That would have been misery enough had that been all she was forced to contend with. More was the pity that along with her regrets, she'd found herself bothered for over six hundred years by unwanted ghosties who seemed as determined to haunt her castle with her as she was that they not.
"You'd be miserable without us, my dear."
Iolanthe MacLeod gritted her teeth; should she ever manage it, this one would be the very first to go. She turned her head and scowled at the man standing next to her on the parapet. He currently stuffed some sort of disgusting substance up his nose.
"Snuff," he said, with a sniff.
"Dinnae lose it in yer cuffs," she grumbled. 'Twas indeed a very likely possibility, what with the yards of lace floating gracefully over his wrists.
"My dear girl, must you lapse into that primitive Scottish dialect?" he asked, continuing to poke foul weed up his nose.
" 'Twas guid enough fer me grandsires," she said, "so 'tis guid enough fer me—and a far sight too guid fer ye!"
The man shuddered delicately. "It's just so barbar—eeek!"
Iolanthe watched as the man was hoisted from behind by shirt collar and trouser band, lifted entirely overhead, and, without ceremony, flung over the wall.
"An' keep off tha roof, ya frilly bugger!" the thrower called down into the bailey. He brushed his hands briskly and looked at Iolanthe. "Good morning to you, lady."
Iolanthe smiled benevolently at one of her father's cousins. Duncan MacLeod was a formidable warrior, and she was ever grateful for his aid. He had looked after her as best he could during her lifetime, teaching her how to wield both a knife and a handful of curses in various tongues. After her death, he had come to her and volunteered to be captain of her guard. She hadn't argued with him. How ridiculous her father would have found such a thing—she being a mere woman, of course.
That she was didn't seem to bother Duncan MacLeod any. He seemed happy to guard her peace and defend her honor when the need arose. Perhaps she couldn't rid herself permanently of her other hangers-on; at least Duncan saw to them whenever required.
"Ever you come when I most need you, Duncan," she said pleasantly.
"You're powerful jealous of your broodin' time," Duncan said. "A pity we canna rid ourselves of the bugger once and for all."
"Aye," she said, with a nod.
"I never cared for those Victorian lads," Duncan said with disapproval. "Too much time 'afore the lookin' glass, seeing to their shirtfronts. Ruins a man for anything useful."
Iolanthe nodded and turned back to her contemplation of the moor. Lord Roderick St. Clair of Herefordshire was now off her roof, and she could turn her attentions back to her grim thoughts. She did her best, then realized her cousin was still standing beside her. She turned to him with a frown.
"Is something amiss?"
"Aye," he said slowly. "I've tidings."
"Tidings? Of what sort?"
"There's a group headed up the way."
Iolanthe frowned. "Tourists? Still? Is it not autumn yet in truth?" They had been coming, the gawkers, for what seemed like decades. Though her keep had fallen in and out of fashion, and the accompanying stream of visitors ebbed and flowed accordingly, there had always been a number of mortals about, peering into her nooks and crannies. But the summer was waning, or so the leaves had begun to tell her, and she supposed it was beginning to grow cold out.
"Nay," Duncan said carefully, "they're not tourists."
"What, then?" she asked.
"A small collection of English, with papers and quills for writin'. They've a look about them that bespeaks serious business."
Iolanthe sighed. What, by Saint Michael's sweet soul, could anyone want with Thorpewold? Not only did the keep proper lack the most basic of comforts, it lacked a bloody roof! No one had dared live in the place for what had seemed like centuries.
But papers and quills. That was unwelcome. For all she knew, the fools had come up to purchase the keep. Would that she could have sold it to them and been on her way. She would have gone. Gladly.
Not that it was anything but habit and her own foolish dreams that kept her where she was. Mayhap if she'd been faced with a permanent resident, she might have stirred herself to dwell somewhere else.
"How long has it been, Duncan?" she mused, trying to distract herself with thoughts of a less troublesome nature. "Since we had houseguests?"
Duncan squinted up into the sky, as if he used the clouds to help him count.
"One ... two ..." he began, then shook his head. "Nay, perhaps 'tis three..." He began to use his fingers now, so truly it must have been a very long time. "Nay, 'twas some two hundred odd years back. You remember. 'Twas after that bloody awful spell with the English when they outlawed the wearing of the plaid."
Iolanthe nodded. "Aye, you have it aright, Duncan." She thought back to the houseguests in question. It seemed but a moment ago, but apparently it had been decades, no, centuries. She could still remember the lieutenant who had commandeered her keep as if he actually had a right to do so.
"Ruddy arrogant wretch," Duncan said, as if he knew of whom she thought. "Comin' in here and takin' over..."
"Ah, but for how long?" she asked, smiling in spite of herself. "Do you not remember, my friend, how we paraded about before him in our best colors? Saints above, how many times was it he came at us with a sword, only to find himself thrusting at nothing?"
"Aye," Duncan agreed with a smile. "Fine sport, indeed."
The lieutenant hadn't stayed but a fortnight, thanks to their efforts. Thereafter, there had been very few mortal souls indeed who arrived with intentions of staying for any length of time. Apparently, rumors of the castle being haunted had been believable enough to keep them at bay.
Aside from mere visitors, there had been the odd exorcist and the occasional ghost hunter come to
