Or perhaps he would come and say to her face what he'd said to her kinsman.
She sighed, called herself a dozen kinds of fool, and went back into her prison.
Chapter 9
Thomas stood at the bend in the road where he could just begin to see his castle. He stared at it thoughtfully, trying to firm up his plans in his head. He had wanted to spend the night thinking about them, but after his conversation with his grandfather heaven only knew how many generations removed, his head had been pounding so hard that he'd gone straight to bed and passed out. His head was better today, but his plans were no closer to being thought out.
Would she be there again? Would she even speak to him?
Would he get a chance to give her what he held in his hand?
He smiled wryly and started up the road to his—or was that her—castle? Whatever the deed said, he could hardly deny that the person who really had a claim on those stones was that nameless, beautiful woman who haunted them.
Who haunted him.
His half-aunt, no less.
He trudged along, sincerely hoping he wasn't on his way to making a colossal fool of himself. He bypassed the protestors, who carried new signs and pelted him mercilessly with words. Ignoring them was no trouble. Ignoring the other souls who loitered about the gates would be a different story.
He sighed deeply. It seemed like he'd done this a thousand times before. He wondered if that was because he had the only flowers he'd been able to scrounge from the garden clutched in his hand like a five-year-old ready to present them to his mother.
Only he wasn't going to see his mother.
And he had a damned large audience.
The usual suspects were loitering at the front gates. Thomas fixed a serious look on his face. These were bribery flowers. Anyone with any business sense at all knew that the best way to get your foot in the door was to come bearing gifts.
At least that's what he told himself as he watched the entire group of Scots look at what he was holding in his hand, then, as if on cue, erupt into gales of hearty laughter. Well, all except Connor MacDougal, who only regarded Thomas with his customary look of malice.
"Come a'wooin', have ye?" he demanded.
"I'd say it isn't any of your business," Thomas answered easily.
"Won't work," Connor said.
Thomas raised an eyebrow. "You've tried?"
"With that acid-tongued wench?" Connor said with a huff. "Who'd want her?"
All right, so Thomas didn't know her all that well. So she was actually his half-aunt quite a few generations removed, and that should have been enough to give him pause. None of that mattered. First off, she was a woman and, as old-fashioned as it might have seemed, he made it a point to treat women with more respect than he would have his buddies in the locker room. Second, she was without a doubt the most arresting creature he'd ever seen, and that alone should have made up for whatever other flaws she might have reportedly had. Third, and lastly, he was quickly acquiring an intense dislike for the former laird of the Clan MacDougal.
"You and I, my laird," he said looking up at the man coldly, "will someday come to blows, I think."
"She won't want yer pitiful blooms," Connor sneered.
"Maybe not." Thomas smiled briefly and walked around him and past the suddenly silent group of men that watched.
"She won't want ye either!" Connor bellowed.
Thomas didn't deign to answer.
"Witless mortal! I'd say ye couldn't tell one end of a blade from the other!"
Well, the MacDougal had a point there, but Thomas wasn't going to concede it to him. He'd never considered learning swordplay, but maybe it wouldn't be such a bad idea. That led him to uncomfortably speculate on the reasons why that seemed like such a good idea. Was it because it would be a handy thing to know how to do or because it would impress her?
As if she would even be impressed by anything he might do! He imagined he could take down an entire squad of Scots, and she probably would just yawn. He could only guess how quickly he would find his flowers thrown back in his face. Though he couldn't deny that he would deserve it, maybe he could plead having had a migrainelike headache on the afternoon in question and hopefully receive a bit of mercy.
He tried not to wonder why it mattered to him.
He also tried to ignore any more self-initiated probes into the condition of his mental state. He'd considered that far too often of late. The truth was, he was so completely out of his element that he hardly recognized himself anymore.
Take last night, for instance. He'd gone down the kitchen, helped himself to a bottle of whiskey and a glass, then found himself completely unable to ingest the vast quantities of it any rational man would have, given the circumstances. Instead, what had he done? He'd had a conversation with his four-hundred-year-old ancestor about a woman who just happened to be his six-hundred-year-old aunt.
And both of them were ghosts.
And if that wasn't bad enough, now he was bringing apology flowers!
He clapped his hand to his forehead in an effort to bring some sense back. It only hurt, which made him wonder if it might not be a good time to go back to bed where he would be safe.
He understood ice and snow and sheer mountain faces. He understood staying alive outdoors in all kinds of weather. He understood business and how to survive all kinds of attacks from within and without. He understood construction and tools and finish work.
He didn't understand women.
He especially didn't understand medieval women who were ghosts.
He walked into the bailey, then caught sight of the garden to his right. It was the part of the castle he'd missed the two times before. There was a
