My Laird's Castle (2 page)

“No, I’m not hurt!” I said. “Thank you.” I looked up toward the pullout. The bus was no longer visible. Nor were any cars. In fact, no one was up there.

“Oh no! My bus is gone!” I tried to stand once again, but my legs seemed remarkably weak. The stranger jumped up and grabbed me just in time to prevent me from keeling over.
 

“Well, something appears to ail ye, woman,” he said. He wrapped an arm around my waist. “Come, I cannot stand about out here in the open in my plaid. I suppose ye must come wi me.”

I jerked against him, unsure of what he was doing or even what he said. If I had ever thought David’s accent was hard to understand, I was mistaken. I really could not understand this man at all. Well, maybe every third word or so. I deduced that he wanted me to go with him.

“What? No! I’m not going with you. Are you crazy?” I noticed for the first time that he wore a blue-green plaid kilt, which ended just above dark muddy boots. A swathe of the same tartan draped across one shoulder, and it was that cloth that had initially scratched my face. Underneath his dark-gray jacket, a belted beige waistcoat buttoned down the front. The neck stock of his shirt was white.
 

“Nae me, lass, but I do be wondering if ye are. Come now, or I must leave ye to the wolves, the soldiers or the pending storm, any of which will bring ye great distress.”

“Wolves? In the Highlands?” I squeaked. “No, I don’t think so.” I was pretty sure they’d been hunted to extinction in Scotland. Hadn’t they? Of course, they could have been reintroduced.

I planted my feet and resisted his efforts to move me. At over six feet in height, he could have dragged me easily, but he seemed reluctant to do so. Fortunately!

With a heavy sigh, he dropped his arm. Without his support, I wavered slightly, but I broadened my stance and remained upright. The stranger eyed me—all of me—and smiled.
 

“Yes, wolves,” he said as if distracted. “Are those men’s trousers?” he asked, staring at my legs.

I looked down at my blue jeans.
 

“What? No, they’re mine.”

“Yer trousers?” His voice was somewhat incredulous. “Yers?”

The roll of his
r
’s was impressive...and very hypnotic. So, this was what real Highlanders sounded like.
 

I had the distinct impression I was talking to someone from another century. While David had used the word “lass,” he had never used the pronoun “ye.” Perhaps that was more common to people from the Highlands?
 

And his clothing. Was he another bagpiper, playing for the tourists? He wasn’t toting one of the big instruments.

“Yes, of course they’re mine,” I said. I looked up toward the pullout once again. I couldn’t see the road from the bottom of the valley, but something looked distinctly different up there. The heather was much thicker than I remembered from my climb down the hillside.
 

“Look, do you have a cell phone or anything?” I asked hurriedly. “I need to call the tour company. I can’t believe they just drove off and left me. It’s not like they couldn’t see me from up there.”

He followed my eyes. “From up where?”

“Up there,” I pointed. “The road.”

“Aye, the road,” he said with a nod. “And what is a bus? For that matter, what is a sell fone? Ye surely do speak with a foreign tongue. Where might ye hail from then?”

“I’m American,” I said, taken aback. “Surely we’re not that deep into the Highlands that you don’t recognize an American accent? You do have TV, right? Or did you think I was Canadian?”

Dark eyebrows lifted, and he tilted his head and stared at me with narrowed eyes. Unfortunately, his beard covered the majority of his mouth, and I couldn’t decipher his expression.

“America,” he repeated softly. “Ye surely are far from home, lass.”

I nodded at the softening of his tone. “I am,” I said. “So, please tell me you have a cell phone in a pocket of that kilt of yours, because mine is in my purse on the bus.”

He tsked and shook his head. “Mistress, I think ye must come wi me now. I dinna have this thing ye ask for, but we truly canna stay here. A storm threatens, and the night will bring nocht but misery for ye.”

I looked around. He was right. Shadows climbed down from the mountains, and I did feel cool. Storm clouds threatened. I couldn’t just hang out in the Highlands on a path in the dark in the rain. I had to go somewhere.

“Look, if I go with you, where exactly are we going? Do you have a wife in your house? Family?”

A flash of teeth reassured me. Surely a killer wouldn’t have such a handsome smile, would he?

“Aye,” he said. “Do ye need help to rise?” He moved closer as if to slip an arm around my waist, and I shook my head.
 

“No, I’m fine. Just lead the way, and I’ll follow. How far is your house?”

“Isna far,” he said reassuringly. He led the way, and I followed, throwing several glances over my shoulders as if wolves indeed followed in my wake. Wolves, indeed! I suspected he just made that up to scare me.

I couldn’t help but admire the sway of his kilt and the dark curls of hair that fell to his shoulders. What might have seemed feminine looked very, very masculine. Something metal swung at his side, but the voluminous folds of his plaid hid it from full view.
 

We followed the stream for a short while before turning left toward the mountains to cross over a small rock bridge. Ahead of us lay a forested valley nestled into the hills.

I balked at the edge of the forest.
 

“Where exactly do you live, Robin Hood?”

He stopped and turned with an inquiring look.

“Robin Hood?” he repeated as if he didn’t understand the reference. “Forgive me. I should have introduced myself. Colin Anderson.” He lowered his head and dipped in a fairly courtly bow. I was taken aback at the old-world gesture. “And how may I address ye?”

“Elizabeth Pratt. Beth,” I said.
 

“Mistress Pratt then. Come along. We havena much further to go.”

I hurried after him, and within ten minutes, the forest opened up onto parkland surrounding a magnificent gray stone mansion with castellated turrets on either end.

I stopped short, astounded.

“Is this
your
house?”

“Aye, it is still mine, though for how much longer, I canna say.”

I wanted to ask what he meant, but he urged me forward, and the moment was lost.

