Much Ado In the Moonlight (2 page)

Only this wasn’t medieval Scotland.

And the souls inside the keep weren’t precisely mortal.

Ambrose MacLeod knew that and more as he stood just inside the barbican gate and watched the goings on. He propped his foot up on an upturned rock and made himself more comfortable against the wall. Aye, he was familiar enough with what it took to be laird, having been one once himself, and of a powerful and unruly lot. He studied the newly made laird of Thorpewold keep with a practiced eye to judge just how effective the man might be at managing a keep this size and a motley collection of lads to go with it. And based on what he was seeing, Ambrose suspected that
effective
just might be too tame a word for the kind of dominion Connor MacDougal was going to exercise.

The MacDougal stood in the midst of the bailey, organizing his forces with an imperiousness any monarch, past or present, would have admired.

“You, there,” he said, pointing at a hapless Scot with knobby knees, “join up with the first watch. We’ll man the walls at all hours.”

“But,” the man said, bobbing his head respectfully, “we’ve no walls to man, my laird.”

Connor thrust a finger back toward the only wall that hadn’t crumbled under the ravages of time. “There’s a wall over there. Go man it!”

The man scurried off, his plaid flapping about his skinny legs.

“And you, there,” the MacDougal said, singling out another man, “see to the gates. And you, the livestock. Ho, Robert, come see to the stables. Don’t want my horseflesh being mistreated.”

Ambrose eyed the lone horse in the bailey, a very old, quite useless bit of flesh that wouldn’t have made a decent mount for a horseless Highlander on his most desperate day, and wondered why Connor bothered.

Then again, the man had waited almost seven centuries to call the keep his own, so perhaps he had a right to be protective of what was now his.

“My laird,” said a man, venturing close with his knitted cap clutched in both hands, “what of the tower? The tower young Thomas McKinnon finished—”

Connor interrupted him with a curse. “We’ll pretend it isn’t here.”

“But, will he not be coming back to use it?”

“Not if he knows what’s good for him,” Connor snarled. “Now, get you gone and don’t trouble me further with foolish questions. See to the chickens.”

“But, my laird,” the man said, on the verge of massaging his cap into felt, “we don’t have chickens. We have chicken.”

Connor frowned. “Chicken?”

“One chicken, my laird.”

“Then go and tend it, you imbecile!”

“But, my laird, ’tis nearly dark. The chicken is roosting.”

“Wake it up,
then
tend it!” Connor exclaimed.

The man nodded gamely, bowed low, then hastened off to see to his business.

A chicken soon squawked in the distance.

Ambrose laughed. The saints preserve all these poor fools with Connor MacDougal setting their course for them. Well, at least they had a decent keep in which to endure their tortures.

Ambrose looked over the keep with satisfaction. Aye, ’twas a decent place, at that. The far tower had been rendered useful by Thomas McKinnon during the previous summer. Thomas’s stay at Thorpewold keep was an interesting tale, true, but not one that Ambrose could take time to reminisce over at present, past noting that Thomas had lived in the castle for a bit, then returned to America with his bride. He had left his castle uninhabited, but he certainly hadn’t intended that it remain so.

Indeed, there was a mortal who stood to come and take up residence of a sort in less than a fortnight. Ambrose smiled to himself. What would Connor MacDougal say when he found out he was having a houseguest?

Ambrose didn’t dare speculate.

Nor did he dare linger much longer. The MacDougal had already thrown him a pointed glare. Not that Ambrose had any fear of it. He and Connor had engaged in skirmishes in the past and he had always acquitted himself well. Unfortunately, today was not the day for such delights. Who knew but that in the heat of battle, when he might be inspired to spew forth curses, taunts, and other insults appropriate to the moment, that something regarding the details of Connor’s upcoming visitor might inadvertently slip out and ruin the surprise?

Nay, far better to leave the MacDougal to his settling, and be about his own business elsewhere.

So Ambrose had himself a last chuckle at the men scrambling to see to Connor’s commands, then turned and walked down the path from the castle to the road. The sun was setting and he took the time to enjoy the colors of the evening. He ambled along until he reached a snug Tudor inn sitting nestled against a small hill, pleasantly far away from the bustle of the local village.

