Page 1 of Once Upon A Haunted Castle
Laird of Shadows
Eliza Knight
Chapter One
Scottish Highlands
1207
Thunder struck soviolently that the walls of Dunstaffnage Castle seemed to shake and the floor vibrated beneath the feet of every person in the great hall. Several prominent members of the clan stood around the perimeter of the vast chamber, their eyes not locking on anything in particular. They sipped their whisky and avoided speaking the reason for their gathering, though ’twas on the tip of every man’s tongue.
“’Tis raining something fierce outside, my laird,” a passing servant said, pouring him yet another cup of dark, strong ale.
Laird Beiste MacDougall still wasn’t used to being addressed aslaird,a title that had belonged to his father until just that morning.
He grunted, holding his cup to his lips and draining the contents in one long swallow. An hour or more had passed since his tongue had gone numb from drink. He planned to continue drowning his sorrow in ale until he fell asleep right there on that very table. Beiste stretched his legs out, tapping the bottom of the cup on the wood until it was filled again. His gaze roved from one man to the next, taking in his uncles, cousins. The women huddled closer to the kitchens, probably plotting his future. Aunties and cousins, he was related in some way to all of them, through his mother or his father.
And now it was just him.
His parents were gone.
His siblings were gone.
His wife and child, also gone.
He was all that was left of the MacDougall Clan. The elders would be harping on him soon to take a wife, but he couldn’t just yet. Maybe not at all. How could he risk failing another when he’d failed everyone who’d ever counted on him? Aye, he’d not been to blame specifically for the deaths of his siblings—all three had passed just hours after being born. But he was the first born and he couldn’t help but wonder if he’d somehow ruined the womb for them. Why had he survived and they had not? It had made him extra strong on the battlefield. Extra determined to be victorious at all things—after all, there was no one else to succeed him. He was the only chance at his father and mother’s line succeeding.
Of course, that contradicted his desires not to find himself attached to a new woman, to beget another child—yet, it was the only way to fulfill his duty to his family.
The loss of his first wife and child…he blamed himself entirely for their deaths. When his wife insisted on going with him on campaign, he should have said nay. Should have told her to remain at home. But he’d been weak with desire, with what he was certain was love. He’d allowed it and she’d become pregnant. She hid that fact from him, not wanting to distract him with the news or be sent back to the castle. By the time he’d figured it out, it was too late. Her horse spooked, tossing her to the ground. Her labor pains came swiftly after and there’d been nothing he could do about it. His own selfishness had caused the death of his beloved. Of his poor bairn son who had squealed in his arms for only a few breaths before passing on.
He’d vowed from that moment on that he’d not be taking another wife. Not with the shroud of death that cloaked him. Anyone close to him died and, so, he kept everyone he cared about at arm’s length.
Duty to his clan first. And, aye, he was fully aware of the contradiction that made.
Fierce pounding sounded through his skull and he rubbed at his temples. But he realized the incessant banging wasn’t blood pummeling the inside of his skull, but the main doors to the keep.
“Who in bloody hell is knocking?” he growled, slamming his cup down. Anyone worth their weight would simply enter.
A tingle crept over the back of his neck. Was it Death himself?
“I will go and see,” Gunnar, his master of the gate, said. He bowed to Beiste and walked toward the door.
“Nay. I’ll go.” Beiste pushed himself out of the chair, his feet feeling heavy.
Gunnar nodded, waiting.
Despite the numbness of his tongue, Beiste’s head was surprisingly clear. Then he took a step forward. Mayhap not as clear as it should be.
No matter. With a hand on the sword at his hip, he trudged beneath the archway into the main vestibule, aware that every eye in the great hall had finally found its mark. Him.
He ignored them all. Ignored the questions in their gazes.
The banging continued until he wrenched open the door.
Standing in the pouring rain of the bailey was a woman, a cloak covering her from head to toe. Only the tip of her pointed nose and the rosiness of her lips shone in the torchlight from the vestibule. Her figure was slight, her shoulders trembling. She was soaked through to the bone.
What in bloody hell? Beiste swiped a hand over his face, frowning fiercely. Perhaps his quest for numbness had affected his eyes. He was seeing things now. Mayhap it was best if Gunnar did deal with this. ’Twas a certainty now that the ale he’d imbibed had the ability to make him feel less drunk than he was, or at least to make him think he was less intoxicated.
