Page 11 of The Return of the Heir

Aye, he wasn’t one to give up, but sometimes things ended whether he wanted them to or not. “Let’s go. I’ve been out here too long as it is.” He’d barely finished the last word when a chill ran up his spine. Someone was watching them. He could feel it in his bones. And he didn’t like it one bit.

He looked down. At the base of the old keep he saw a grey cloak as it rippled around a feminine form. He’d only returned to Dunvegan a few hours ago, and already the spirits of the dead were making themselves known. A sudden chill gripped him. Was he the only one who had seen Gwendolyn and now his mother? “Graeme.” Alastair pointed at the specter in the distance. “Do you see her too?” The Grey Lady had never appeared outside of the old keep since his father murdered her there.

“Aye. Could it be your mother has broken the chains that bound her to the old keep for so long?” Graeme came beside him and stared at the figure below as it flowed across the front courtyard and towards the new keep.

Alastair narrowed his gaze, trying desperately to see the woman’s face. Yet all he could make out was a corona of bobbing golden-blond curls beneath the hood of her cloak. The night air became suddenly cold. As cold as the grave. He shook his head, dispelling the memory of Gwendolyn’s hair. “Come, let’s see who or what this is.” He turned towards the doorway leading to the stairs, with Graeme following close behind. The two of them emerged from the stairway and rushed outside. The old keep was separate from the new keep. Quickly, Alastair raced towards the front of the castle where he had spotted the figure. Seeing no outward sign of the woman, he moved towards the entrance of the new keep. As he placed his hand on the latch, Alastair heard the howling of dogs, far off, and a short, shrill scream, choked to silence before it reached its crescendo.

His breath caught. Though the sound had been a scream, the tone was not unfamiliar to him.

Gwendolyn.

“Your mother’s voice sounds different than I remember.”

“That wasn’t my mother. It appears Dunvegan is now haunted by the spirits of both my mother and my once betrothed.”

Graeme startled. “I don’t know much about ghosts, but if Lady Gwendolyn died on the rocks below the castle, why would her spirit linger here?”

Alastair jerked around. “How am I to know? But I saw her, and I heard her voice only moments ago. I am convinced of that.”

“Is there anything to be done about either spirit?”

Alastair’s hands fisted at his sides. “I used to find my mother’s presence here comforting. Mayhap in time I will feel similarly about Gwendolyn.”

“You’re certain she died the day of your wedding?”

Alastair inhaled sharply, his muscles stiffening as his gaze swept the hazy darkness settling about the castle. “All that remained of her on the rocks below was her bloody and tattered wedding gown and a bloodied lock of her hair. ’Twas high tide that day. I always assumed her body was swallowed up in the waters of the sea loch.”

He turned back to the door and pulled it open as all his frustration coiled in his stomach. Mrs Honey might have prepared a fine meal to celebrate his return, but he was almost certain he wouldn’t be able to consume one bite. “Let us leave these ghosts behind and make our way inside.”

“The entire household came out to celebrate your return.”

“Then let’s not keep them waiting any longer,” Alastair said as he took the stairs to the first floor of the castle two at a time, heading for the great hall.

Before they entered, Graeme stopped Alastair with a hand on his arm. When he turned to see what his friend wanted, Graeme simply smiled and said, “I always knew you’d be a fine laird.”

“Thank you for that. You’re always at my side, aren’t you?” Alastair said as they entered the chamber together.

“Always.”

They were barely through the threshold when several dozen men and women came rushing to greet them.

“So, then. Ye’ve come home.” Mrs Honey was the first to step close with a crooked smile and her eyes shining bright. “’Tis about time. We’ve missed yer comely face nigh these long years.”

Alastair drew into an embrace of the woman who had spoiled him with treats from her kitchen all through his youth. “Not as much as I’ve missed you.”

An eruption of cheers rang out as others came forward, offering greetings and hearty, shoulder-thumping embraces. Alastair smiled easily. It was good to be home and surrounded by those who loved him. Yet, even as he celebrated with his men and his servants, Alastair kept his eyes trained on the two women who stood apart from the others.

Alastair excused himself and made his way to where his sister stood beside his chatelaine near the head table. “Mrs Morgan, you haven’t aged a day since I left.” Her hair was still a vibrant red and her face, though lined, retained a hint of youthfulness. “You are just as beautiful as ever.” Mrs Morgan was a short firebrand of a woman who barely reached the height of Alastair’s chest. But her lack of stature never seemed to stop the woman from bending people to her will.

“A fine welcome home fer a lad who never bothered tae send a single scrap of a note tae let us ken how ye faired. If it were up tae me, I’d send ye back tae France until ye learned some manners.”

“Mrs Morgan.” Alastair laughed. “I’m glad to see you haven’t changed a bit. Still running the place like a sergeant, I see.”

“Someone had tae.” She wagged her finger at him. In response, he gathered her in his arms and twirled her so hard and fast that her black bombazine skirt belled up, revealing the stockings tied around her knees. “Enough. Ye rascal. Put me down before ye break this old woman.”

Alastair set her down with a smile. “I missed you too.”

She straightened her skirts with a scowl that became a smile. “Ye better take yer place at the table so Mrs Honey can serve ye the meal she’s been preparin’ all day.”