The Highlander Who Loved Me (MacCallan Clan, #2) Page 7

  “Aye, my eyesight has yet to recover,” Mrs. Cooper muttered.

  The count smiled gently at Mrs. Cooper. “Nevertheless, mademoiselle, your eyes will always sparkle to me.”

  Mrs. Cooper turned bright red.

  Isla chuckled. “Ever the flatterer, Count.”

  “Only when I am in the presence of beautiful women, chérie.”

  “He is such a flirt,” Miss Walker chided with a playful grin. “Pay him no heed. We ladies are having a night about town.”

  “A night about town?” Isla queried. “I’ve not heard that reference.”

  “Enjoying ourselves with drink, Miss Ross.” Miss Walker winked. “But because the storm confines us, this,” she motioned to the room, “is our town.”

  “Perhaps your night about town should include a pot of honeyed tea?” the count suggested, lowering into the vacant chair beside Isla. “You are all quite flushed.”

  “If you want to be of any help, Count, order us more ale,” Mrs. Cooper said, her voice a whip.

  Isla bit back a smile.

  The count sent her an apologetic stare. “I did try.”

  “Stop harassing the poor girl,” Mrs. Cooper snapped. “She likes the ale well enough.”

  “You do?”

  The count sounded so surprised, Isla laughed. She leaned slightly into him, as if ready to impart a royal secret, and murmured, “It tastes like magic.”

  “Magical ale?” His teeth flashed in a smile.

  “Aye,” she replied, stabbing a finger into his chest. “Magical ale.”

  The count circled Isla’s wrist with his hand to stall her poking, shaking his head with a smile. And because splendid-tasting magic always accompanied dark, sinister magic, and this was a haunted inn, the growl of a low, gravelly voice sliced through the air. A shiver traced down her spine.

  “Isla.”

  DREW HAD SLIPPED UP.

  Four heads bobbing his way told him as much. Agitation clamped tightly in his gut. Mrs. Drummond had kept him occupied much longer than he had anticipated, and Drew had spent over an hour attempting to break away. Ending a discussion of leaks and plaster with that woman was like trying to pry Excalibur from a rock.

  Miss Walker’s gaze flicked between him and Isla, her eyes wide, before she leaned in to murmur, “I say, Miss Ross, are you being scolded?”

  Amusement glittered in the look Isla slanted him. “I suppose I am.”

  Drew’s shoulders nearly sagged. In relief or defeat, he couldn’t say. At that moment they felt the same. The women were tipsy—Isla was tipsy. He was deuced nettled at that—did not want her to be influenced by questionable characters—but grateful at the same time; normally by now she’d have parted with a taunting remark. Drew was not in the mood. The count, however, was another matter. A slight smirk lifted his face, a calculating glint in his eyes.

  “How many drinks have you had?” Drew directed his question at Isla, purposefully lessening the lash in his voice.

  “Och . . . a few.” Her smile turned positively syrupy. “Tell us, Mr. Murray, for we must know this truth . . .” She dropped her voice to a whisper. “Are you on liquor patrol?”

  “What?” The bloody hell.

  “Oh, Miss Ross!” Miss Walker exclaimed. “How hysterical you are!”

  The young woman’s giggle sounded above Mrs. Cooper’s delighted cackle. A feminine feat, Drew thought darkly as he narrowed his eyes at the three women.

  “Nay, but it seems I am on ward patrol.” He motioned to her tankard. “That ale is vile.”

  She snatched her tankard and drew it close to her chest. “Do not even think of pulling a fast one on me again. I know all of your tricks now.”

  You don’t know half of them, lass.

  “That is right.” Miss Walker giggled. “He did pull a fast one on you!”

  Drew shook his head and pulled up a chair on Isla’s other side. “You all will be happy to know the situation in the common room has been contained.”

  “Mr. Murray,” Miss Walker said, batting her lashes at him. “You have rightly saved us.”

  All three women burst out laughing.

  “You have had a few ales too many,” Drew muttered, stating the obvious.

  “Let the women enjoy themselves,” the count offered. “They have ample supervision.”

