A Scandalous Scot (7 page)

She sat and laced her uncomfortable shoes, wishing she had money to have a new pair made. Something soft in kid leather, perhaps. A pair of shoes that didn’t encourage the bulges on her feet and hurt her heels by the time the day was done.

Her dress was a little too long now that she wasn’t wearing a petticoat, but who would see?

She left the room, closing the door quietly behind her. For a moment she stood with her back to the door, looking left, then right. Only women slept on this floor. Some of the men slept above them, in the attics. A few of the more muscular footmen occupied small rooms on the ground floor, the better to guard the treasures of the MacCraigs. Not that any family known for their murderous ancestry truly needed extra guards.

The Earl of Denbleigh might well be a throwback to an earlier time. She could easily see him running someone through, if not with an actual weapon, then the sharpness of his gaze.

Odious man.

Jean waited, but no one stirred, not even when she walked down the corridor. The floorboards creaked, the gas lamps sputtered. Was night ever truly silent?

The housekeeper’s suite of rooms was at the end of the women’s corridor. Aunt Mary had the hearing of a curious cat. Consequently, she felt like a mouse as she crept in front of the door, praying it wouldn’t suddenly open.

She couldn’t sleep, but that didn’t mean she was allowed to roam around Ballindair as if she were family.

Aunt Mary had still not questioned her as to her true purpose in the Laird’s Tower last night. Jean knew her aunt hadn’t believed the story of wanting to get an early start on cleaning.

If her circumstances changed, if she ever moved back to Inverness, if she ever became a wife and mother, she would never again take for granted the cleanliness of her surroundings. She would thank her servants—should she be fortunate enough to be able to afford any—every day, and appreciate their work without reservation.

Why hadn’t she noticed those things earlier?

The same reason she hadn’t noticed her father’s acute sorrow at her mother’s illness.

So many things were better seen through the prism of the past. What would she see about herself, looking back five years from now? Would she chide herself for being foolish and sad occasionally? Would she ridicule herself for being curious about ghosts? No one else at Ballindair wanted to know. Instead, they treated the ghosts as if they were a necessary nuisance, and any encounter with them was to be avoided, not sought.

She slipped down to the back stairs, her destination a place she knew well. At the doorway, she hesitated. Tall, mullioned windows, rising to the ceiling, summoned the sun on even the dreariest day and illuminated the paintings along the far wall. Now, the Highland night had given way to darkness, and only moonlight entered, bathing the space in a bluish white light. Two benches sat in the middle of the room. A few ornamental urns were placed between each tall window.

The wood floor was highly polished and echoed her footsteps, the sound announcing her presence in the Long Gallery.

The maids had been industrious here, too. Twin smells of French polish and vinegar hung heavy in the air. The curtains had evidently been taken down to be brushed.

She’d cleaned the Long Gallery herself more than once. The portraits, now only blurs of shadows in gilt frames, were to be dusted with care so as not to damage the canvases. Some of them were old, she knew, having listen to her aunt’s lecture.

In daylight, she’d studied the faces of the men and women of Clan MacCraig, amazed that all the men were handsome and tall, and all the women beautiful.

Suddenly, she felt as if something had pressed against her chest, a hand, a sensation. Abruptly, she stopped, wrapped her arms around herself and stood silent and attentive.

Even though it was the middle of summer, the Long Gallery was chilly. As she watched, a shadow coalesced. Was it a ghost?

She took a step back, and as she did so, chided herself for her cowardice.

Something was there. Something made a sound, almost a breath. She shivered, wishing she’d brought her shawl, and took a resolute step forward.

The French Nun was rumored to appear only to single women, and although it didn’t specifically say so in the book she’d read, she had the impression the ghost only appeared to warn them of the perils of losing their virtue.

What a pity Catriona wasn’t here.

She fisted her hands and pressed them against her stomach, forcing herself to breathe.

At times, she felt as insubstantial as a ghost, as invisible. Perhaps that’s why she wished to see one, to prove to herself that she, too, existed. Although not as vivacious as Catriona or as beautiful, she still mattered, if only to herself.