“Come. Mrs. Renwick will have supper ready.”

I followed, my head spinning as I studied first the massive house, then the well-kept lawns bordering the mansion. Forest surrounded the whole, reminding me of an enchanted fairy-tale castle.

The massive oak door opened before we reached it, and an elderly gentleman in dark-brown trousers and jacket stood at the stop of the stone steps, awaiting us.

“Mistress Pratt, this is George Renwick.”

I stuck out my hand, but George bowed at the waist. I guessed then that he must be an employee of some sort.

“Mistress Pratt,” he said briefly. I noted his faded blue eyes focused on my legs as he straightened, and I felt oddly underdressed in the setting, as if I should be in a dress. I looked down at my jeans. They weren’t abnormally tight. Surely some women up here wore jeans, didn’t they?

Colin then spoke to George in an unintelligible language, and I understood nothing of the exchange. It wasn’t French—it wasn’t any language I’d heard before.
 

George nodded and turned away without a word.
 

“I instructed him to have the housekeeper prepare a room for ye. Ye will need to stay the night.”

“What? Oh no! Wait!” I called out after George, but he had vanished into the house. I turned to Colin. “No! I wasn’t going to spend the night! Can’t I use your phone? I’m sure I can get someone to come out from Inverness to get me.” As I remembered the long trek to Colin’s rather remote mansion, I wondered if that were actually true.

Colin, gesturing for me to enter the house, tilted his head, regarding me with an expression of surprise.
 

“From Inverness?” he asked. “Do ye jest, lass? It is a journey of many hours from Inverness! Nor do I possess this ‘fone’ of which ye speak. What is this blasted thing?”

The first raindrops fell, and before I could answer, Colin’s hand at the small of my back propelled me forward. I stepped inside a large foyer, notable for shining dark oak floors and two narrow staircases that flanked the entryway. The interior of the castle was cool, and I wished I had my jacket, now sitting on my seat in the bus. I crossed my arms over my chest and shivered.

“Are ye cold, lass? Come into the great room. George will have set a fire by now.”
 

Colin led the way through a narrow doorway into a room that could certainly be described as
great
. Massive oak beams splayed across the ceiling drew the eye. A long rectangular table centered the room and was flanked by a stone fireplace that seemed to take up half of a wall. A cheery fire burned within, though it was summer. The house certainly did need warming. The walls, of stacked and mortared rock, while stunning, did not look as if they retained warmth. I also noted candles—real candles—burning in sconces on the walls and in candlesticks on several tables. How very quaint!
 

“What a beautiful room!” I exclaimed.

“Aye,” Colin acknowledged. “It is my favorite room.” He let fall the length of plaid that had draped across his left shoulder. My eyes rounded as I watched Colin unbuckle a cross-body strap over his jacket. A basket-hilted broadsword dangled from it. What on earth? Was that the metal I had seen peeping out from the folds of his kilt?

George returned just in time to take the sword and deftly catch the jacket that Colin was about to throw onto one of two stunning high-backed, velvet-cushioned chairs set facing the fireplace.
 

Colin said something further to the older man that I couldn’t understand. George disappeared again, and I watched with fascination as Colin loosened the white neckcloth of his shirt and lifted the overly long back of his plaid and hooked it into the belt around his waistcoat. I had never seen a kilt quite like his with so much material. Nevertheless, I didn’t feel like admiring his costume so much as ensuring my safety. A sword?
 

I panicked.

“So, your wife? Could I meet her?” I said breathlessly. I moved closer to the fire, both for warmth and with some plan to grab the nearby iron poker and smack him with it.
 

Colin stopped and dipped his head. He laced his hands behind his back, bringing into focus the muscles of his chest as they pressed against his shirt. Even in my anxiety, I could not deny that he was quite a specimen of a man.

“I fear I lied to ye about a wife, Mistress Pratt. I have nae such.”

I drew in a sharp breath and dropped my eyes to the poker, only inches from my hand. I reached for it, and though I didn’t brandish it at Colin, I settled it in front of me, crossing my hands over the handle.

“Why would you lie about that? Do you have any other family here?”

“Nay,” he said in a somber tone. “None have survived me. I told ye an untruth because I feared that ye wouldna come wi me, that ye would fear me more than wolves, the English soldiers or the storm.”

As he spoke, a loud clap of thunder startled me, and I jumped, raising the poker and pointing like a sword.

Colin thrust up his hands, a smile breaking across his face. I looked down at the poker and lowered it.

“There now, lass. Calm yerself. It was only the storm. I am sorry for lying to ye. Ye will be safe here. I have plenty of womenfolk in the house to see to that.

“Seat yerself near the fire,” he said, pointing to a satin embroidered cushioned bench positioned against the wall. “Rest. We will sup soon. Can I interest ye in a dram of whiskey?”

I shook my head.
 

“Tea then? To warm ye up? Ye still look a bit cold.”

That sounded quite civilized to me.
 

“Yes, tea, please.”

He moved toward me, and I shrank back against the stone wall until I noted he was reaching for a bell on the mantel over the fireplace.

George appeared almost instantly in response to the ring, and Colin muttered at him in the strange language. I began to think Colin was speaking Gaelic, and I strained to make out any familiar words. I found myself once again fascinated by him—an old-world man in a modern era. It wasn’t just his costume that compelled the imagination, but his mannerisms and his speech.

“Is that Gaelic you’re speaking?”

“Aye,” he said, pulling a chair away from the table and turning it to face me. He seated himself.
 

“I didn’t know many Scots spoke Gaelic anymore,” I said. “Admittedly, I should know more about a country I’m visiting, but don’t they only speak it in the outer islands?”

“The Hebrides?” Colin asked. “I suppose they do, but we still speak it amongst ourselves, though it is forbidden.”