A Christmas Spirit (3 page)

Then, Gabriel drew closer, his face inches from her own. “Come into the hall with me, Paige MacDonald,” he said, his voice deep, low, and steady. “I vow I willna hurt you.”

Paige’s teeth began to chatter uncontrollably, and she stared at the beauty of his features. Without much thought at all, she lifted her hand to his cheek and watched it pass straight through.

His intense green eyes never left hers.

Then, her sensible, matter-of-f act mind registered something unbelievable, unfathomable. Completely extraordinary.

Ghost
.

“Please, lass. And press the bridge of your nose. ’Tis bleeding.”

Her skin now ached from the cold, and the wind gusting about her made a new fit of shivers accost her body. The bridge of her nose stung like crazy. She lifted her fingers and touched the spot, and it throbbed. Drops of blood fell and landed on her jeans. She was stuck in the middle of the isolated Highlands in the fury of a blizzard, with no car, no friends, a bleeding nose, and nowhere to go.

Except inside the castle with the pleading ghost of a Scottish warrior.

Gabriel inclined his head without saying a word, and Paige decided right then she had nothing to do but give him the one thing she was most stingy with.

Her trust.

Mustering her strength, Paige gave a single nod, pressed the pad of two fingers to the bridge of her nose, and turned back up the lane, the brunt of the wind now in her face, and headed toward the castle.

At least it would be a Christmas to remember.

Gabriel walked beside the girl in silence. Her steps seemed painful as she trudged toward the hall. No doubt she was scared witless. Mayhap he would be, too, were he her.

^’
Twas only when they reached the hall doors that Gabriel realized the lights had extinguished once again. Paige surprised him by hastening through the entrance and out of the cold. He quickly followed. Without question, she shut the door behind her. Her teeth clacked together so loudly, he thought they might crack.

“I’ll show you where to find candles, but first, reach to your right and find the handle to the cloak closet.” When she did, he nodded, although she couldna see. “Well done. Now reach inside and grab one of the wool coats hanging there. You’re drenched to the bone from all that snow.” Again, she did as he asked and wrapped Craigmire’s woolly about her. It nearly swallowed her whole. “Good,” he said, walking ahead of her. “Let’s get a light so I can have a look at your nose. The snow has probably kept it from bleeding as badly as it should have.” Not that he could do a bloody thing about it himself, but damnation. She needn’t ignore it.

“Okay,” she said, her voice quiet, unsure, slightly quavering. “I can’t see anything.”

He drew closer. “But I can, so go where I say, aye?” he commanded.

“All right.”

“Good lass. Now walk slowly, straight ahead. I’ll tell you when to stop.”

She did, and they started together across the great hall. At the far end, Gabriel directed her. “Now stop and reach your hand out until you feel the wall.”

With her free hand, she did that, too, and her slender fingers grazed the stone.

“Now turn your body left and feel your way along the wall. You’ll find the archway to the larder in just a few yards,” he said.

Paige started to move, and before long they were at the archway. “You can ease into the larder by turning right,” he said as softly as he could.

Once in the larder, she stood still, awaiting his next command. He gave it. “Move your feet slowly forward until you find the counter with your hand,” he said. She started to move, and he continued. “The second drawer down you’ll find a torch.”

In seconds, the girl had the flashlight in her hands. She turned it on and pointed the narrow beam at the floor.

“Lift it to your face.”

She did, squinting, and he noticed a small starlike gash, just at the bridge of her wee nose. “How do you feel?”

She shrugged. “It throbs, but not too bad.”

“Hmm,” he said. “The bleeding has nearly ceased but you should still tend to it. You gashed it pretty fair on that root. You’ll need more light than the puny torch you have clenched in your hand will allow. Follow me.” He walked to the pantry, and she indeed followed. “Gather candles from there,” he pointed to the pantry door.

Without a word, she did as he asked. Within moments she had a dozen or more candles, a lighter, and glass holders out and on the table. Gabriel could sense her apprehension. Her heartbeat reverberated like horses’ hooves.

