Who knew what he would find in his eggs, put there by his well-meaning innkeeper? No, it was better that he escape while he could.
He turned toward the door, putting all thoughts of aspirin behind him. He'd lived through worse headaches than this without the aid of drugs. Besides, with Mrs. Pruitt at the dispensary, who knew what he'd get to dull his pain or how long it would put him out for? .
"I'll be back for supper," he said over his shoulder.
"One could hope," she said darkly.
And with that cheery send-off, he let himself out the front door. He stood on the stoop and stuck his hands in his pockets. He rocked back on his heels and examined the day. No rain; that was a bonus. He supposed maybe he should have taken another day of rest, but he just couldn't. At least the past couple of days he'd been unconscious, except for that brief period of misery when someone had woken him every hour on the hour to make sure he hadn't slipped into a coma.
He'd had little time to think about his ignominious defeat at his own castle.
Scared by ghosts. It was pathetic.
In all fairness, he hadn't been scared, he'd been surprised. He'd stumbled backward, like any man with any sense would have, then tripped and gone down and into unconsciousness. The rest of the day had passed in something of a haze. He vaguely remembered a lively discussion of how he should be finished off, then the sounds of an enormous battle raging around him.
He wondered absently if his mother had had any idea what he was getting himself into. Did his sister?
Thomas set off toward the castle before he could give the true ridiculousness of his situation any more thought. He'd been looking forward to something of a repeat of his housebuilding experience. He'd planned to get in touch with the rocks that made up his castle. Rekindling some of his interest in history had seemed like a bonus as well.
He just hadn't been expecting to have history come alive in quite this way.
What he'd anticipated was a year of hard physical labor with no distractions, a year to get his head together and decide what he most wanted from life. He was thirty-four, and it was past time he settled down. He was wasting his life chasing after the almighty dollar and finding himself dating expensive, unpleasant women. A year of introspection with something to show for it in the end had seemed like such a good idea at the time.
He really hadn't planned on having company while he was doing it.
It took far less time to reach the castle than it had before. Maybe it seemed that way because it had taken him so long to get back two days ago. He ignored the eerie feeling he got every time he put his foot on the gravel road. Maybe the bump had taken more out of him than he thought.
He had almost reached the castle when he looked up, then sighed. First it was ghosts. Now it was the preservation society with pickets.
He halted several yards away and read the signs: Damn Yankees, Let Our Ruins Remain, Hammers Harm Our Heritage were the best of the lot. When they saw him coming, the protestors broke into a spontaneous rendition of "God Save the Queen."
The peace and quiet of his house on the coast sounded better by the minute.
Thomas jammed his hands in his pockets and continued doggedly on his way toward his tormentors. "No power tools today," he announced as he approached.
The three stopped with their screeching, but they didn't look convinced.
"I'm just here to look around," he said.
"But you'll return another day to render our ruin remodeled!" exclaimed one.
"Without a doubt," he agreed pleasantly.
They hoisted their signs and looked like they meant to do business with them this time.
"Want to come along to the castle?" he asked politely. "Just to see the ruin in its ruinous state before it's restored?"
The ratlike leader sat down and put his head between his knees. The other two looked so unsettled by the prospect that Thomas began to wonder if they hadn't seen more than they cared to themselves. He frowned thoughtfully. It looked like his choice was either ghosts or preservationists. If he had to choose at the moment, he would take the ghosts. At least having a few restless spirits around would spare him from any more patriotic songs being warbled his way.
He walked away, still leaving the trio in various stages of collapse. One hurdle overcome, one to go. He sighed as he walked toward the little stone bridge. There were two dozen Scots standing guard at the barbican. Thomas recognized the leader immediately. Even knowing the sword was just for show wasn't all that comforting. Maybe his imagination was too good. He could easily imagine having faced that in battle and subsequently having found himself without any guts. Literally.
He stopped a few paces away and sized up the other man. The Scot glared back at him.
"Good morning," Thomas said politely.
The man snarled a curse at him. "A good mornin' would be you dead with yer head on a pike outside me gates."
Thomas realized immediately that he was in over his head. Bonding with the guy by discussing the Lakers was out, as was inviting him to toss the old pigskin around for awhile. What would the village barkeep say if he came in for a pint or two with a local ghost carrying a huge sword?
Get out, and don't come back, was Thomas's guess.
Well, he'd faced down some fairly nasty individuals in the business world and found the best way to deal with them was to be brief and direct. He suspected the man before him might understand that. After all, what could be briefer or more direct than cutting off your enemy's head and displaying it outside your front door?
"Thomas McKinnon," he said, not bothering to extend his hand.
