kind—"
"No kind at all—save maybe rats, draughts, and hot-water pipes," Murdoch boomed, rejoining the group. "Dinna you worry, lassie. I've ne'er seen a bogle hereabouts, and I've been at Ravenscraig since I was a wee lad."
With a sharp look at the others, he placed a hand on Mara's elbow and propelled her up the castle steps. "Come away in now, and dinna let these blethering fools bend your ears," he said, leading her into the entrance hall.
A fine, dark-paneled passage, filled with old family portraits and tapestry hangings, and smelling faintly of wax furniture polish, chilled stone, and age.
"Prudentia fixed a fine tattie soup for you," the steward was saying as he escorted her through the dimness. "That's potato soup if you didn't know. After you've eaten, I'll take you to your room. Your fine bed arrived a few days ago and has been made up nice and fresh."
"Thank you, that sounds heavenly," Mara agreed, her stomach growling in anticipation. She hadn't realized how hungry she was.
And she was tired, too.
Far too weary to ponder the cook's preoccupation with the supernatural, or her own unsettling notion of how easy an impressionable mind could imagine one of her tartan-wrapped, fierce-staring ancestors stepping down out of his portrait frame at the stroke of the midnight bell.
No, she wouldn't think of such absurdness.
Besides, too much else claimed her interest.
Glancing round, she drew a quick breath, that strange tightness filling her chest again. No matter where she looked, Ravenscraig's vastness swallowed her whole, its treasures seeming to wink at her as if they'd been waiting for this moment just to enchant and dazzle her.
Impressed indeed, she admired the standing suits of armor placed at intervals along the walls and gazed with awe at a collection of medieval swords and targes, promising herself she'd examine both the swords and shields more carefully later.
A spacious open staircase swept up into shadow at the rear of the passage, but rather than mount its age-smoothed steps, the steward turned left, leading her into what could only be the great hall.
But Mara froze on the threshold and… gasped.
Not at the sweeping sea vista visible beyond a wall of tall, arched windows, nor at the beautiful painted beamed ceiling.
No, it was the strange-looking woman in the middle of the room who stole Mara's breath.
Plump, frizzy haired, and middle-aged, the woman looked more like she should be stirring the kettle in a gypsy camp than standing beside a dining table set for one in Ravenscraig's quiet great hall.
Bohemian looking indeed, her eyes were tightly closed and she held her arms out to the sides, her fingers wiggling as she rocked from side to side.
"I feeeel your presence," she called in a low, keening voice. "I know you're here."
"Mrs. MacIntyre!" Murdoch's face turned beet red. "Do you want our new lady to think you're daft?" he scolded, falling into a rich burr. "Get ahold o' yourself and say good day to Miss McDougall."
Prudentia MacIntyre snapped out of her trancelike state immediately. "Communing with the spirits is important, as you'd be wise to appreciate," she charged, her dark eyes flashing annoyance. "Lost souls need compassion."
The old man drew back his shoulders. " 'Tis you who'll be the lost soul if you dinna stop such nonsense."
Ignoring him, the cook turned to Mara. "There's a new presence here," she announced. "A man. He is very angry, and I think it has something to do with you."
"Hell's bells and damnation!" Murdoch shook a fist at her. "Out with you now, and dinna show your face again until you've come to your senses!"
"I only wanted to warn the miss." Prudentia scalded him with an indignant look before she sailed from the hall, her apron straps flapping behind her.
" She is Ravenscraig's incubus, that one," Murdoch muttered as he pulled out Mara's chair. "She's for hearing a ghost's wail in every curlew's cry. Pay her no mind."
And Mara didn't. Especially not when,
"No kind at all—save maybe rats, draughts, and hot-water pipes," Murdoch boomed, rejoining the group. "Dinna you worry, lassie. I've ne'er seen a bogle hereabouts, and I've been at Ravenscraig since I was a wee lad."
With a sharp look at the others, he placed a hand on Mara's elbow and propelled her up the castle steps. "Come away in now, and dinna let these blethering fools bend your ears," he said, leading her into the entrance hall.
A fine, dark-paneled passage, filled with old family portraits and tapestry hangings, and smelling faintly of wax furniture polish, chilled stone, and age.
"Prudentia fixed a fine tattie soup for you," the steward was saying as he escorted her through the dimness. "That's potato soup if you didn't know. After you've eaten, I'll take you to your room. Your fine bed arrived a few days ago and has been made up nice and fresh."
"Thank you, that sounds heavenly," Mara agreed, her stomach growling in anticipation. She hadn't realized how hungry she was.
And she was tired, too.
Far too weary to ponder the cook's preoccupation with the supernatural, or her own unsettling notion of how easy an impressionable mind could imagine one of her tartan-wrapped, fierce-staring ancestors stepping down out of his portrait frame at the stroke of the midnight bell.
No, she wouldn't think of such absurdness.
Besides, too much else claimed her interest.
Glancing round, she drew a quick breath, that strange tightness filling her chest again. No matter where she looked, Ravenscraig's vastness swallowed her whole, its treasures seeming to wink at her as if they'd been waiting for this moment just to enchant and dazzle her.
Impressed indeed, she admired the standing suits of armor placed at intervals along the walls and gazed with awe at a collection of medieval swords and targes, promising herself she'd examine both the swords and shields more carefully later.
A spacious open staircase swept up into shadow at the rear of the passage, but rather than mount its age-smoothed steps, the steward turned left, leading her into what could only be the great hall.
But Mara froze on the threshold and… gasped.
Not at the sweeping sea vista visible beyond a wall of tall, arched windows, nor at the beautiful painted beamed ceiling.
No, it was the strange-looking woman in the middle of the room who stole Mara's breath.
Plump, frizzy haired, and middle-aged, the woman looked more like she should be stirring the kettle in a gypsy camp than standing beside a dining table set for one in Ravenscraig's quiet great hall.
Bohemian looking indeed, her eyes were tightly closed and she held her arms out to the sides, her fingers wiggling as she rocked from side to side.
"I feeeel your presence," she called in a low, keening voice. "I know you're here."
"Mrs. MacIntyre!" Murdoch's face turned beet red. "Do you want our new lady to think you're daft?" he scolded, falling into a rich burr. "Get ahold o' yourself and say good day to Miss McDougall."
Prudentia MacIntyre snapped out of her trancelike state immediately. "Communing with the spirits is important, as you'd be wise to appreciate," she charged, her dark eyes flashing annoyance. "Lost souls need compassion."
The old man drew back his shoulders. " 'Tis you who'll be the lost soul if you dinna stop such nonsense."
Ignoring him, the cook turned to Mara. "There's a new presence here," she announced. "A man. He is very angry, and I think it has something to do with you."
"Hell's bells and damnation!" Murdoch shook a fist at her. "Out with you now, and dinna show your face again until you've come to your senses!"
"I only wanted to warn the miss." Prudentia scalded him with an indignant look before she sailed from the hall, her apron straps flapping behind her.
" She is Ravenscraig's incubus, that one," Murdoch muttered as he pulled out Mara's chair. "She's for hearing a ghost's wail in every curlew's cry. Pay her no mind."
And Mara didn't. Especially not when,
Similar Books