“I’ll show you the best places to set the candles out,” he said. “I, err, regret that I cannot do the task myself, lass.”

“It’s all right,” she said. “Thank you, Mr. Munro.”

“Gabriel.”

She didn’t answer.

Several moments later, and Paige MacDonald had the candles lit and placed in the great hall, corridor, and a few in her bedchamber. She stood there in the center of the room looking rather uncomfortable.

He didna blame her a bit.

“Now I want you to go see to that gash. Beneath the counter you’ll find a first aid kit,” he said, leaning against the door frame. “I’ll await you here.”

Lightly touching a fingertip to her nose, she winced. “Then what?”

Gabriel gave her a slow grin. “Then we shall see about curbing your growling belly’s appetite, aye?”

She nodded.

Even in the shadows of candlelight, Gabriel could see Paige MacDonald’s cheeks flush.

She turned to go tend to her wound, then stopped. She kept her back to him. “Are you real? Or am I dreaming all of this?”

“I am just as real as you, lass,” Gabriel answered.

That seemed to be enough for Paige. She gave a single nod, then continued on. Gabriel sighed and waited.

Paige stared at her reflection in the mirror. With only a candle for light, it was difficult to tell how deep the cut was, but she’d bet her right hand she needed a couple of stitches. She’d hit that root hard, nose-fi rst. It had bled, but she bet the ghost was right that the snow had stalled the bleeding. It throbbed and stung, and was even beginning to swell a bit on either side of her nose. Finding the first aid kit, she cleaned it up, pressed several thin paper stitches over the gash, and sighed. Her nose injury seemed trivial, compared to other things.

Her host for the night had already
died
.

How could that be? Even if she’d ever toyed with the idea of ghosts existing, she certainly hadn’t thought they’d be heart stoppingly gorgeous or would wear medieval warrior clothes, carry a sword, and know where the first aid kit was.

It made her head hurt even more.

He waited for her at the door . . .

Again, her stomach growled, so she took a final look in the mirror, tucked her hair behind her ears, wondered if she’d get a pair of black eyes, changed into some dry clothes, and set off. As soon as she stepped into view, Gabriel’s eyes were on her.

How could a ghost look so
real
?

In his kilt and sword, he was even more striking than before. Long, dark hair hung unruly past his shoulders and a thin braid draped from each temple. Strong, cut jaw, straight nose, and those ghostly green eyes rimmed with coal black lashes made his features seem all too real. Built? God Almighty, he was built, with strong, bulging biceps that had a band of intricate symbols tattooed around each one. His chest wide and muscular, he was bare except the red-a nd-black plaid he had draped over his broad shoulders and body. She wondered if there was one button, snap, or pin that could be released. Would the whole thing drop to the floor? Powerful legs crossed at the ankles, and brown, worn boots covered his feet.

That long, sharp sword sat nestled in its scabbard over his back.

“Uh - h e m.”

Snatched from her perusing zone, Paige blinked and focused on Gabriel, whose grin looked more like that of a wolf than a man.
Ghost
. Man ghost.

She felt her face grow hot.

“Come, lass,” he said with a knowing grin.

She then noticed he had deep dimples in each cheek. He studied her bandaging closely, but said nothing about it.

“Follow me.”

Still blushing, Paige followed Gabriel Munro to the kitchen.

“You’re no’ scared anymore?” he asked as they crossed the great hall.

She gave a light laugh. “I wouldn’t go that far.” She glanced at him in the dim candlelight. “It’s all very weird.”

His chuckle echoed in the cavernous room. “Aye, I imagine ’tis so.”

As they made their way to the kitchen, Paige noticed the scant Christmas decorations here and there, and the scent of pine filled the hall. How’d he manage that? “The pine boughs and decorations are nice,” she said.