“Do you have anything to say to me?” Jean asked softly. “Any advice?”

She dropped her arms, hands clenched at her sides.

“Will you speak with me?” she said to the amorphous shape. “I’ve waited so very long to see you.”

Jean took one more step forward.

“Can you not find peace?”

“Not if you are forever haranguing me,” the Earl of Denbleigh said, stepping out of the shadows.

She bit her lips against a scream, and pressed her hand flat against her bodice. Her heart felt as if it was leaping right out of her chest.

Several long minutes later she tilted her chin up and faced the shadow of the Earl of Denbleigh.

“I do apologize, Your Lordship,” she said.

“You thought me a ghost again,” he said.

She nodded, then realized he couldn’t see her. “Yes,” she said. “I did.”

“Perhaps I am.”

The comment startled her. From his position, he was standing in front of the portraits, one of them his father. Did he miss him?

Curiosity she shouldn’t have felt.

“Why are you such a resolute ghost hunter, Jean?” he asked.

She didn’t know what surprised her the most: that he’d posed the question in such an amicable tone or that he remembered her name.

She wished she could see him.

“I don’t know what you mean,” she said.

He made a sound of disparagement, as if he knew she was playing for time and didn’t know how to answer him.

“Why do you seek out the ghosts of Ballindair?”

“I’m sorry for disturbing you,” she said, stepping backward, as though he were king and she a lowly subject leaving the room.

“You needn’t leave,” he said.

Curiosity kept her in place.

“My old nurse used to say there were ghosts aplenty at Ballindair, one for every season or mood. I’ve never seen one.”

She didn’t tell him her efforts had been in vain as well.

When he remained silent, she said, “I think they show themselves when they want, not when we wish.”

“When I was a boy, I used to believe the ghosts would come to me, because I was to be laird.”

The confidence surprised her.

She no longer retreated. Instead, she stood where she was, half the room between them. Neither of them spoke forcefully. The hour encouraged a tone just above a whisper.

His shadow suddenly moved, and she wondered if he was coming closer.

“I’m not certain I ever saw one, either,” she said. “I think, sometimes, we see what we want to see.”

His laugh startled her. “Indeed, you’re correct in that. Do you really want to see ghosts, Jean?”

How did she answer that question?

“Sometimes,” she said. “At other times, I wonder if I have the courage.”

“Yet, you still seek them out. Why?”

She turned, gripping her skirts as she walked to a window. If it were daylight, she’d see the approach to the castle. The long expanse of lawn was perfectly manicured. How could it be anything else? This was Ballindair, the jewel of the Highlands.

“Must you know the answer to everything?” she heard herself say.

Of course, why try to salvage her position after this ruinous day? He already thought her a foolish girl, given to rash and reckless behavior, and now a dolt, to believe in ghosts.

“Is my question intrusive?”

Yes, because it surprised her. Yes, because she hadn’t thought him the type of man to be interested in anyone other than himself. Yes, because she didn’t know how to answer him, the second time he’d confounded her in a few minutes.

He didn’t say anything, the moments stretching between them.

“I look for ghosts because it gives me something to be interested in other than my own life,” she said.

There, in reparation for her rudeness, she’d given him the truth.

“An admirable feat, if indeed it does that. Escaping from one’s life would be pleasant from time to time.”

Was there no end to surprises from the earl this night?

She turned her head, wishing he would step into the moonlight, but he remained in the shadows. Perhaps she’d found a ghost and he was the Earl of Denbleigh, conjured up from confusion, interest, and a little loneliness. Perhaps he wasn’t there at all, but only a shadow who talked to her as if they were equals.

“How does one go about this ghost seeking of yours?” he asked.

She fisted her hands in her skirts.

“One remains very quiet,” she said softly. “And waits.”

“Why here?”

Did she dare give him the truth again?

“Because hardly anyone comes here at night,” she said. “I reasoned if anyone inhabited the Long Gallery, it would be a ghost.”

“Would you like me to leave?”

