Nothing in her wildest dreams had prepared her.
She doubted anything could have.
And although her nerves were a bit frazzled, the dryness of her mouth and her skittering pulse assured her she wasn't spinning fantasies.
Ravenscraig loomed as solid as day before her, complete with two rounded towers flanking a massive iron-studded door, above which she could just make out the MacDougall coat of arms carved in stone.
Not a dark, scowling pile, forbidding and mysterious, but a turreted wonder of pink sandstone, where, true to Malcolm's prediction, a knot of people stood waiting.
One of them, a bandy-legged old man in a kilt, came strutting forward the moment she stepped from the car. He made a grizzled appearance with his lined face and faded blue eyes, but his gaze was alert and his expression friendly.
"Hah! The lady herself—at long last," he greeted her, his voice 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 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, a short while later, Murdoch returned to escort her to her room. Pleasantly full after her dinner of soup and oatcakes, she pushed to her feet, the cook and her rantings forgotten.
She was already drowsy from the long journey, and the hearty soup had soothed her nerves. The two drams of fine Talisker whisky she hadn't been able to resist had her yearning for bed.
Her bed.
The wonderfully romantic medieval four-poster she'd fallen in love with in London. She smiled as the steward led her up a winding turnpike stair and then through a maze of dim, musty corridors.
On and on they went until, at last, he stopped before a gleaming oak door. "Nights can be cold here," he said as he opened it. "One of the maids will have put a goonie and a hot-water bottle on the bed for you."
Mara started, hearing only one word. "
A goonie
?"
"A long flannel nightgown," Murdoch translated.
"Oh." Feeling a bit foolish and more relieved than she cared to admit, Mara stepped into the room.
A surprisingly icy room.
Not that its cold mattered, with her new bed standing against the far wall, beautifully dressed and turned down in welcome. She could see the promised hot-water bottle making a lump beneath the covers and a carefully folded white gown waited for her on top of the bed's richly embroidered covers.
Murdoch came in behind her. "We call this the Thistle Room because of the thistles decorating the ceiling."
Mara nearly choked, her glance shooting upward.
Sure enough, thistles were everywhere. But the intricate plasterwork looking down at her had nothing in common with her carefully stenciled thistles back home at One Cairn Avenue in Philadelphia.
"You'll have the best view of the sea from here." Murdoch indicated a row of tall windows to the left of her bed. "And you'll have a fire every night," he added, glancing toward a fireplace across the room. "We use wood fires in most of the castle, but, as an American, we thought you'd enjoy the smell o' peat?"
Too cold to think straight, Mara just nodded. "It does smell nice—dark and sweet, exactly as I imagined."
The peats glowed a fine, cheery red, too. But to her shivering regret, the fire's warmth seemed too feeble to dispel the room's cold.
Already chill bumps were rising on her arms.
"I can douse the fire if you prefer?" Murdoch cocked a brow. "It does make the room a bit overwarm."
"No-o-o, I'm comfortable," Mara lied, declining his offer.
What she needed was about a wheelbarrow more peat tossed onto the hearthstone.
Trying not to let her teeth clatter, she rubbed her arms. If the steward didn't soon leave to let her crawl into her bed, she'd grow icicles.
Silently willing him to go, she glanced at the four-poster, pleased to see that the night table held an electric tea maker and a plate of shortbread. She smiled. A steaming cup of tea would be just the thing to warm her.
"If there's nothing else you'll be needing, I'll be leaving you," Murdoch said, moving at last toward the door. "Sleep well."
"I'm sure I will," Mara told him, hoping her relief didn't show.
Or her great weariness.
Half afraid she wouldn't even make it to her bed before sleep overcame her, she closed the door behind him and turned around.
Then she screamed.
The hottie Scottie from Dimbleby's lounged upon the bed!
Some ancient-looking plaid slung over his shoulder, he lay back against the pillows, his long, muscular legs crossed at the ankles.
And, if it were possible, he regarded her with an even more insolent smirk than he'd worn in London.
The smirk made her mad. Angry enough to overlook his incredible masculine beauty, the way her knees turned to water despite her shock and annoyance.
She glared at him. "What are
you
doing here?"
"Guarding my bed—as I told you I do."
"The bed is mine," she objected, disbelief coursing through her. "I bought it and you can get yourself out of it. Now!"
But he only folded his arms behind his neck and stared back at her. "I think not, wench."
"
Wench
?" Mara's face grew hot. "I am not any such thing, and you are mad. Stark raving mad!"
A muscle jerked in his jaw and his expression darkened, but he did not seem inclined to let her rile him.
Nor did he budge.
Quite the contrary, he appeared annoyingly comfortable.
"We'll see about this, you… you! O-o-oh, there aren't words!" Spinning around, Mara yanked open the door. "Murdoch!" she cried, her heart hammering. "Please—come back here!"
But the old steward had already disappeared.
The corridor stretched dark and deserted. She'd have to deal with the dolt herself. More angry than afraid, she whirled to confront him, only to find him gone.
The room was empty.
Except for a jeweled dagger pinning the white flannel nightgown to the bed.
Shaking, Mara crossed the room and stared down at the medieval-looking weapon. She needed all her strength to pull its blade from the mattress. When she did, she tossed the thing as far away from her as she could and sank onto the bed, the ruined goonie clutched to her breast.