
“Hey, that’s okay. It’s worth it just to watch that horse of his come racing in and stop on a dime,” Ryan said. He grinned, glancing across the table. “I will miss getting to strangle Toni, though.”
“Ha, ha,” she said and rose, stretching. “Well, let’s see … under the artistic direction of Mr. David Fulton and Mr. Kevin Hart, I did the washing, chopping and table adornment. Ryan, you can rue your lost opportunity to strangle me while you wash the dishes with your lovely wife and Thayer.”
“Me? But I got to shovel out major horse shite already today!”
“Hey, horses are your thing, and you’re the expert. As for KP, we’re all in on it. So! Ta-ta, cheerio and all that! I’m off!” And with a smile, she made her exit.
Bruce entered Jonathan Tavish’s office after a brief tap against the doorframe. Jonathan looked up and arched a brow. “Bruce, I thought you’d be guarding the family jewels, what with that houseful in the old estate.”
“Hardly an estate, and totally a crumbling castle,” Bruce said, taking a seat. “Actually, the more I walk around the place, the more amazed I am. They’ve taken care of a ton of minor things that I’ve put off for years.”
“It’s tough when you’re keeping up with too much,” Jonathan agreed. He grinned. “Now, if you were just among the local peasant law-keepers, you’d be here year-round, pluggin’ up holes at any given time. So … it seems you’re not quite as angry as you were when you first learned about your guests?”
Bruce angled his head slightly as he surveyed his friend. They were close in age, had known each other since childhood. They shared a passion for this little neck of the world, though they didn’t always agree about how it should be run. Bruce was the local gentry, as it were, and Jonathan was the local law. But because Jonathan was local, and had always been local, he seemed to maintain a chip on his shoulder where Bruce was concerned.
One day, maybe, Jonathan would run for the position of provost. As such, he could implement more of his own ideas. Thus far, though, he seemed to like being constable.
“I’ve cooled down some, yes,” Bruce said. “Since no one threw them out in my absence, I thought another few days couldn’t hurt too much.”
“Ah,” Jonathan teased. “It was the blonde, eh? What a beauty—and what absolute hell on wheels!”
“She does have a way about her,” Bruce agreed. “But this isn’t the first time I’ve heard about this happening.”
“Your castle being taken over?” Jonathan said, puzzled.
Bruce shook his head. “This sort of thing in general. People going through what they think are private enterprises or legitimate rental agencies and winding up in a similar circumstance. I really want to find out what happened in this situation.”
“Like you said, it happens too often.”
“Yes, but this time it happened to be my castle that was taken over.”
“Come Monday, you can let those folks see all your records. They can bring their documents down, and we’ll get someone on it right away. Unfortunately, sometimes—especially in this age of the Internet—people can clean up their trails.” He lifted his hands. “I might have gotten started on it already, but they didn’t want to hand over the documents.”
“It’s all they’ve got to prove anything.”
“Great. They don’t trust the law.”
“Well,” Bruce said, offering a certain sympathy. “They don’t trust me, either.”
“Ah, there we are! In the same boat, as they say.”
“Right. But actually, that’s not why I’m here,” Bruce said.
“Oh?”
Bruce tossed the newspaper on Jonathan’s desk. “Oh, that.” “Aye, oh, that!”
Jonathan shook his head. “Bruce, they’re not local girls disappearing.”
“But in the last year, two bodies have been found in the forest.”
“If you haven’t noticed, it’s a big forest,” Jonathan re minded him.
“Have you had men out searching?” Bruce demanded.
“This girl just disappeared,” Jonathan reminded him. “But yes, I’ve had men out searching.”
“Right. The last two girls who disappeared wound up in our forest. We should be looking for this latest lass. I’m willing to bet my bottom dollar that’s where she’s going to be.”
“Careful with that kind of prophecy, Bruce,” Jonathan warned, sitting back. “People will begin to think you know more about these disappearances and murders than you should. They do keep occurring when you’re actually in residence.” He raised a hand instantly. “And that doesn’t mean a damned thing. I’m your friend and I know you. I’m just telling you what someone else might think.”
“Bloody hell!” Bruce cursed, his tone hard. Jonathan’s
suggestion was an outrage, and he was both startled and angry.
“Sorry, Bruce, I didn’t mean anything by that. It’s just that you’re getting obsessive. I understand, of course. But you’re not what you were, Bruce. Time has gone on. Just because you struck it lucky once in Edinburgh doesn’t make you an expert.”
Bruce prayed for patience. “I’m not claiming to be an expert. But murdered women being discovered in Tillingham Forest does bother, seriously. And it should bother the hell out of you.”
“I know my business, Bruce.”
“I’m not suggesting that you don’t.”
“How can I stop a madman from kidnapping women in other cities? If you haven’t noticed, we’ve miles of dark roads around here, not to mention that whole companies of fightin’ men used to use that forest as a refuge! And again, this girl has just been reported as missing. She’s an Irish lass, might have just taken the ferry home.”
