this summer and that gear had already been sent ahead in preparation.”
Connor almost made an exclamation of triumph before he could stop himself. He knew it! ’Twas one of Thomas McKinnon’s relations come to put on the play.
His elation, but not surprise, at being correct was immediately extinguished by the realization that he had been correct. One of Thomas’s kin was coming to put on a play.
Connor pulled his head back outside with a curse. Damnation, but would he never rid himself of that blasted family? Everywhere he turned, there was another one cropping up like a poisonous mushroom. Obviously, this would require a newer, more unpleasant strategy. He would have his peace and quiet that summer, no matter the cost. He turned to walk away . . .
Only then realizing that he was not alone. That damned innkeeper, Mrs. Pruitt, stood there, dressed all in black, loaded down with all sorts of modern gear that beeped and blinked and, truth be told, startled him so badly that a manly shout of surprise was wrenched from him against his will.
Mrs. Pruitt whipped herself around to look up at him. Her mouth dropped open and a look of astonishment descended upon her features.
Connor scowled. Had she never heard a lad bellow before? Aye, well, so that might have been considered a scream, but who was this woman to judge?
Then again, perhaps she wasn’t judging. Her eyes rolled back in her head and she slumped to the ground, senseless.
Connor briefly considered ascertaining the extent of her injuries, but two things stopped him: He did not care; and Ambrose and his mates were coming out the door. Connor hastened away before they saw him.
So, he had not been mistaken in what was to come. It appeased him only slightly, for he had yet the matter of that McKinnon lad to deal with. Not that such troubled him. He would greet the man with his sword bared, leaving him with no choice but to flee.
He had not paid for the stones beneath his feet with his blood like another specter he’d once known, or with his gold, as Thomas McKinnon claimed to have, but he had damned well paid for it with his will to hold it.
And hold it he would.
And pity the next McKinnon who thought otherwise.
Chapter 3
“Vikki , we’re here.”
Victoria struggled to wake. She knew she had a good reason to open her eyes, but she’d been lost in the most delicious dream and wanted to savor it a bit longer. Shakespeare had been involved somehow. She thought Michael Fellini had been starring in the production. She was almost positive there had been a Tony award and rave reviews in the background.
She was certain it hadn’t included ghosts, ghosts in prop rooms, or prop rooms that she no longer had access to.
She opened her eyes. It took her several minutes to reconcile herself to the fact that she was sitting on a train and the train was no longer moving. Her sister Megan was struggling to get out of her own seat. Victoria frowned. Megan was only five months pregnant with her first child but one would have thought she was on the verge of delivery. Why was she waddling like a duck already?
It was probably better not to ask. Megan had picked her up at the airport, chauffeured her to the train station, joined her on the train, and kept her purse from getting ripped off while she slept. Now a car was picking them up at the station and taking them to the inn. Megan could waddle all she wanted in return for all those favors.
She got into the back of the car with her sister and stared out the window, feeling as if she were in some sort of French Impressionist painting of the English countryside. The whole experience was surreal. Gone was the smell, the busyness, the comforting closeness of skyscrapers and other buildings stacked up next to each other. In their places were rolling hills, a quaint village, and a road that led out of town to heaven only knew where.
“The inn’s not far,” Megan assured her. “I’m sure supper will be waiting. If you can
Connor almost made an exclamation of triumph before he could stop himself. He knew it! ’Twas one of Thomas McKinnon’s relations come to put on the play.
His elation, but not surprise, at being correct was immediately extinguished by the realization that he had been correct. One of Thomas’s kin was coming to put on a play.
Connor pulled his head back outside with a curse. Damnation, but would he never rid himself of that blasted family? Everywhere he turned, there was another one cropping up like a poisonous mushroom. Obviously, this would require a newer, more unpleasant strategy. He would have his peace and quiet that summer, no matter the cost. He turned to walk away . . .
Only then realizing that he was not alone. That damned innkeeper, Mrs. Pruitt, stood there, dressed all in black, loaded down with all sorts of modern gear that beeped and blinked and, truth be told, startled him so badly that a manly shout of surprise was wrenched from him against his will.
Mrs. Pruitt whipped herself around to look up at him. Her mouth dropped open and a look of astonishment descended upon her features.
Connor scowled. Had she never heard a lad bellow before? Aye, well, so that might have been considered a scream, but who was this woman to judge?
Then again, perhaps she wasn’t judging. Her eyes rolled back in her head and she slumped to the ground, senseless.
Connor briefly considered ascertaining the extent of her injuries, but two things stopped him: He did not care; and Ambrose and his mates were coming out the door. Connor hastened away before they saw him.
So, he had not been mistaken in what was to come. It appeased him only slightly, for he had yet the matter of that McKinnon lad to deal with. Not that such troubled him. He would greet the man with his sword bared, leaving him with no choice but to flee.
He had not paid for the stones beneath his feet with his blood like another specter he’d once known, or with his gold, as Thomas McKinnon claimed to have, but he had damned well paid for it with his will to hold it.
And hold it he would.
And pity the next McKinnon who thought otherwise.
Chapter 3
“Vikki , we’re here.”
Victoria struggled to wake. She knew she had a good reason to open her eyes, but she’d been lost in the most delicious dream and wanted to savor it a bit longer. Shakespeare had been involved somehow. She thought Michael Fellini had been starring in the production. She was almost positive there had been a Tony award and rave reviews in the background.
She was certain it hadn’t included ghosts, ghosts in prop rooms, or prop rooms that she no longer had access to.
She opened her eyes. It took her several minutes to reconcile herself to the fact that she was sitting on a train and the train was no longer moving. Her sister Megan was struggling to get out of her own seat. Victoria frowned. Megan was only five months pregnant with her first child but one would have thought she was on the verge of delivery. Why was she waddling like a duck already?
It was probably better not to ask. Megan had picked her up at the airport, chauffeured her to the train station, joined her on the train, and kept her purse from getting ripped off while she slept. Now a car was picking them up at the station and taking them to the inn. Megan could waddle all she wanted in return for all those favors.
She got into the back of the car with her sister and stared out the window, feeling as if she were in some sort of French Impressionist painting of the English countryside. The whole experience was surreal. Gone was the smell, the busyness, the comforting closeness of skyscrapers and other buildings stacked up next to each other. In their places were rolling hills, a quaint village, and a road that led out of town to heaven only knew where.
“The inn’s not far,” Megan assured her. “I’m sure supper will be waiting. If you can
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