"Is this your ancestral keep?" she asked coldly.
"Nay, but I'll take it just the same—"
"Have you a right to it through battle? Were you slain here?"
He chewed on that one, then spat out a curt nay.
"The keep is mine," she said. "I paid for it with my own blood."
"Your virgin's blood?" he sneered.
She was certain none save Duncan knew the truth of her murder, and perhaps even he didn't know the precise way of it, but the men fought as if they did. Connor rallied a handful of his own lads about him, but the rest of the keep's inhabitants were demanding justice for the insult to her. Even Roderick had pulled forth his sabre and was looking at it carefully, as if trying to decide how the obviously unfamiliar weapon might best be wielded.
Iolanthe stepped back several paces and considered where she might go now. The battle would likely go on all day. There would be many mortal wounds inflicted, though obviously none would die from them nor feel the pain of them.
It made for a very long day on the field.
Besides, it was beginning to rain—perfect weather for a fine day of fighting. 'Twas best that she leave them to their business. They would enjoy their play and have a great deal to talk about around the fire that night.
In time, Connor would give her a gruff noise and a curt nod that would pass for his apology. She would accept and put his words behind her.
But she wouldn't give him her keep.
And she would parley with the man lying in the mud.
She passed the afternoon standing on the parapet. She supposed she had the skill of the stonemasons to thank for even that small place to stand. Unfortunately, haunting the walls didn't soothe her. She forced herself to wait until dusk was falling before she made her way down to the great hall, ignoring everyone she saw on her way there. She went to stand on the front steps and looked out into the bailey.
It wasn't as if she wanted to look.
But she couldn't help herself.
The man was stirring. As she watched, he heaved himself to his feet, sneezed heartily, then slowly made his way out through the barbican and down the road, rubbing the back of his head. Perhaps that was all she would see of him. He would likely hie himself back to his beloved Colonies and be grateful to be returned.
Somehow, though, she had the feeling that wouldn't happen.
Change was in the air. She stood and examined the feeling. It was like ... She closed her eyes and let the memory wash over her. It was like the Highlands at the end of summer, when suddenly out of the north came a breeze with a hint of chill clinging to it.
Aye, a mighty change was in the air, and she was as powerless to prevent it as she would have been to hold off autumn.
A mighty change.
She could only hope it would be a good one.
Chapter 7
Thomas pulled his shirt over his head and winced as it made contact with the back of his skull. It certainly wasn't the worst concussion he'd ever had. He'd had a couple of bad falls over his long career of climbing up things he probably should have let alone, and his head had paid the price. He wondered if it was just more than his thick skull that was wounded. It was pretty damned embarrassing to have passed out because of a cluster of ghosts coming at him with fake swords.
He had come to the conclusion that the swords couldn't have been real. If they had been, he would have either woken to find himself cut to ribbons or never woken again at all. The next time he was faced with a blade almost as tall as he was, he wouldn't flinch.
Which was all good and fine for the future, but it didn't help his gargantuan headache or the sharp sting to his pride. He supposed that in all fairness, getting back to the inn under his own power had been something of an accomplishment. But two days in bed afterward? Never mind that he'd been drugged against his will. His performance was pitiful.
He left his room and made his way gingerly down the stairs, feeling several decades older than the thirty-four years his driver's license claimed he was. He paused to stifle an enormous sneeze in his sleeve, then started across the foyer.
"I'd be remiss if I didn't tell ye that ye don't look up to any walking about today."
He turned to look at Mrs. Pruitt with narrowed eyes. She'd been the one to do it, the traitor. How could she have so calculatingly crushed up painkillers and slipped them into his juice? It had to have been the juice. It had tasted a little on the bitter side, hadn't it?
"I'm fine," he said, "thanks to all that rest you provided for me."
She didn't look in the slightest bit guilty. "Ye needed it."
He only grunted and wondered what kind of damage would result from asking her for an aspirin.
"They'll do worse than leave ye out in the rain the next time," she said ominously.
Why she couldn't have warned him before his first trip up to his castle, he didn't know. Then again, perhaps he should have known better. This was the woman who worked at the inn so she could keep up with her paranormal investigations.
"They?" he asked.
"Ye know of whom I speak." She nodded wisely. "Them's that's up the way."
"I don't suppose you'd care to enlighten me further?"
She only puffed herself up, resettled her girth, and began buffing anything remotely shiny on the reception desk.
Apparently, no further enlightenment was forthcoming.
"Breakfast?" she asked, scrutinizing an inkwell.
"No thanks."
She
