She walked through the inn's immaculately tended garden and permitted herself a small flash of envy for the gardener. It reminded her too much of her own garden in the Highlands. How many happy hours had been passed there, tending herbs, plucking out weeds, growing things that could actually be eaten? Perhaps 'twas a simple thing, that tending of things the earth nourished, but she had loved it.
She paused at the back door that led into the kitchen, feeling suddenly that she might be making a very great mistake. Perhaps Thomas McKinnon would simply go. Would it not be better to consider him beneath her notice? Then again, perhaps 'twas too late to turn back now. Besides, there would be those awake and happy for a bit of conversation.
She took a deep breath and walked through the door.
A single candle burned low on the table. The simple light fell on the drooling visage of the man she suspected she might come to loathe, given enough time. He was rude, aye, but not only was he rude, he was a drinker as well. She glared at him in disgust. Could this not be any more undesirable a houseguest? He would pound away with his hammer all day, then drink himself into a. stupor and snore all night.
Nay, 'twas far better that she got rid of him before he disturbed her peace any further.
"Tommy, my lad, if you want to drink yourself senseless, you'd best fill up your glass."
Iolanthe looked quickly to her right to find that another soul had entered the kitchen. Either she had been concentrating so hard on her thoughts that she'd not marked him, or he'd walked through that dining chamber door as easily as she could have.
Which, given the identity of the man, was entirely possible.
The man took no note of her but sat himself down at the table. A tankard of ale appeared in his hand, and the kitchen brightened considerably when a flick of his wrist lit candles and stoked the fire in the hearth.
Thomas McKinnon didn't lift his head. "I couldn't bring myself to open the bottle."
The older man facing him clucked his tongue sadly. "Ach, but what a sorry state you're in."
Iolanthe watched Thomas lift his head, stare at the man facing him, then close his eyes. He swallowed with apparent difficulty.
'Tell me I'm hallucinating."
The man facing him laughed heartily. "Poor lad. Rough go of it?"
Thomas opened his eyes. "You have me at a disadvantage, I'm afraid. You obviously know who I am, but I have no idea who you are."
"Ambrose MacLeod," the older man said. "Chieftain of your clan during the glorious sixteenth century."
Thomas took a deep breath, then put both his hands on the table as if to steady himself. "Why is it I seem to be seeing so many Highlanders so far from home? What is it with this place? Everyone seems to congregate here."
"We've business hereabouts, if you like."
Iolanthe snorted before she could stop herself. The only business the old fool before her had was befouling the lives of all those about him with marriage and other such undesirable unions. He'd grown soft and sentimental in his death. In life, he had been notorious for hatching wild and impossible plots to mete out revenge and rid himself of troublesome enemies. Would that he would use some of that kind of stratagem for her benefit.
She cleared her throat purposefully. If Ambrose marked her, he didn't show it. Iolanthe folded her arms over her chest and leaned back against the door. She glared at Ambrose, but apparently he was more skilled at ignoring others than she'd given him credit for. He merely concentrated on the lout facing him.
Then something struck her, something she'd heard but not truly listened to. Ambrose was chieftain of Thomas's clan?
Thomas was a MacLeod? How could that be?
"I saw you in the hallway that first day." Thomas looked anything but bleary-eyed now. He was sitting up, bracing himself with his hands on the table.
"Aye."
"And you're a ghost."
"Aye, lad. That, too."
Thomas seemed to chew on that for quite some time. "My mother is a MacLeod," he said finally. "She sees things others don't."
"As do you, apparently."
"Unfortunately."
Iolanthe pitied the poor woman, with such an ill-mannered son as this. Well, at least the mystery of his lineage was solved. She wondered how she should feel about having this lout as a kinsman.
"You'll accustom yourself to it all in time," Ambrose said. " 'Tis a blessing, actually, that seeing."
"I think the jury's still out on that." He frowned suddenly. "Speaking of seeing, do you know anyone who wears mouse ears and travels?"
Ambrose sighed heavily. "Hugh McKinnon. Sorry to say it, lad, but he's a laird back in your father's line—"
Hugh appeared next to Ambrose, beaming. "A good e'en to ye, grandson," he said, bobbing his head a time or two. "Now, Tommy lad, forgive me that I couldn't present myself to ye, understand, for at the time—"
"Hugh," Ambrose said with a sigh, "we've business to attend to."
"Aye, I can see that," Hugh said, sitting down and making himself comfortable. "I'm sure you'll want me in on it."
"And I'm just as certain we won't," Ambrose said.
"But—"
"Perhaps you and Thomas can share a cup of ale at a later time," Ambrose said.
"But—"
"A much later time." .
Hugh looked as if he planned to protest again, but apparently something in Ambrose's eye convinced him he shouldn't. He grumbled something under his breath but rose just the same. Iolanthe watched as he bowed with a flourish and popped his cap back onto his head. "I'll come to ye later, grandson. When we have some peace for speaking," he said, giving Ambrose a pointed glare.
"Well..." said Thomas.
Hugh disappeared.
Iolanthe looked at Thomas. Well, at least the man was still breathing normally. She'd come to find that most mortals upon seeing a ghost gave in to a mighty case of hysterics. Then again, this man here seemed passing arrogant and excessively full of his own words.