She smiled. How very gentlemanly he was behaving, and how foolish as well. She was his maid.

She turned and walked back to the door.

“Where are you going?”

She tossed a remark over her shoulder. “You’re the Earl of Denbleigh, the MacCraig. It’s not for you to leave.”

“Perhaps it was the ghost who left, because we weren’t quiet enough.”

She turned and faced him, startled to see he’d emerged from the shadows and was standing in a pool of moonlight. His white shirt glowed, his black trousers merging with the night. His face was pale and unsmiling. He might well have truly been a ghost at that moment, one whose face was carefully expressionless.

Why did the Earl of Denbleigh guard his emotions?

She was foolish to stand there, without her petticoat and corset. But she hadn’t thought to talk to him like this. Or share confidences of a ghostly nature. She should be abed, but the temptation to learn more about the Earl of Denbleigh was so great she remained where she was.

A moment later she moved to sit on a bench in the middle of the room.

“What ghosts were you hoping to find here?” he asked.

Should she tell him about the French Nun? Did he know his family’s history? Instead of responding, she asked a question. “When you were a little boy, did you ever go hunting for ghosts?”

His chuckle was warm, surprisingly rendering him human and approachable.

“As a matter of fact,” he said, “I did. But my activities were reserved for the West Tower.”

Where all the weapons from the past were stored. All the knives, swords, and cudgels the Murderous MacCraigs had accumulated over the years.

“And you never saw a ghost there? Not even the Herald?” The Herald was renowned for his ability to warn the MacCraigs of momentous events.

“Not even the Herald,” he said.

“Do you think they see us?” she asked. “Ghosts? Do you think the reason we don’t see them all that much is because they don’t wish it?”

He turned his head to study her.

“Let’s pretend ghosts are real,” he said, startling her.

“You don’t think they are?”

“I don’t know what I think,” he admitted. “But let’s pretend ghosts are real. Why wouldn’t they want to appear before us?”

“Because it’s painful.”

He didn’t say anything for a moment. “Painful?” he finally asked.

“Perhaps they remember being alive, and being around the living reminds them of life.”

“You’ve given some thought about this.”

She nodded.

“Perhaps they can only see certain people, such as relatives or friends or loved ones,” she said.

“Or,” he said, adding to her list, “they only appear to those who wish to see them. Otherwise, they’d frighten people.”

She shook her head again. “I don’t think so. Sarah, one of the maids, won’t go near the East Tower. She swears the Green Lady came to her when she was cleaning the chapel. Sarah most definitely did not wish to see a ghost.”

“The Green Lady?”

She glanced over at him.

“She was confined to her chamber when her father discovered she’d planned to run away with her love. It’s said she lived there alone for three years until she couldn’t bear it anymore and threw herself out the window.”

He didn’t say anything again.

When he still didn’t speak after several long moments, she said, “But Sarah is a little flighty and may have only imagined seeing her.”

He turned his head again. “Do people think you’re flighty, for wanting to see a ghost?”

She smiled, more to herself than to him, because he couldn’t see her.

“Yes,” she said.

Every single member of the staff at Ballindair thought she was more than flighty. They thought her a little barmy. Catriona had spread the tale, thinking it a great jest.

She loved her sister, but there were times when Catriona tried her patience.

“How many ghosts do you know about?” he asked.

“Twelve,” she said. “But the only ones I’m truly interested in are the Herald, the Green Lady, and the French Nun.”

“I wanted to see the first earl,” he said. “He was reputed to be quite a swaggering figure.”

He had a bit of swagger about him as well, but that was a comment she wisely didn’t make.

For a few long moments they didn’t speak, simply listening to the silence. Ballindair was so large, so filled with people, it was unusual to find any peaceful spot. The moonlight streaming into the gallery anointed this a hallowed place. Here, ghosts might walk with mortal man, and even stop to tell a tale or two.

“The French Nun,” she found herself saying, “fell madly in love with the 2nd Earl of Denbleigh.”

He glanced at her again. She wished she’d taken more care with her hair, rather than just tossing her night braid over her shoulder.