All for You by Lynn Kurland Page B

hoary-headed warrior by tartan alone was impossible. Fortunately for his own feeble powers of observation, there was an enormous MacLeod clan badge on the man’s cap. Identification successful.
    The man next to him was wearing the crest of the clan McKinnon on his cap as well as what Stephen recognized as the current-day plaid associated with that clan. He was ruddy-haired, ruddy-complected, and looked as if he were currently seeing red. Stephen wondered absently what he’d done to annoy the man—er, ghost, again, rather.
    He wondered if he should stand up and offer a bow.
    He considered that a bit longer as he looked at the third of the little group. Obviously of Elizabethan influence judging by his trousers and the enormous ruff around his neck. The ghost twitched his cloak back over his shoulders, which left Stephen blinking a little at the tabard the ghost wore: a black lion rampant with an aqua eye.
    Part of his family crest, as it happened.
    The man also looked a fair bit like what Stephen’s father had looked like in his youth, rather more like Gideon, his brother, than he himself.
    The de Piaget ghost cleared his throat in irritation.
    Stephen pushed himself out of his chair, looked at the three, then made them a low bow.
    “Stephen, Viscount Haulton and Baron Etham, at your service,” he said politely.
    The Elizabeth ghost looked at his companions and raised an eyebrow. “Me nevvy, don’t you know. Look at them pretty manners. ’Tis in the blood.”
    The Scots didn’t offer opinions.
    Stephen cleared his throat politely. “If I could offer you seats, my lords—”
    “No need, lad,” said the ghost on the left who by his carriage showed himself to have no doubt been an important member of the clan MacLeod at some point. “We come with our own.”
    Stephen imagined they did. He waited until they’d conjured up chairs to suit themselves and plucked tankards of ale out of thin air before he dared resume his own seat. He reached for something innocuous to say.
    “Isn’t it a little late for Christmas ghosts?” he managed.
    The de Piaget ghost dressed in his Elizabethan finery harrumphed. “Ye know, young Stephen, that ’twas
me
nocturnal visit to young Charles that gave him the idea for his tale full of do-gooding specters, but that isn’t why we’re here.”
    Stephen didn’t dare speculate on why they
were
there. It was one thing to jump a little at ghosts lingering in his father’s passageways, then suppress the urge to curse at their giggles; it was another thing entirely to host a trio of apparently very opinionated souls at his own hearth and attempt intelligent conversation. On his part, of course, not theirs. They didn’t seem to be at all troubled by him.
    The red-haired ghost sitting in the middle of the guests frowned at the Highlander on his right. “Ye know, Ambrose, I begin to wonder why we waste our time with these lads south of the border. Look at this one sitting there with his mouth gaping open. There’s plenty of work to do on the proper side of the wall, I say. That young Derrick Cameron, perhaps—”
    “We’ll see to that in good time,” the Macleod assured him. “This lad first, however. Perhaps introductions before we discuss business.”
    Stephen found himself pinned to the spot by a piercing stare.
    “I am Ambrose MacLeod,” the shade announced, “laird of the clan MacLeod during the glorious flowering of Elizabethan times. These are my compatriots, Hugh McKinnon and Fulbert de Piaget.”
    “Charmed,” Stephen managed, nodding at the other Highlander and the Englishman who were helping themselves to what he could only assume was ale.
    “And now to our business,” Ambrose MacLeod said seriously.
    Stephen remained silent. He was not a creator of fiction, so he couldn’t imagine the trio facing him had come to inspire him to greater literary heights as they apparently had a certain penner of Victorian-era tales. He had to admit he was suddenly less than eager to