“Craigmire’s doin’s,” he grumbled. “A waste of time, methinks. Here,” he said, inclining his head toward the kitchen archway. “Help yourself to whatever you can find.”

“Thanks.” She felt slightly embarrassed, digging in a stranger’s fridge and pantry. But she quickly found lunch meat and bread, so she made a sandwich, found a soda in the door of the refrigerator, and sat down to eat at the long, thick wooden table at the back of the kitchen.

Gabriel sat across from her.

He made her more than a bit nervous.

“Shall I leave you?” he asked.

Paige looked up from her sandwich and met his gaze. The last thing she possessed was a poker face; he could probably see the hesitancy all over her expression. Who wouldn’t be hesitant? She was shacked up for the night with a dead guy. She shook her head and felt another wave of blush creep up her neck. “No. Please stay.”

He nodded and continued to watch her eat.

After a moment of silence, Paige cleared her throat. “How long do you think the lights will be out?”

Gabriel shrugged, the muscles in his neck flinching. “We’ve no’ had a storm like this in quite some time. I’d warrant a while. February is the usual heavy-snow month. Even if your car was running, there’s no way you’d get through the deep drifts and ice. I fear you’re stuck at Gorloch for a while.”

Stuck? Well it wasn’t like she had anyone waiting for her, despite what she’d said earlier. Sure, she had reservations in Inverness, but no
one
was awaiting her arrival. Paige swallowed a sip of soda, wiped her mouth, and studied him. She opened her mouth to ask him something, then shut it. She wanted to know more about him, but she didn’t know what to ask.

He gave her a slight smile, then scrubbed his shadowed jaw with his hand. “You want to know more about me, aye?”

An arrogant ghost, she thought. “I do, yes.”

“Verra well. But,” he said, those green eyes locking onto hers. “When I’m finished, I want to know why a beautiful young maid like yourself is jaunting about the Highlands in a blizzard. Alone. During the holidays.” He leaned forward. “Agreed?”

She nodded, embarrassed that he thought her beautiful. “Agreed.”

Stretching his long, lean arms across the table, he played with a knot in the wood with a fingertip and began. “My clan’s ancestral home is no’ far from here,” he said. “A pair of towers, an hour’s ride to the north. They’re derelict now and owned by Scotland’s National Trust.”

Paige continued to listen intently.

“I was born on the winter’s solstice of the year 1115.”

Paige blinked. She nearly choked. “That makes you almost nine hundred years old.”

A wry smile tilted his mouth and deepened his dimples. “Aye. So it does.”

Amazed, Paige shifted in her chair and leaned closer. “How did you, um, when did you—”

A frown furrowed his dark brows, and the muscles in his jaw flinched. “By the hand of a MacDonald, on the eve of my twenty-eighth birthday.”

Paige gulped.

Gabriel chuckled. “No’ to worry, lass. ’Tis no doubt that scoundrel wasna a relation of yours. Thankfully, that clan died out long ago. You’re from America, after all.”

Her hand eased to the heirloom tucked beneath her sweater and hanging from a silver chain around her neck. A clan pin, passed down from the MacDonald women before her.

Again, she gulped.
Her ancestors were from Scotland.

And she’d heard a similar tale from her grandmother, years and years ago . . .

“What’s the matter, lass? You look more ghostly than I do.” Paige blinked and took another sip. She quickly decided to keep her ancestry and tale to herself. Besides. Even if it turned out she
was
one of
those MacDonalds
—and that would be a serious coincidence—she herself hadn’t had anything to do with Gabriel’s death. “You were murdered?” The question sounded as absurd as the situation.

“Aye. Just there.” He pointed toward the raftered ceiling. “In the tower.” He shook his head. “I dunna recall much—only the face of my murderer.” He pushed away from the table and crossed his arms over his muscular chest. Intense green eyes pinned her to her chair. “Enough of my life’s tragic ending. I’ve suffered it once, and that was quite enough.” A smile lifted one side of his mouth. “I want to know more about you.”