Ambrose admired the sturdy dwelling with heavy beamed frame and well-wrought leaded windows. He nodded in satisfaction at the cozy location and the ample room for visitors. He also paused to admire the lovely garden, full of the first flowers of spring and rife with the promise of a robust bit of blooming later on in the summer.

Unfortunately, admiring was all he could do, given that his nose had ceased to function several years earlier.

Several hundred years earlier, actually.

But losing the ability to smell with a mortal nose was more than a fair trade for all he had gained in his very busy afterlife. Who would have suspected that being a ghost would have been so rewarding?

Aye, and demanding as well, but there was nothing to be done about that. Who else could possibly see to what was needful but he himself? He strode through the garden, his plaid swinging about his knees and his great sword slapping against his thigh as it had for over four hundred years. Some things never changed, he supposed. A Highland lad was braw and clever, no matter the century and no matter his condition.

He had almost reached the entrance to the inn when the front door burst open and an older woman of goodly character and steely determination leaped out, feather duster in one hand and a look of purpose in her eye.

“There’ll be no noxious flies in
my
entryway,” she said with a final thrust of her duster. “Be off with ye, ye wee fiends!”

Then she paused, feather duster still at the ready, and looked about purposefully.

As if she looked for something other than flies.

Ambrose did the only thing he could: He flattened himself behind the door and waited until Mrs. Pruitt, the innkeeper hired to see to things in the owner’s absence, made a quick search of her garden, then reluctantly retreated back inside her domain.

He heaved a sigh of relief and quickly contemplated his next action. He could, of course, use the front door. He did that often. Indeed, the inn was, for all intents and purposes, under his direction; he was certainly free to enter and leave it when and where he chose. But tonight he would take a different path—

And hope to heaven that Mrs. Pruitt would be so weary from her daily tasks that she would leave the kitchen empty for the night.

He tapped his foot for what he hoped was long enough for any and all innkeepers inside to have put themselves to bed, then tiptoed around to the back of the house and peered into the kitchen window. All was dark inside. He sighed in relief, then walked through the door, lit candles with a flick of his wrist, and stoked up the shiny black stove with another negligent movement of his hand.

He drew up a chair to the stove with a sigh, reached out and plucked forth a cup of ale from thin air, then sat back and prepared for an evening spent contemplating the happy events that would no doubt transpire when his granddaughter, several generations removed, arrived from America later in the month. She was feisty, to be sure, and headstrong, but since he found those traits to be quite acceptable in himself, he couldn’t see why he should begrudge her the same in her own person.

The back door opened and shut with a bang. A man stood on the rug, stomping his feet and blowing on his hands. “Cold out, still,” he groused. “One would think that by the end of March we might have a had bit of relief from the chill.”

Ambrose pursed his lips. “You’ve lived in England for four hundred years, Fulbert, and I daresay you’ve complained about the weather for at least that long. Why do you continue to expect it to be warmer than it wants to be?”

Fulbert de Piaget threw himself into a chair and conjured up his own cup of hot ale. “Hope springs eternal,” he grumbled. “Or some other such rot.”

“Hope may spring eternal,” Ambrose conceded, “but spring comes when it wants. Be grateful you grew to manhood in this soft, southern country. In the Highlands, March is still hard with ice and chill.”

“Which is no doubt why you Scots are of such foul and ill-seated humors,” Fulbert said.

Ambrose had scarce opened his mouth to instruct Fulbert on the finer points of Scottish character before the back door opened and his own kinsman, Hugh McKinnon, peered in hesitantly.

“Is she about?”

Fulbert pursed his lips. “Who?”

“Mrs. Pruitt,” Hugh said, his teeth chattering. “Who else?”

“Haven’t seen her,” Fulbert said shortly. “She’s likely off tidying up her aspect to better impress her sweetheart here.”

“The saints be praised,” Hugh said as he entered the kitchen, shut the door behind him, and took up his place by the fire. “I wish you’d just get on with it, Ambrose,” he said. “Have yer meetin’ with the poor woman and be done.”