  Drew gnashed his teeth.

  “I am mightily offended by that statement,” Mrs. Cooper accounted.

  “I meant no disrespect, mademoiselle.”

  “I must pay Mr. Drummond my compliments,” Isla said happily. “For this ale—it is truly the work of a master.”

  “There is no comparison,” Miss Walker agreed.

  Drew shot Isla an annoyed glance. She grinned at him, her golden eyes sparkling. He was drawn into their depth, their openness; the air around him grew heavy and thick. Then she blinked, a glint of something—recognition, maybe—flashing in their brilliance.

  “You . . .” Her voice trailed off.

  “Lass?” Drew asked, catching himself before almost calling her by name again. She seemed more flushed than usual. “Are you all right?”

  “Aye,” she murmured, with a slow shake of her head. “For a moment I was reminded of someone from my past.”

  A fission of alarm snaked down Drew’s spine. His pulse thundered. Not good. Not. Good. At all.

  “Your past?” Miss Walker questioned, eyes sparkling with intrigue. “Pray, tell.”

  Everyone, including Drew, waited breathlessly for her answer. What would she reveal? Who would she name? Was it normal for his heart to strain against his chest like this? Had his lungs stopped functioning?

  “There is not much to tell,” she said with a small shrug of her shoulders. “One moment he was there, the next he was not.”

  Was she referring to Patrick or Drew?

  “And your guardian reminded you of him?” Mrs. Cooper asked.

  “Aye.” Golden eyes lifted to meet his. “For a second, your gaze, the way you looked at me . . . reminded me of someone from my past. Silly, I know.”

  “How peculiar,” Miss Walker murmured. Her features suddenly brightened. “You are one of us too.”

  That caught Drew’s attention.

  “It must be the magical ale playing tricks with my mind,” Isla said.

  Mrs. Cooper gave a loud snort.

  “What does she mean, lass, that you are one of them?” Drew asked Isla.

  “It means,” Mrs. Cooper announced, “that there is no accidently coming across this place.”

  “Have you not discovered yet, Mr. Murray?” Isla murmured, faint color staining her cheeks. “We are all haunted here. Ergo, I am haunted.”

  Drew ignored the count’s keen eyes burning into him and snatched the ale from Isla, finishing it off in one swig. “You’ve had enough of this stuff, lass.”

  The sooner they could depart from this strange establishment, the better. Drew felt exposed, vulnerable, as if this place were slowly scraping him raw.

  “He does not believe you, Miss Ross,” Miss Walker piped up. “I suppose Mr. Murray is not haunted, then.”

  “Mr. Murray,” Isla said, pointing a finger at him. “I shall warn you to be careful of this place.”

  “I don’t believe in ghosts, lass.”

  She waved a finger in front of his nose. “Do not wander too deep into the belly of this beast, or it will never spit you out.”

  The women giggled, but all Drew heard was her laughter—another joke he was not privy to. Drew had never been to the theater, but he assumed this was how it felt to watch one of those Shakespearean plays.

  “Lass . . .”

  She nodded. “If you do not believe me, ask any guest.”

  “What shall I ask them, then?” Drew inquired before muttering under his breath, “I will certainly ask Mr. Drummond what he adds to his ale.”

  “Ask them . . .” She trailed off, and gold-dusted intensity burned into him. Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Ask them . . . how long they ha
ve lived here.”

  Damn if Drew’s blood didn’t chill in his veins.

  Chapter 9

  Drew blinked down at the bed, wondering what the hell he had done to deserve this. He sniffed at the stale smell of mold wafting up from the mattress, and his mouth curled in distaste. He’d much rather go to bed with the scent of roses between his sheets. A soft body melded against his instead of lumps.

  Even a limp alcohol-ridden rose-scented body would do.

  Drew gave a little shake of his head. The smell of soot would have to do for tonight.

  They had all gone mad. Mr. Donnelly. The count. Mrs. Cooper with her mighty cackle. Miss Walker and her high-pitched voice. The proprietors. Every last one of them.

  Drew cast a surly glance to the frost-covered window. He prayed the storm would pass soon. The longer we remain here, the more susceptible to madness we become, he thought moodily. He was convinced of it.

