“Aye, and do ye have another ring sitting around that’s been handed down for the past eight generations? Dinna think so,” Callum had snorted. “Ye know as well as I that yer father will disinherit ye for this, and ye’re not moving in with me.”
“But the Black Bride–”
“Is a fairytale. A myth. A story that mums tell their bairns to get them tae behave. She isnareal,” he’d said in exasperation when John had made an odd, choking sound and crossed himself. “Whatever ye think ye saw to make ye go scampering home with yer tail between yer legs, it was a product of tae much drink and not enough sleep. Ye should just consider yerself lucky that ye didna take a flyer off the cliffs while ye were at it. I’ll get yer ring for ye, and ye’ll cover me tab at The Blue Pig for the rest of this year and the next. Deal?”
They’d shaken hands, and that was how, a week later, Callum found himself in the same place John had–minus a bellyful of whisky to settle his nerves and infuse him with a sense of false confidence. For sure, it was that only a drunkard or a man with a death wish who would willingly brave this outcropping of stone. And he hadn’t even reached the castle yet, which was where John had insisted thetruehorror resided.
Her eyes,his old friend had croaked, his face as white as the ghost he’d proclaimed to have witnessed.Ye should have seen hereyes.
“Come on then, Finn. This isna the place tae dawdle.” But when Callum applied his heels to the gelding’s ribs, his trustworthy mount–the one he’d put a child on if he were ever so daft as to have children–reared straight up into the air.
Unprepared by the violet action, Callum lost his irons as he lunged forward and grabbed a fistful of mane, not wanting to apply pressure to the reins and inadvertently flip Finnegan over on top of him, killing them both.
“Easy, Finn!” he shouted, but the terrified gelding was beyond listening. With a trumpeting bellow, Finnegan slammed his front hooves back to the ground and spun in a tight half-circle, sending a shower of stones plummeting to the hungry, roiling sea below.
Thrown sideways, Callum’s skull cracked against an outcropping of rock. Dazed and bloody, he fell out of the saddle, landing flat on his back with a hardthud. His vision blurred. Through a veiled shadow, he saw Finnegan’s haunches as the damned horse galloped away. He saw buzzards circling high above. And right before he slipped into unconsciousness, he could have sworn he saw a woman with hair as black as pitch and eyes as green as emeralds…
Chapter Two
Notanotherone.
Disbelief etched itself between Mara’s ebony brows as she stared at the man sprawled upon her cliffside path. She’d thought, after she sent the last group of them running for their lives…but no.No.Men were persistently stupid, and it seemed there was nothing this side of heaven or hell that could knock any sense into their thick heads.
Not even a ghost.
“At least ye didna fall into the sea,” she told the auburn-haired stranger.Yet, she added silently as her hands rose to pinch her hips and her disbelief flattened into annoyance. Craning her neck in order to afford herself a closer look, she cast a critical eye upon the gash on the left side of his temple. It was oozing blood and would leave quite a nasty bruise in the morning, but it wasn’t lethal so far as she could tell. A few stitches, a cold compress, and he’d be on his feet again. God willing, he wouldn’t remember being thrown from his horse…or even coming here at all.
She was going to have to get him to the castle. A Herculean, if not impossible task…if she were alive. But one of the few benefits of being dead was an unnatural source of strength. A strength that enabled her to hoist her very unwanted, verylargevisitor onto her mare, Skye. Her eternal companion in this never-ending purgatory that they’d found themselves trapped in ever since Mara…but no. She didn’t like to think about it.Couldn’tthink about it, really. Not without invoking a terrible headache that stayed with her for days afterwards. Just like the headache the stranger was going to have when he awoke.
Thehandsomestranger, Mara noted with some interest as she permitted her gaze to wander across the rest of his countenance. Given his mane of red hair and the rugged angles of his cheekbones, it was clear he had Scot’s blood running through his veins. His brow was high and distinguished. His lips firm and straight. His jaw hard and unyielding. There was a slight bump in the middle of his nose, as if it had been knocked out of place a time or two, but the imperfection only contributed to his warrior-like appeal.
“Dinna look at me like that,” she grumbled at Skye when the mare gave a belligerent toss of her head. “What’s the point of saving them if I canna take a wee gander?”
Skye flapped her lips.
Mara rolled her eyes. “Come on, then. Let’s get him back tae the castle before nightfall.”
Walking side by side, the two companions made their way up the winding, treacherous path that had claimed more than a few lives over the past hundred years…including Mara’s own.
How long, she wondered as she cast a furtive glance at the stranger? Once she’d known the exact number, down to the day. But now…now time was beginning to blur. Weeks into months. Months in years. Years into decades. How long? How long had she been trapped here? Twenty, thirty, forty years? To realize she wasn’t sure of the exact answer sent a flicker of alarm through her, and she curled her fingers inward, pushing her nails into the palms of her hands until she felt a responding twinge.
Ye’ve time yet,she assured herself as they reached the summit and the crumbling castle that was her home…and prison.If ye can still feel, then ye have time. Time tae break the curse. Time tae reclaim yer life. Time tae right old wrongs.
“Drop him here,” she told Skye, pointing at a grassy spot beside the entrance to the keep, a massive tower that overlooked all of Blackmoore…and the only place on this godforsaken cape that was barred to her.
Skye gave a mighty shake, and the stranger rolled off her back like a sack of potatoes and landed on his side. Lowering her head, the temperamental equine sniffed his pockets for treats, and when she didn’t find any, trotted away with a disgruntled flick of her tail.
“Mares,” sighed Mara as she gathered the supplies she needed to tend the stranger’s wound. “For sure if I was tae be stuck in eternal torment with a horse, a gelding would have been me first choice, but what is it that they say? Och, that’s right. Ghosts canna be choosers.”
She used an old pump to fill a tin pail with water, and a clean cloth from the stack of them that she kept in a small adjoining garden shed just for this purpose.
When she had first begun tending to the lost souls that found themselves a victim of Blackmoore’s siren call, she’d brought them right into the castle. Not up the stairs. She wasn’tthatstrong. But she was able to drag them into the old parlor and prop them up against the dusty sofa. Except bringing them inside had inevitably led to more problems than solutions, and so now she tended to them out here in the shade of the keep where the air tasted of salt and she could almost remember what it felt like to feel the breeze skim across her skin.
Like butterflies dancing, she recalled with a sad twist of her lips as she crouched beside the stranger and gently pressed a damp cloth to the cut above his brow.
The bleeding had nearly stopped, which was a good sign as head injuries tended to gush blood like a stuck pig. Last year, she’d nearly used up her entire supply of rags on a man who had taken one look at her and fainted dead away, bashing the back of his head on a tree stump. She could have filled buckets with all his blood. But miraculously, she’d managed to stem the flow and after a night of unconsciousness, he’d staggered to his feet and run back home lickety-split, boasting a new scar and a sinister story to tell.
For a while after that, Blackmoore had remained empty. And even though that emptiness brought a deep, aching sense of loneliness, she was grateful, as it meant that the hungry cliffs wouldn’t be able to claim anymore lives. But then, as they always did, men returned. Sometimes together. Sometimes alone, as this one was. Searching for the Black Bride, or treasure, or answers to questions they didn’t even know they were asking. All lured here by a power beyond their darkest imaginings.
