The Making of a Highlander (Midnight in Scotland #1) - Elisa Braden Page 0,14

a guide to Glaswegian breweries and public houses. Apparently, there was some fine beer to be had near the rope manufactory if one didn’t mind the stench.

Yesterday, Annie had stormed back into Mrs. MacBean’s cottage with five fresh loaves of bread and a demand: “Dinnae tell me what ye’ve read,” she’d snapped, dropping her basket on the table. “Tell me what ye ken.”

Mrs. MacBean’s good eye had looked her up and down. “About ghosties? Not as much as ye’d suppose.”

She snorted. “Nae doubt of that. Just tell me what ye ken. Apart from where to have a pint in Glasgow.”

“They’re slippery. Waitin’ til dark to appear. Never stayin’ long enough for conversation. Unsociable pranksters, the lot of ‘em.”

“Finlay isnae like that.”

“Aye, lass. He’s not.”

“He enjoys a good jest now and then.” She’d remembered his Fin Grin. His laughter when he was giving some unsuspecting MacDonnell the chills. She’d swallowed a lump. Blinked until the watery haze passed. “But he’s a braw laddie.”

“Right ye are.” The old woman’s bony, spotted fingers had drummed on the arms of her chair. “Mayhap he’s nae like other ghosties.” The old woman’s gaze fell to where Annie’s hand reflexively covered her ribs. “What do ye ken of the lad?”

“He’s been with me since I was wee.”

“Since yer mam died, aye?”

Annie nodded. “His mam died, too, before he did. He stayed behind to … find her, I suppose. Then he couldnae find his way out.”

“Likely he felt a kinship, ye bein’ so close to his age. Losin’ yer mother. Must be why he attached to ye.”

And he’d been connected to her ever since. Until last year, when she’d begun to lose him, their tether deteriorating and Finlay struggling mightily to keep it intact. Losing his color. Losing his hold. Fading away.

Gone.

“I’m sorry, lass. I was certain the thistle amulet would work.”

“They werenae meant to be worn, ye daft auld woman. I had to use Angus’s liniment to clear up the chafing.”

“Many a Highland clan wears them proudly.”

“On their banners. Because a prickish weed that injures ye when ye step on it is a fitting emblem for this place. They dinnae wear the nasty things round their necks.”

Confusion had clouded the woman’s brow. “Mayhap a carvin’ of a thistle would have sufficed.” She’d shrugged. “These are deep mysteries we seek to plumb, lass. Dark forces and hidden realms. Answers willnae come easily.”

“Or, in yer case, at all.”

“Now, if ye kenned where he was buried, that would be somethin’.”

Annie had glared hard at the old woman. “I told ye where he was buried a year ago, the first time ye asked.”

Mrs. MacBean had blinked, her milky eye beginning to wander. She’d scratched her head. “Ye did?”

“The auld churchyard, up near the castle.”

“Oh. Well, why didnae ye say so?”

Now, the morning after her conversation with the half-mad, all-befuddled Mrs. MacBean, Annie ventured from MacPherson land onto John Huxley’s land on a daft mission. The castle sat at the northern end of the loch, isolated deep in the valley, a half-hour’s walk from MacPherson House.

What would she say to Huxley when she arrived? She didn’t know. She hadn’t seen him since he’d devoured her venison with jealous zeal, then accepted Angus’s ridiculous wager. Afterward, he’d donned his hat, handed her the three skeins of thread she’d dropped in the square, and driven away in the pouring rain, uttering only a terse, “Good evening, Miss Tulloch.”

He was odd, the Englishman. Stubborn. Reserved, though she would have bet her best boots that reticence went against his true nature. She teased him about being so handsome he near blinded a lass, but in truth, his demeanor dulled the shine. If the man ever let loose with a genuine grin, God help every female with working parts.

As she rounded a stand of birch, the castle came into view. Craggy gray stone jutted upward between the loch’s shore and a backdrop of dark pines. Mist rose from the water like clutching fingers. Light danced through varying shades of white and green.

From this vantage, Glendasheen Castle looked fair enchanted.

The house wasn’t a true castle, of course, but a hunting lodge built by one of the MacDonnell ancestors. The roof, newly repaired with black slate, was a series of steep gables, including a hexagonal tower on one corner. The windows were all narrow, but there were