were red-rimmed, the pupils huge and black with fear. But she was brave, his Bella. Where other lassies would have run screaming, she stayed put.
“Who’s there?” she said, her voice shaking.
He was standing behind her, but now he stepped back, away from her. Withdrawing into himself. He had touched her…. And she had felt him.
She was still looking all around, anxious little glances. And then she gave a sigh and pushed her longhair out of her face and wiped her teary cheeks with her fingers. “You know, I don’t care if you are here, Maclean. Do your worst!”
She waited, Maclean waited, nothing happened. Then she looked at the broken writing machine and sighed again. “I’m going crazy,” she said. “When did I last sleep? I need to sleep .”
She stood up. “Maclean?” she whispered again, but when no one answered her, she shook her head and moved toward the door.
He was standing immediately in her path. This time he didn’t step aside. He waited. Hoping…longing…. Bella walked right through him and up the stairs to bed, flicking off the light as she went.
Maclean was alone in the dark room. He had touched her and she had felt him, and yet a moment later he had been a ghost again.
What had made the difference?
He thought back, trying to remember what he had felt as he reached out his hand, but all he could see were images of the past. Some were from his own unreliable memory and some were pictures put there by Bella’s words. They were jumbled in his head, confusing and frightening, and he couldn’t tell truth from lies. But still he knew. Something very bad had happened in his past, and although he had just taken a step backward, he could not escape it for much longer.
Bella stood at the window staring out at the loch, her arms clutched about her, ignoring the chill floor beneath the soles of her bare feet. Odd things were happening. The sense that she wasn’t alone had heightened, andthen the mug moving by itself and the door opening and closing. She’d felt certain Maclean was with her; she’d even spoken to him. But now…doubts were creeping in.
What about the hand? Did you imagine the hand?
No, she didn’t imagine that. She’d felt a hand on her shoulder, a big warm hand. Maclean’s hand. It was beyond creepy, but at the same time there had been a sense that the hand was trying to comfort her—she’d just gone into meltdown, after all.
The Maclean in the legend would never offer comfort to a woman. But then, she’d never completely accepted the legend.
Outside, the loch was a stretch of silver, an echo of the moonlight above. There was a splash in the water, and a ripple ran all the way to the shore. Bella frowned, trying to see what it was. A bird landing, probably, or a fish surfacing for a final snack before bed. Loch Fasail was deep and cold, and there were stories about what lay in the depths of such places. She remembered Brian insisting something had tugged at his foot as he was swimming, and how she had laughed at him.
It didn’t seem very funny now.
The splash came again, bigger, and for a heartbeat a dark shape was silhouetted against the water’s surface. There was a low keening sound. A stag, she told herself, even though she knew it was nothing like the call of a stag. Some of Gregor’s sheep were cropping the moorland grass. The sound came again, and in unison they turned and fled, their woolly rumps vanishing over the crest of the hill.
Bella snapped the curtains shut.
When had she last slept a straight eight hours? She was exhausted. Maybe that was what the hand on her shoulder had been—not Maclean, just sheer exhaustion.
Bella went to bed.
Maclean was so deep into his thoughts that it was almost like sleeping. Like dreaming. The peats in the Aga settled as they burned to ash, but he didn’t notice. His dreaming self was down by the loch, and it was as if he had never left.
He was walking, his kilt swinging, the sun upon his head.
“Who’s there?” she said, her voice shaking.
He was standing behind her, but now he stepped back, away from her. Withdrawing into himself. He had touched her…. And she had felt him.
She was still looking all around, anxious little glances. And then she gave a sigh and pushed her longhair out of her face and wiped her teary cheeks with her fingers. “You know, I don’t care if you are here, Maclean. Do your worst!”
She waited, Maclean waited, nothing happened. Then she looked at the broken writing machine and sighed again. “I’m going crazy,” she said. “When did I last sleep? I need to sleep .”
She stood up. “Maclean?” she whispered again, but when no one answered her, she shook her head and moved toward the door.
He was standing immediately in her path. This time he didn’t step aside. He waited. Hoping…longing…. Bella walked right through him and up the stairs to bed, flicking off the light as she went.
Maclean was alone in the dark room. He had touched her and she had felt him, and yet a moment later he had been a ghost again.
What had made the difference?
He thought back, trying to remember what he had felt as he reached out his hand, but all he could see were images of the past. Some were from his own unreliable memory and some were pictures put there by Bella’s words. They were jumbled in his head, confusing and frightening, and he couldn’t tell truth from lies. But still he knew. Something very bad had happened in his past, and although he had just taken a step backward, he could not escape it for much longer.
Bella stood at the window staring out at the loch, her arms clutched about her, ignoring the chill floor beneath the soles of her bare feet. Odd things were happening. The sense that she wasn’t alone had heightened, andthen the mug moving by itself and the door opening and closing. She’d felt certain Maclean was with her; she’d even spoken to him. But now…doubts were creeping in.
What about the hand? Did you imagine the hand?
No, she didn’t imagine that. She’d felt a hand on her shoulder, a big warm hand. Maclean’s hand. It was beyond creepy, but at the same time there had been a sense that the hand was trying to comfort her—she’d just gone into meltdown, after all.
The Maclean in the legend would never offer comfort to a woman. But then, she’d never completely accepted the legend.
Outside, the loch was a stretch of silver, an echo of the moonlight above. There was a splash in the water, and a ripple ran all the way to the shore. Bella frowned, trying to see what it was. A bird landing, probably, or a fish surfacing for a final snack before bed. Loch Fasail was deep and cold, and there were stories about what lay in the depths of such places. She remembered Brian insisting something had tugged at his foot as he was swimming, and how she had laughed at him.
It didn’t seem very funny now.
The splash came again, bigger, and for a heartbeat a dark shape was silhouetted against the water’s surface. There was a low keening sound. A stag, she told herself, even though she knew it was nothing like the call of a stag. Some of Gregor’s sheep were cropping the moorland grass. The sound came again, and in unison they turned and fled, their woolly rumps vanishing over the crest of the hill.
Bella snapped the curtains shut.
When had she last slept a straight eight hours? She was exhausted. Maybe that was what the hand on her shoulder had been—not Maclean, just sheer exhaustion.
Bella went to bed.
Maclean was so deep into his thoughts that it was almost like sleeping. Like dreaming. The peats in the Aga settled as they burned to ash, but he didn’t notice. His dreaming self was down by the loch, and it was as if he had never left.
He was walking, his kilt swinging, the sun upon his head.
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