Bruce rose. “If she isn’t found in a few days’ time, I’ll arrange for a party myself to search the forest.”
“Bruce, mind that MacNiall temper of yours, please, for the love of God!” Jonathan said. “I told you, we’ve taken a look in the forest. We’ll go back and search with greater effort if she isn’t found in the next few days.”
“Good.” Bruce rose and started for the door.
“Hey!” Jonathan called after him.
“Aye?” Bruce said, pausing.
“Did you close down your haunted castle tour for this evening?” Jonathan asked.
“Actually, no. I’m joining it,” Bruce said.
“You’re joining it?” Jonathan said, astonished. “You’ve never acted in your life!”
“Well, that’s not really true, is it? We all act every day of our lives, don’t we?” Bruce asked him lightly.
“Ach! Go figure!” Jonathan said, shaking his head. “It’s the blonde.”
“It’s the fact that they are in a rather sorry predicament,” Bruce said. “And they did do a damn good job repairing a few of the walls. See you on Monday.”
He exited the office, leaving the newspaper on Jonathan’s desk. He knew what the front page carried—a picture.
She was young, with wide eyes and long, soft brown hair. She had originally hailed from Belfast, Northern Ireland. Apparently, she’d intended to head for London. But she’d never made it that far, discovering drugs and prostitution somewhere along the way instead. She’d gotten as far as Edinburgh, and been officially reported as missing when a haphazard group of “friends” realized that they hadn’t seen her in several days.
News could die quickly, unless it was really sensational. The missing persons report on the first girl had run in the local papers and then been forgotten. Until Bruce had discovered her body in the forest while out riding, facedown, decomposed to a macabre degree.
He’d missed the notice about the second disappearance. But there had been no missing the fact of where the body had been found—Tillingham Forest. Eban had found the second victim there, months later.
Prostitutes. Drug addicts. The lost and the lonely. They’d needed help, not strangulation.
He sat in his car for a minute, staring out the windshield.
He was parked right in the center of town, where a fountain sat in the middle of a roundabout. Atop the fountain was the proud statue of a Cavalier. There was no plaque stating his name, or the dates of his birth or death, or extolling his deeds. But the locals all knew who the statue portrayed—the original Bruce MacNiall. And tonight, he’d play his ancestor.
A sudden irritation seared through him. “You’d think they’d give you the benefit of the doubt, old boy. But let time go by and now you’re a hero—suspected of killing the love of his life!”
There really was no proof that Bruce MacNiall had killed Annalise, but it made for a good story. And just as some historians saw the Stuart champion as a great hero, others saw him as a fool willing to risk the lives of far too many in his own pursuit for glory.
The idea of Bruce MacNiall having killed his wife didn’t sit well with him. And still, he had said that he’d play the part. Life sure had it ironies.
“Well, old fellow!” he muttered, “I’ve never heard it proved that you did any such thing, but it’s entertainment these days, eh?”
He threw the car into gear and started toward the castle on its tor.
Entertainment! Was someone killing prostitutes for fun?
He drove by the forest and slowed the car to a crawl. He knew that to find anything within it, they’d have to delve deep into the woods and the streams.
His heart ached for the girl. He knew she was already there, decaying in the woods. And he had known it as a certainty last night, when he had dreamed about seeing a body floating facedown.
Except … in his dream, it had been the body of Toni Fraser.

5
“Hey! What are you doing out here?”
Toni turned to see that David had come out to the stables. She was a little surprised. David liked horses well enough, but usually when they came to him or happened to be where he was. Ryan was the expert rider in their crew.
She had been stroking the gorgeous black nose of Bruce MacNiall’s huge Shaunessy. The animal was mammoth and, she was certain, an amazing power when ridden. He was also well mannered and seemed to enjoy affection. Amazingly, he seemed to have nothing against Ryan’s gelding—at least, not so far as sharing the same living quarters.
“I was just out exploring,” Toni told David, “and thought I’d come down here. I love that fellow Ryan bought—he’s a great horse for the money. But this guy—” she indicated Bruce MacNiall’s huge black “—he’s really something. Of course, I still love our horse best, but … he is gorgeous.”
“Yes. And imposing, just like his master.”
“The great Bruce MacNiall, who happened to ride in after we put our blood, sweat and tears into his place!” Toni commented.
David grinned. “That’s Laird MacNiall to you, so I understand,” he teased.
She waved a hand in the air.
“Well, the situation is pretty sad,” he murmured. He strode across the stables then, coming to her side. He searched her eyes. “You okay, kid?”
“Well, as okay as any of us,” she told him.
David gave Shaunessy a stroke on his velvet forehead. “Don’t feel that you are to blame, no matter what happens. We all rushed into this. And if it seems that we’re giving you a hard time, it’s mainly teasing—or the fact that it’s human nature to want to blame someone else!”

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