Much Ado In the Moonlight (12 page)

Connor retrieved his sword and sheathed it thoughtfully. “A place in your play? As a player?”

She could hardly believe she was doing it. “Yes,” she said heavily. “I’ll get back to you on what role.”

“I will give it some—”

“No,” she said shortly, “I need a commitment and I need it now.” She sighed in frustration. “Look, I’m sure that with a face like yours, you’re accustomed to getting what you want—”

“A face like mine?” he interrupted. “What meaning is there in that?”

She frowned up at him. “Well, you’re very handsome, but that doesn’t mean you can always have what you want.”

He blinked. “Handsome?”

“Yes, and handsome is as handsome does, so commit to behaving yourself.”

“Handsome?” he repeated, blinking some more.

“Commit!” she exclaimed. “Don’t scare my crew. Don’t terrify the actors.”

“Handsome,” he mused, stroking his chin.

He turned and walked through the gates.

He vanished.

Victoria turned to look at her granny. “Can you believe him?”

Her grandmother said with a laugh, “I think you distracted him. My, my, Vikki, that was a big scream.”

“He had a big sword.”

“And he knows how to use it,” Ambrose admitted. “He’s unpleasant, unfriendly, and unabashedly angry.”

“He sounds like trouble,” Mary said happily.

“He could be,” Ambrose agreed. “’Tis a pity Victoria doesn’t have a part for him in truth. Of course,” he said, resheathing his own sword and smoothing down his plaid, “he hasn’t my gift for drama. If you need an understudy for any of the roles, my dear Victoria, I hope you’ll consider me. For Hamlet’s father, perhaps. I think I could do that justice.”

“I’m certain you could,” Victoria said. “Though I think it might be beneath you. If you have time, you could look at Hamlet’s uncle, or Polonius. You know, the more substantial roles.”

“I’ll make a search for a script.”

And with that, he was gone.

Mary looked at her, her eyes twinkling. “You’re good.”

“Years of practice.”

“Are you really going to give them parts in your play?”

“Granny, to keep the peace, I’d almost be tempted to let them
direct
the play.”

“That handsome young Highlander is a different sort of problem,” Mary said, “but that is the kind of problem a woman could look at happily for quite some time.”

Victoria shivered in spite of herself. “Yes, he is.”

Mary gave her a quick hug. “I’m going to head for the inn. Be careful.”

“Granny, he’s a ghost.”

“He’s a
big
ghost.”

“I cannot believe we’re having this conversation.”

Her grandmother laughed and walked through the barbican gate. Hugh and Fulbert bid Victoria a good day and followed her. Ambrose reappeared and jostled his companions for the preferred spot on Mary’s right hand. Victoria watched them go.

Life was weird.

She turned around and looked at the castle. So, it was haunted. She shouldn’t have been surprised. She highly doubted Thomas would be surprised by the news. She would kill him at her earliest opportunity. For now, she just had to get through the next four weeks. After all, how much more annoying could ghosts be than venture capitalists? Her actors had survived the latter; they could survive the former.

Then again, venture capitalists didn’t pack six-foot broadswords they were wont to draw at the slightest opportunity and use on whomever had displeased them. Who knew if she would be able to keep that damned Connor MacDougal and his very big sword out of the way—despite her appeasement offers?

She didn’t want to contemplate the alternatives if she couldn’t.

Michael
Fellini stood in the middle of a medieval castle and fought to keep the smile off his face. So it had been a miracle to score the gig at Juilliard. This promised to be a thousand times better—if he could just arrange things to suit himself. At least General McKinnon was gone for the day—probably back to the inn to lie in wait for him. Well, she would just have to be disappointed a little longer. He had business here.

He folded his arms over his chest and took a moment to relish the feeling of being in the director’s spot. It wasn’t that he didn’t like to act. The applause, the accolades, the fawning—it was all highly enjoyable and unquestionably merited. But to act meant to be at the mercy of a director who, for whatever reason, always seemed to think he was in charge.