  Ask them how long they have been here.

  Those words still brought a chill to his spine. He shivered just thinking about them. Of course, he hadn’t asked. For fear of the answer. If the question had the power to drop the temperature of his body, what tricks would the response carry?

  Drew thought back to the common-room disaster—all that smoke. A thousand baths would not rid the stench from his skin. He failed to understand how everyone acted as though it were just an average, nothing-out-of-the-ordinary event. Even more impossible to grasp was Isla, happy as a peach, fitting right in alongside these odd characters.

  His stomach growled, as if in agreement.

  Drew sighed.

  They had completely forgotten to take supper. Not that anyone seemed to care. By the time they were ready to retire, Miss Walker was singing a bawdy American tune while Isla and Mrs. Cooper were floundering up the stairs. Drew and the count had decided it best to trail in their wake and assure their safety on the stairwell, despite the women’s drunken protests.

  He dragged a hand over his face, eyeing the bed. He should have drunk himself into oblivion too. Perhaps then he’d not have cared so much about the lumpy mattress.

  His gaze swept across the room, over the chair. He could sleep in that, but it looked even more uninviting than the bed. Hell, a bed of thorns would look more welcoming than this mattress. The floor was out of the question—he’d freeze to death before dawn broke. The bed would have to do.

  Drew lowered down onto the bed, nestling his back into the lumpy mattress. He tried and failed to direct his mind to anything other than the lumps pressing into his back. Shadowy shapes of flickering light danced on the canopy above him, and the continuous howl of wind against the window would not allow the tension in his shoulders to release.

  Bone-chilling.

  Ask them how long they have been here.

  He shut his eyes in an attempt to block out the rattling words from his brain. But cutting branches that scratched against the surface of the window glass joined the melody, singing. Ask them how long they have been here.

  Drew leaped from the bed.

  How was he supposed to drift off in a room where the slightest noise brought a chill to his bones? Devil take it, Mrs. Drummond had said they’d receive warm food and a comfortable bed. What kind of standards did this establishment adhere to? The bed was everything but comfortable. The chamber smelled of mold and, as of tonight, smoke.

  The bloody building was falling apart.

  More to the point, his bloody life was cursed.

  About the only silver lining in this otherwise gloomy inn was that the MacCallan brood would not think to search here, in this decrepit old place.

  Did the establishment even have a name?

  Drew racked his brain, recalling a disregarded sign partially covered in snow abandoned on the ground next to the signpost. He hadn’t given it much consideration at the time, but he thought he recalled two heads of . . . an animal?

  Would that not be the frosting on the proverbial cake if the proprietors named their humble inn the Twin Serpents? Another shiver went down his spine.

  The only way they could leave this place was if the storm let up. That’s if Mr. and Mrs. Drummond hadn’t drummed up this storm with black magic to begin with.

  He cursed.

  Now thoughts of haunting occupied his brain.

  We are all haunted here. Ergo, I am haunted.

  He cursed again.

  Ghosts did not exist. Ergo, he and this room were not haunted.

  At the sudden creak of a floorboard, Drew whirled around. What the hell was that? He cocked his head to listen carefully; then, after a long minute during which no further sinister sound came, he slowly released the breath he’d been holding.

  Creak.

  Drew jerked right out of his skin and back, another two years shaved off his life. Damn Isla for planting eerie words in his head. The lass was probably sleeping like a babe after all the ale she’d consumed.

  Nothing discouraged Isla MacCallan.

  For a moment I was reminded of someone from my past.

  Had she forgotten him, Drew, already? He could still call to mind every nuance of her face that fateful day. The pink hue of her skin. The several strands of unpinned copper silk swept up in the wind. The striped lavender dress that accentuated her flawless skin and, with it, each beloved freckle on her face. That was how Drew always chose to remember her when he thought back to that day. Two minutes, perhaps three, before he threw the punch that would ultimately cause the death of his closest friend, her brother.

  Ewan’s face was just as vivid in his mind. The wide smile still plastered on his face as he went down. His head hitting the ground in a sickening thud—that to this day—haunted Drew every night. A horrified gasp. Strings of curses.

