hear the generators from here. I assume you’ll run them from one of the tower chambers during the shows.”
“Yes,” Victoria said, distracted by the sounds layering themselves on top of each other. “I don’t think the audience will hear them and there’s certainly no other way to get power inside the castle without them. Granny, do you hear those medieval sorts of noises?”
Mary patted her hand. “Inspect your workers, love, then we’ll go back to the inn and you can have a nap.”
She didn’t need a nap; she needed a specter-free castle in which to do her play. She walked into the bailey and looked at the place where the stage would be built. Workers were setting up their gear and the area seemed to be quite free of all paranormal activity.
She couldn’t help breathe a faint sigh of relief.
“They’ve worked hard,” Victoria said, gratefully.
“Like as not, they have cause,” Fulbert said. “I wouldn’t want to stay here longer than I needed to.”
“Why not?” she asked.
Ambrose cleared his throat. “Well, there are a few unsavory lads loitering about the keep. Those kind of lads,” he added knowingly.
Damn. So, her worst fears were going to materialize. “Ghosts?” Victoria asked.
“Aye, but no one of consequence,” Ambrose said. “Certainly no one whom I would give a second thought to—”
“Aye, but your head might, as it left your womanly shoulders,” a voice growled from behind Victoria. “Draw your sword, MacLeod!”
Victoria whirled around.
That unsettling prop-room numbness started again at the top of her head, but she clamped down on her self-control with all her strength and gave that tingling the old heave-ho. She would not faint. There were probably several things one could say about her that might be uncomplimentary, but it could not be said that she had ever swooned. Not once.
Well, that prop room debacle aside, of course.
Oh, and also the first time she’d seen Michael Fellini, but there had been a handy couch nearby and she’d managed to fall gracefully upon it in a lounging posture. That had been less of a swoon and more of a dignified slump.
But this time she wasn’t sure she would manage anything so dignified. First off, there was no couch nearby. Secondly, this wasn’t a sleek, suave New Yorker wowing her with his good looks and easy charm. This was a Highlander standing not two feet from her, his enormous sword in his hands, and a look of death in his eyes.
“Let’s move out of the way, shall we?” Mary said easily, taking Victoria by the arm and tugging.
Victoria backpeddled until she was well out of the way of that very large sword. She came to a stop next to her grandmother, wishing desperately that she’d brought along a chair so she could sit while she grappled with the reality she was facing.
She was used to handsome men on stage, but they were generally not very tall and more of their muscles came from dance than hefting very big swords and swinging them around like thin, lightweight rapiers. She was also used to powerful men whose money she had no trouble trying to solicit for her productions, but their power came from their bank accounts and their ability to control destinies with those bank accounts.
She was not used to men who intimidated by their mere physical presence alone.
She was tall, but that ghost towered over her. He towered over Ambrose, as well. She frowned. That didn’t seem quite fair. Who did he think he was, going after her grandfather—the accustomed number of generations removed—with such lack of care for Ambrose’s age or the measure of respect that should have been accorded him due to that age?
“That’s Connor MacDougal,” Fulbert said from beside her. “He was laird of his clan in life. He thinks he’s laird of this castle in death—”
“I am laird of this keep,” Connor MacDougal snarled, “and I’ll thank ye to keep yer bloody English nose out of my affairs!”
Fulbert grunted. “He’s a
“Yes,” Victoria said, distracted by the sounds layering themselves on top of each other. “I don’t think the audience will hear them and there’s certainly no other way to get power inside the castle without them. Granny, do you hear those medieval sorts of noises?”
Mary patted her hand. “Inspect your workers, love, then we’ll go back to the inn and you can have a nap.”
She didn’t need a nap; she needed a specter-free castle in which to do her play. She walked into the bailey and looked at the place where the stage would be built. Workers were setting up their gear and the area seemed to be quite free of all paranormal activity.
She couldn’t help breathe a faint sigh of relief.
“They’ve worked hard,” Victoria said, gratefully.
“Like as not, they have cause,” Fulbert said. “I wouldn’t want to stay here longer than I needed to.”
“Why not?” she asked.
Ambrose cleared his throat. “Well, there are a few unsavory lads loitering about the keep. Those kind of lads,” he added knowingly.
Damn. So, her worst fears were going to materialize. “Ghosts?” Victoria asked.
“Aye, but no one of consequence,” Ambrose said. “Certainly no one whom I would give a second thought to—”
“Aye, but your head might, as it left your womanly shoulders,” a voice growled from behind Victoria. “Draw your sword, MacLeod!”
Victoria whirled around.
That unsettling prop-room numbness started again at the top of her head, but she clamped down on her self-control with all her strength and gave that tingling the old heave-ho. She would not faint. There were probably several things one could say about her that might be uncomplimentary, but it could not be said that she had ever swooned. Not once.
Well, that prop room debacle aside, of course.
Oh, and also the first time she’d seen Michael Fellini, but there had been a handy couch nearby and she’d managed to fall gracefully upon it in a lounging posture. That had been less of a swoon and more of a dignified slump.
But this time she wasn’t sure she would manage anything so dignified. First off, there was no couch nearby. Secondly, this wasn’t a sleek, suave New Yorker wowing her with his good looks and easy charm. This was a Highlander standing not two feet from her, his enormous sword in his hands, and a look of death in his eyes.
“Let’s move out of the way, shall we?” Mary said easily, taking Victoria by the arm and tugging.
Victoria backpeddled until she was well out of the way of that very large sword. She came to a stop next to her grandmother, wishing desperately that she’d brought along a chair so she could sit while she grappled with the reality she was facing.
She was used to handsome men on stage, but they were generally not very tall and more of their muscles came from dance than hefting very big swords and swinging them around like thin, lightweight rapiers. She was also used to powerful men whose money she had no trouble trying to solicit for her productions, but their power came from their bank accounts and their ability to control destinies with those bank accounts.
She was not used to men who intimidated by their mere physical presence alone.
She was tall, but that ghost towered over her. He towered over Ambrose, as well. She frowned. That didn’t seem quite fair. Who did he think he was, going after her grandfather—the accustomed number of generations removed—with such lack of care for Ambrose’s age or the measure of respect that should have been accorded him due to that age?
“That’s Connor MacDougal,” Fulbert said from beside her. “He was laird of his clan in life. He thinks he’s laird of this castle in death—”
“I am laird of this keep,” Connor MacDougal snarled, “and I’ll thank ye to keep yer bloody English nose out of my affairs!”
Fulbert grunted. “He’s a
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