ringing, but softened by the same musical lilt as Malcolm's. "Welcome to Ravenscraig. I am Murdoch MacEwen, house steward."
Mara blinked, tried hard not to stare. But everything about him from his jaunty sporran to his gray-tufted brows made him look as if he'd just stepped away from a Victorian house party.
Or meant to escort her into one!
Incredulity tingling up and down her spine, she opened her mouth and closed it again before she could find her voice. "Thank you, Mr. MacEwen," she managed, holding out her hand. "I'm so pleased—"
"Och, well, Murdoch will do fine." He clasped her hand briefly before snatching up her bags. "I'll just be taking these up to your room—you can meet the others meantime," he added, his shoulders bowed by the weight of her luggage.
Her own shoulders aching from just looking at him, she reached to take back her suitcase, but he was already striding away, his crooked legs carrying him up the castle's broad stone steps with surprising agility.
Indeed, he disappeared into the darkness of the entry hall before she could even splutter a protest, and as soon as he did, the others came forward. A genial lot, croft bred from the looks of them, their faces lit with warmth and goodness. And, true to Malcolm's insinuation, they did seem a bit… different.
But not in the way she'd feared.
She smiled her relief, her heart lightened as they gathered round. The first to reach her, Gordie, the one-armed gardener, beamed with goodwill but appeared too tongue-tied and abashed to say a word, while twin girls, housemaids by their pert white-aproned uniforms, bobbed their heads in welcoming unison.
"Good day to you, Miss McDougall," the first twin said, and blushed to the roots of her carrot-red hair. "I'm Agnes, and she's Ailsa," she added, nodding at her sister, who, like the one-armed gardener, seemed to have lost her tongue.
"And this is Innes." Agnes turned to a tiny, white-haired woman hovering on the edge of the group. "Innes makes beeswax candles and herbal soaps for the tourist shops in Oban. We use them here, too, don't we, Innes?"
But Innes ignored the girl and focused on Mara. "Mercy me, is it yourself?" She peered hard at Mara. "Are you for coming back to us, then, mo ghaoil ? And without Lord Warfield?" she asked, the faraway sweetness of her smile explanation enough for the strange questions.
"It's the Gaelic for my dear ," Agnes solved the other riddle, her voice dropping to a diplomatic whisper. "Innes lives in the past and forgets the present. She thinks you are—"
"Lady Warfield," Mara finished for her, the awkward moment saved by the barking arrival of two Jack Russell terriers, their excited circling and snuffling of Ben drawing all eyes.
"Dottie and Scottie," Malcolm supplied the little dogs' names, his face brightening when Ben thumped his tail and seemed to smile at the young terriers' yappy attentions.
Mara smiled, too, her earlier jitters fading like mist beneath the morning sun. Ravenscraig's staff were eccentric, some of them clearly peculiar, but so long as no one mentioned ghosts, everything would be fine.
Or so she thought until a look almost verging on alarm suddenly crossed Malcolm's face. "Where's Prudentia?" he wanted to know, his gaze flitting over the little group.
At the mention of the name, Dottie and Scottie stopped racing around Ben, their perked ears and eager expressions indicating they knew Prudentia well, and liked her.
But of their two-legged companions, only Innes reacted.
She teetered.
And in a way that made Mara's nape prickle.
"Who is Prudentia?" she asked, certain she didn't want to know.
"Prudentia MacIntyre, the cook." Ailsa finally spoke, her voice edged with embarrassment. "She's inside somewhere, feeling the atmosphere. She thinks Ravenscraig is full of ghosts and insists a new one arrived just the other day. She's been nosing about ever since, trying to make contact with the poor soul."
"Ghosts?" Mara's stomach plummeted. "What
Mara blinked, tried hard not to stare. But everything about him from his jaunty sporran to his gray-tufted brows made him look as if he'd just stepped away from a Victorian house party.
Or meant to escort her into one!
Incredulity tingling up and down her spine, she opened her mouth and closed it again before she could find her voice. "Thank you, Mr. MacEwen," she managed, holding out her hand. "I'm so pleased—"
"Och, well, Murdoch will do fine." He clasped her hand briefly before snatching up her bags. "I'll just be taking these up to your room—you can meet the others meantime," he added, his shoulders bowed by the weight of her luggage.
Her own shoulders aching from just looking at him, she reached to take back her suitcase, but he was already striding away, his crooked legs carrying him up the castle's broad stone steps with surprising agility.
Indeed, he disappeared into the darkness of the entry hall before she could even splutter a protest, and as soon as he did, the others came forward. A genial lot, croft bred from the looks of them, their faces lit with warmth and goodness. And, true to Malcolm's insinuation, they did seem a bit… different.
But not in the way she'd feared.
She smiled her relief, her heart lightened as they gathered round. The first to reach her, Gordie, the one-armed gardener, beamed with goodwill but appeared too tongue-tied and abashed to say a word, while twin girls, housemaids by their pert white-aproned uniforms, bobbed their heads in welcoming unison.
"Good day to you, Miss McDougall," the first twin said, and blushed to the roots of her carrot-red hair. "I'm Agnes, and she's Ailsa," she added, nodding at her sister, who, like the one-armed gardener, seemed to have lost her tongue.
"And this is Innes." Agnes turned to a tiny, white-haired woman hovering on the edge of the group. "Innes makes beeswax candles and herbal soaps for the tourist shops in Oban. We use them here, too, don't we, Innes?"
But Innes ignored the girl and focused on Mara. "Mercy me, is it yourself?" She peered hard at Mara. "Are you for coming back to us, then, mo ghaoil ? And without Lord Warfield?" she asked, the faraway sweetness of her smile explanation enough for the strange questions.
"It's the Gaelic for my dear ," Agnes solved the other riddle, her voice dropping to a diplomatic whisper. "Innes lives in the past and forgets the present. She thinks you are—"
"Lady Warfield," Mara finished for her, the awkward moment saved by the barking arrival of two Jack Russell terriers, their excited circling and snuffling of Ben drawing all eyes.
"Dottie and Scottie," Malcolm supplied the little dogs' names, his face brightening when Ben thumped his tail and seemed to smile at the young terriers' yappy attentions.
Mara smiled, too, her earlier jitters fading like mist beneath the morning sun. Ravenscraig's staff were eccentric, some of them clearly peculiar, but so long as no one mentioned ghosts, everything would be fine.
Or so she thought until a look almost verging on alarm suddenly crossed Malcolm's face. "Where's Prudentia?" he wanted to know, his gaze flitting over the little group.
At the mention of the name, Dottie and Scottie stopped racing around Ben, their perked ears and eager expressions indicating they knew Prudentia well, and liked her.
But of their two-legged companions, only Innes reacted.
She teetered.
And in a way that made Mara's nape prickle.
"Who is Prudentia?" she asked, certain she didn't want to know.
"Prudentia MacIntyre, the cook." Ailsa finally spoke, her voice edged with embarrassment. "She's inside somewhere, feeling the atmosphere. She thinks Ravenscraig is full of ghosts and insists a new one arrived just the other day. She's been nosing about ever since, trying to make contact with the poor soul."
"Ghosts?" Mara's stomach plummeted. "What
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