She'd had peace for longer than she could remember, and likely longer than Duncan's fingers could aid them in counting. She'd known it couldn't last. It never did.
"Well," she said, straining to see along the road, "we must divine what mischief is afoot, Duncan. Let them pass unhindered. After you've given the word to the rest of the garrison, meet me in the hall."
"Aye, I will."
And, with that, he was gone. Iolanthe glanced again over the countryside and allowed herself a final regret that the ruins of her keep did not rest along the seashore. How pleasant a view that might have been over the past six hundred years.
And that was, in truth, the reason she remained where she was. The seashore was meant to be walked along while holding hands with the love of one's heart. Or so her great-grandmother had told her. Iolanthe had never had cause to disbelieve her. Megan MacLeod had known of what she spoke, being an undisputed authority on all things tender and ardent. Even after all these centuries, Iolanthe still hadn't found the heart to view the strand alone. So she remained at Thorpewold, landlocked and miserable.
She sighed and turned away. She walked down the stairs, stepping across thresholds that had once sported doors, down steps that were worn and grooved with the passing of countless feet. Thorpewold had not always been so poor a keep. It hadn't been much to speak of when she'd arrived and lost her life there, but there had been lads over the next pair of hundred years who had put the place to good use against the English. She'd been happy to aid them in that cause whenever possible.
But keeps had ceased to serve their original purposes, and border keeps even more so. She'd watched her adopted home fall into disrepair and been powerless to stop it.
Had the souls walking up the road come to change all that?
She contemplated what that might mean for her—the annoyance of having mortals underfoot at all hours—and decided that she wasn't for the idea. She'd send them back the way they'd come without hesitation.
Iolanthe entered the great hall and stopped to admire the fine view of sky afforded by the lack of roof. She glanced about her and saw two dozen Highlanders standing against the walls, their swords bare in their hands and their eyes glinting with the light of battle. She wished, as she wished each time she saw the men who were loyal to her at the ready, that she'd somehow managed to escape her fate, had gathered such men about her, and returned to father's keep to give him her thoughts on his matrimonial plans for her. She suspected he might have noticed her long enough to listen to her with these lads at her back.
But there was no time now for regrets. She could see the hapless mortals coming toward the great hall, thanks to the lack of a front door. Now was the time to listen to them spew forth their plans, then convince them that such planning was in vain when the fate of her hall was at stake.
Three was their number; a woman and two men. Iolanthe immediately identified them by their miens. There was the Gray Lady, whose hair greatly resembled a helmet; the Fat Scribe, with all manner of pens and paper tucked under his arms and held in his hands; and another man whom she instantly compared to a rat. She was quite sure she saw his nose begin to twitch.
"Marvelous," said the Rat.
"Perfect," said the Gray Lady, patting her hair affectionately.
The Scribe said nothing, but arranged his things so he could more easily scribble upon his papers.
"Cannot be touched," said the Rat firmly. "Look at the walls, the window openings, the stairs! No, no; it cannot be touched."
"We'll have to stop the sale," said the Gray Lady, elbowing the scribe in the side. "Make a note of that, Gerard."
"Well," said the Scribe, squinting down at his paper, "I daresay the sale has already gone through."
"We'll stop it," the Gray Lady said, raising her fist to the sky.
"Too late for that, I shouldn't wonder," argued the Scribe. "Pesky Yanks."
"When is the Yank in question set to arrive?" asked the Rat, his nose quivering fiercely.
"On the morrow." The Gray Lady shook her head sadly. "All these fine ruins, ruined."
"Restored," said the Rat. "Redone."
"A Do-It-Yourselfer," the Scribe offered. "As if being an American wasn't insult enough."
"What about those rumors of the castle being haunted?" the Gray Lady asked with a look of cunning on her face. "Would that deter him?"
"The American couple was certainly affected by what they saw," the Rat agreed.
Iolanthe held up her hand to stop any of her men from moving. She could scarce believe what she'd heard, and she knew she should take a moment to digest it all before she took any action.
A Yank?
He'd bought her hall?
And he intended to restore it?
She hardly knew what to think. She stood there and struggled to find her wits. A man in her keep? A man with hammer and nails and the saints only knew what other kind of modern creations, fouling up her unlife and making himself at home in her home?
It was a calamity.
Iolanthe looked around the hall at her men.
"Give these souls something to recount," she said clearly, then let her hand fall.
Two dozen Highlanders made themselves quite visible, bellowing their war cries and charging the little group of three with merciless expressions and upraised weapons.
The Rat fell over in a dead faint.
The other two screeched and fled for the door. There was a great commotion there, and Iolanthe hopped up on the ruins of a table to get a better view. And she couldn't help but smile just a bit.
Roderick was there, plain to