“Aye,” Fulbert said, turning a jaundiced eye on Ambrose. “You promised the good Mrs. Pruitt a parley and you’ve yet to keep that promise.”

“I will speak with her when I have the time,” Ambrose said, through gritted teeth.

Fulbert grunted. “Be about finding that time as soon as may be. The woman’s beginnin’ to ruin my sleep with all her gear beepin’ and squealin’ at all hours.”

“She’ll tire of hunting us,” Ambrose said confidently.

“Perhaps,” Fulbert conceded, “but she’ll never tire of hunting
you
.”

“I have to agree,” Hugh said with an uneasy nod. “She certainly has the gear for a goodly bit of paranormal investigating. It seems that every fortnight that big brown UPS lorry brings her something new to use.”

“Well, we’ve no need to worry about that tonight,” Ambrose said. “I’m quite sure Mrs. Pruitt has gone to bed—”

The door behind them, the door that separated the kitchen from the dining chamber, squeaked.

“Eeek!” Hugh said, then vanished.

Fulbert tossed back his ale and vanished, as well, without further comment.

Ambrose extinguished all but a single candle, but didn’t have time to vanish before the door made another squeak. He looked over his shoulder, hoping against hope that his ears, and those of his companions, had been mistaken. But, nay, that was no errant noise.

The door was eased open another finger’s breadth and a foul instrument of investigation was pushed through the crack. Ambrose recognized it for what it was: a ghostly Geiger counter. The beast made little clicks, lights ran up and down its sides, and its two little metal arms jumped, as if in anticipation of discoveries to come.

Ambrose cursed silently. Was there no peace to be found any longer in this world?

The counter began a bit of sniffing just inside the chamber, held by a hand that was surely more suited to seeing to guests and preparing fine repasts than tormenting poor, hapless shades. Unfortunately that hand, and the woman it was attached to, had to concern itself with things that surely didn’t concern it.

Namely him.

The door was flung open suddenly and into the kitchen leaped Mrs. Pruitt, dressed in head-to-toe black.

Ambrose jumped in spite of himself. He hastened over to stand by the back door where perhaps Mrs. Pruitt wouldn’t sense his presence.

“I know ye’re in ’ere,” Mrs. Pruitt said, waving her implement of torment about. She used her flashlight as well, to good effect. “Show yerselves, damn ye!”

Ambrose hopped up onto a handy work table. Mrs. Pruitt and her torch investigated every corner of the kitchen, finally coming to a purposeful rest before the door. Her counter was clicking and the lights were blinking in a fashion that was quite alarming. Ambrose stared at it in horror as it came even closer. The little arms waved frantically.

Apparently too frantically, for the entire contraption soon gave one last, great noise, then fell suddenly, and blessedly, silent.

Mrs. Pruitt slammed the thing down on the table a time or two, peered at it, then pursed her lips.

“Must ’ave been a bit o’ sour wind from under the door,” she grumbled.

Ambrose breathed a sigh of relief.

“Coward,” came a voice from beside him.

Ambrose squawked in spite of himself, then turned to glare at Fulbert, who had appeared next to him on the table. “Can you blame me?” he whispered in irritation.

“You gave the woman your word. I heard you fix the bargain with her yourself.”

“Damn me, but I never said when!”

Mrs. Pruitt tossed her contraption into the rubbish bin, turned, and stalked from the kitchen with a curse. Ambrose watched her go with a great sigh of relief.

“I’ll tell her you intend to woo her,” Fulbert said with an unwholesome look in his eye, “and then we’ll see how things progress . . .”

Ambrose wondered if wringing Fulbert’s neck would give him any peace. Then again, the man was his sister’s husband—and if that wasn’t enough to convince a man that there were just some things in the world, and out of it, that were simply beyond a man’s comprehension, he didn’t know what would be. He likely couldn’t just up and do damage to the man without there being hell to pay at some point in the future.

“I’ll show myself to her in my own good time,” Ambrose said firmly. “Until then, we should concern ourselves with our next task.” He leaped athletically down from the work table and took up his place again by the fire.