Michael didn’t like others to be in charge.

He wanted to be in charge himself.

The university setting was fine as well, he supposed, if one had the temperament for it. He’d enjoyed possessing the power to ruin careers and destroy egos. In fact, he did as much of that as possible, but unfortunately, there was so little notoriety in it.

He began to pace. Broadway was another option for him, but he knew that even had he landed a plum role there, he would have been a large fish in a rather larger pond. And still taking orders from someone else.

Of course, he could have taken the plunge and gone off on his own, but that would have required taking risks, temporarily lowering his standard of living, and quite possibly losing tables at the best restaurants he’d learned to call his own. No, far better to simply stride right into a ready-made situation.

Such as this present situation.

He looked around. He spread his arms out wide just because he could. Here, yes,
here
, he could be the king of his own castle. Shakespeare had had the Globe; Fellini would have Thorpewold.

He paused and frowned in his most thoughtful manner.

Thorpewold . . .

Yes, that would definitely have to go. When he was lord of the manor, he would choose a different name.

Of course, getting the castle away from Victoria’s brother was going to be tricky, but Michael wasn’t going to worry about it. That’s what his barracuda agent was for. He would concentrate on his art.

And the first item of business in working on that art was getting control of his current production. It would be, he thought smugly, a piece of cake. Victoria was too starstruck to do anything but give him what he wanted. And once he took over the production and turned it into the fabulous masterwork he knew it would be, Thomas McKinnon would see that his sister was not only starstruck, she was a lousy director. He would gladly accept Michael’s offer to take over the castle and make it into a money-making proposition.

It beat the hell out of listening to drama students butcher soliloquies all day long.

A breath of cold air blew suddenly down his neck.

Michael whirled around in surprise but saw nothing.

Was the bloody place haunted?

He lifted one eyebrow and contemplated that. It could work in his favor, of course.

Then again, it could continue to give him the willies as it was presently doing. He shivered, shook off the feeling of unease, then strode toward the gates, doing his best not to break into a run.

The feeling of being watched subsided once he walked through the gates. Fortunately. He didn’t really go in for creepy. Once the castle was his, he would call in the exterminators.

Of course, that would require funds and he was somehow perennially short of those. He walked down the path and considered what might be the best way to start his nest egg. Selling off a few antiques from his room down at the inn? The furniture was too big to lift, of course, but there were several other things that would fit quite nicely into his suitcase.

He paused and looked back at the castle. He couldn’t help a smile of triumph. He tossed his script up into the air in a joyous celebration of his own splendidness, then continued down the path to the road.

It was going to be a fabulous summer.

He could just feel it.

Connor
stood at the end of the path leading up to the inn and wondered if he had lost his mind. There he was, on the verge of going inside and asking a favor of a MacLeod. It was a favor he needed in order to take advantage of an offer made by a McKinnon—a McKinnon, it should be noted, that he had vowed to kill not a day earlier.

He almost turned around and strode back to the castle, but a bellow from within the Boar’s Head Inn caught his attention. It was followed by another raised voice. Connor couldn’t help but be intrigued. Never one to pass on at least observing a good skirmish, he made his way with alacrity into the entryway.

Aye, there was a bit of a squabble going on, but unfortunately it did not involve swords.

Mrs. Pruitt stood clutching her feather duster like a weapon and glaring at a man who could only be one of Victoria’s players. He was full of very large gestures and quite loud complaints. Connor had seen him the day before in the keep, striding about as if he owned the bloody place. He’d shadowed him for a time until the rabbit had scampered for the gates.

Coward.

It wasn’t in his nature to detest another so quickly. He generally gave others as many chances as possible, allowed for the faults that he himself was rarely vexed by, took into consideration that those of weaker stuff might not be equal to the tasks he took on without thought. All in all, it generally took him at least a fortnight to truly begin to loathe another human being.

That mortal standing there complaining about his chamber was obviously going to be the exception.