  Drew let out a foul oath.

  Aye, he had been trying hard not to dwell on that. Rather, all he wanted to do was drag her off and question her further. Had he reminded her of Patrick or Drew? Or both? At her words, his heart had all but exploded from his chest, knocking the breath right from his lungs. If that hadn’t been enough, her parting words before he thrust her into her room had nearly slain him.

  I have a hopeless heart, Mr. Ross. Did you know that?

  Not true. She possessed a heart made of exquisite silk, woven so delicately, made so indestructibly solid, it put the finest armor to shame.

  Why had Drew not realized how much Patrick’s dismissal had affected her? He had, Drew supposed, but had foolishly thought it was because of how her brothers had meddled in her life. He’d not known the full extent of her fondness for Patrick until after he had returned as Neill Ross. When he lived as Patrick, words had never been necessary between them. Back then, Drew had been afraid that if he uttered more than two sentences at a time, he would split open and splinter into so many pieces that he’d never recover. She had seemed to understand that—seemed to have felt the same.

  Drew cursed again.

  He hated Patrick and Neill fiercely. Jealousy stuck in his gut; jealousy of his own bloody self. The undead should just snatch him up and be done with him.

  His gaze flicked to the door, and he suddenly found himself before it, placing a palm over the creviced planes. He lowered his temple against the firm wood. Her room was a mere two feet across from him. If shadows dragged him away now, would she be happy? Would she notice his absence?

  Get a grip, man.

  How much magic ale did you drink?

  He was spouting drivel—was that how deeply rooted she anchored in his soul? Drew slumped against the door. What ingredients did Mr. Drummond use to brew his ale?

  Pomegranate seeds? Like Hades had done with Persephone.

  He should check on Isla. She’d be sleeping, of course. But on the off chance she was pacing as endlessly as he, jerking at every noise as he did, he ought to, as her protector, ensure she was all right.

  Aye, best he go and check.

  ISLA BLINKED DOWN AT the bed, her body swaying slightly to the left, then to the right, contemplating
whether the mattress would be more comfortable than the wooden floor. Even through the thick haze that had settled over her brain, fogging up her mind, the bed did not look welcoming. The mattress appeared hard and lumpy, the one measly pillow flatter than a pancake. Her gaze shifted to the old rug carelessly arranged at the foot of the bed.

  She could sleep on that, she supposed.

  Her gaze darted to the chair in the corner.

  Or that.

  Anything but that, she thought, head returning to the lumpy bed.

  “The common room had a comfortable sofa, did it not?” she murmured to herself, tapping her chin in thought.

  “Nay,” she muttered, recalling the evening’s adventure. “The room must be covered in cinders and ash.”

  She should go in search of a comfortable surface to sleep on, Isla reckoned as she yawned. Exhaustion tugged at her eyelids. Perhaps not. At this rate, she’d fall asleep on the stairwell. The best option, it seemed, was to curl up into a ball on the rug—like a cat—and sleep as if she didn’t have a care.

  “The blanket ought to keep me warm enough.”

  A sudden gust of wind howled against the window, giving Isla a start. Her fingers flew up to her throat as she darted an anxious frown that way.

  Though she had tried not to think about it, the room did look scarier at night, with nothing but a lone candle keeping the dark at bay. The cracked wallpaper illuminated by candlelight gave the chamber a more ominous appearance.

  Miss Walker and Mrs. Cooper, even the count, all seemed unconcerned by the deterioration of the establishment. Were they all too blinded by their own fissures and peels that they failed to note the decay of the building? Were they all truly that haunted?

  No matter how preoccupied Isla might be by despondency and loneliness, she preferred beauty and sweet smells—like her rose garden. This room would deliver night terrors.

  Did Mr. Ross fare any better in his room?

  Her heart sped up at the mere thought of his disapproving gaze. How odd that tonight, of all nights, he would remind her of Drew Murray, her childhood friend and love. A love that had, for the most part, consumed her entire childhood, and she suspected would be tethered to most of her adult life.