The man ceased with his shouting at the innkeeper only because he apparently caught sight of himself in the mirror. Connor leaped out of his way as the man came over to peer at himself in the glass, rearrange his hair, then return to take up the battle again with Mrs. Pruitt.

Connor couldn’t help a peep in the looking glass as well. After all, it was one of the reasons he had come to the inn, not having a looking glass of his own up at the keep. How else could he determine if Victoria McKinnon’s assessment of his face was accurate or not?

He frowned at himself, stroked his chin, then reached up and brushed the hair from his eyes.

“That won’t improve things.”

Connor turned toward that voice with his sword half drawn. Ambrose, who had just materialized next to him, held up his hands in surrender and smiled.

“I think there is more entertainment here for us than swordplay.”

“Think you?” Connor asked archly. But he resheathed his sword and found himself, surprisingly, standing in what could only be termed companionable silence with Ambrose MacLeod.

By the saints, what indignity would befall him next? A pleasant conversation with a McKinnon?

“Michael Fellini,” Ambrose said, gesturing to the sniveling mortal assaulting Mrs. Pruitt with his complaints. “Victoria’s star actor.”

“So I assumed,” Connor said. “He is quite a womanly sort.”

“Aye, quite,” Ambrose agreed.

As Connor continued to watch Michael Fellini, he was hard pressed to suppress an intense desire to draw his sword and clout the man into insensibility. It would have spared them all a great deal of irritation.

“The room is haunted!” Fellini screeched.

“I told you,” Mrs. Pruitt said darkly. “’Tis not a room we normally let out.”

“I can see why!”

Connor looked at Ambrose to find him wearing a faintly amused smile. “Are you responsible for this?” he asked.

“I might be,” Ambrose admitted modestly. “It is
my
bedchamber he speaks of, after all.”

“Hmmm,” Connor said, faintly impressed. “I approve of your choice of victims.”

“I doubt Victoria will.”

Fellini’s complaints increased in volume until Connor wondered if he would become senseless from lack of air or simply keel over from the memory of his terror the night before.

Unfortunately for that potential bit of enjoyment, Fellini’s diatribe was interrupted by the hasty arrival of one Victoria McKinnon. She came flying down the stairs in what Connor could only assume were her nightclothes, her fiery hair streaming along behind her, her face full of concern.

He was somehow quite relieved he was leaning against something.

“She is magnificent, isn’t she?” Ambrose murmured.

Connor had to take a deep breath. “She screams quite well. For a McKinnon.”

Ambrose chuckled. “I suppose that’s true. But look at the way she commands all around her. Now, there’s a wench for a man with the courage to tame her.”

Connor grunted. That man certainly would not be Michael Fellini. The lout couldn’t manage to get himself past a harmless bit of sport from a womanly MacLeod; how would he ever tame that spirited Victoria McKinnon?

“Michael, what’s wrong?” Victoria asked breathlessly.

“My room is haunted!” Michael bellowed.

“Haunted?” Victoria echoed. “Why, that seems
sooo
unlikely!”

Connor found himself the recipient of a very pointed glare Victoria managed to slide his way without Fellini paying attention.

“I wouldn’t have bothered with the wretch,” Connor announced to anyone who would listen.

Victoria shot him another look of warning before she turned back to Fellini. “What makes you think your room was haunted?” she asked.

“Something blew down the back of my neck while I was practicing my lines in front of the mirror,” Michael complained. “I’m certain it was a ghost.”

“You know, I’ve heard the inn is drafty,” Victoria said soothingly.

“Not
that
drafty.”

“I’ll look into it,” Victoria assured him.

“You’d better,” Fellini warned.

And with that, he turned and left both Victoria and Mrs. Pruitt standing in the middle of the entryway. He sailed up the stairs and out of sight.

“I tried to warn him,” Mrs. Pruitt said darkly, “but did he listen?” She paused. “Perhaps I should wait outside the chamber tonight. Who knows what I might see?”