Page 2 of Once Upon A Haunted Castle
Beiste closed the door and turned around to go up the stairs. He needed to sleep. ’Twas one thing to get drunk from grief and pass out in his cup at the trestle table, another thing entirely to find himself talking to ghosts.
But the banging returned.
Och, bloody hell! Beiste whirled on his feet, prepared to tell his demons to take a hike down a long and winding path.
When he opened the door this time, the woman glared up at him with wide, green eyes. Intense. So vivid. He fisted his hands to keep from reaching out to touch her.
“Are ye real?” he asked, realizing his question was an odd one and gave way to his inebriated state. But all the same, he needed to be certain.
“As real as ye are,” she hissed. “Will ye let me in or force me to catch my death?”
Beiste cocked his head. Was this a trick question? “How did ye get past the guards?” He stuck his head out the door, raindrops pelting his skull, to see his men still walked the walls as though they’d not just let a strange woman into the castle.
Her shoulders straightened. “I’m here to speak with the laird. Let me pass.”
Beiste crossed his arms over his massive chest, attempting to put fear into the woman with his sheer size alone. “Ye didna answer the question.”
She didn’t even seem to notice how much bigger he was. If anything, her glower deepened. “I’ll only be answering to the laird.”
Beiste bit his tongue. Hewasthe laird, but this chit wouldn’t know it yet. The storms had been so bad since his father passed that he’d not yet sent out word to their neighbors. Besides, the elders would want to do so, formally inviting all those in their holding to come forward and give their blessing and allegiance.
“Do come in,” he said gruffly, affecting a sloppy bow meant to mock her sharp tongue. He stepped back, allowing her space to enter.
“Thank ye.” She swept past him as though she owned the place, hands in the voluminous skirts lifting the hem away from her feet, head held high. But she stopped abruptly and turned to face him, brow furrowed, lips pursed in consternation. “Something is not right.”
He studied her as she pushed the cloak back, revealing dark hair with hints of red.
“I quite agree.” She was really quite beautiful. Enchanting even.
“There is…” Her lips clamped closed. She shook herself, as though trying to shove off whatever reservations she now suddenly had about being inside his fortress. “Bring me to the laird. I must speak to him.”
Beiste grunted, re-crossing his arms. “Nay.” He was curious to see what her reaction would be to him denying her.
Her eyes flashed on him with disdain. He had the feeling she were assessing him, that he was not standing up to whatever magnitude she theoretically measured him against. “I am not asking.”
Beiste’s eyes widened at the haughty tone that brooked no argument. ’Twas on the tip of his tongue to put the lass in her place but, instead, he decided to give her exactly what she wanted.
“Come,” he demanded, stalking toward the stairs.
His father’s body still lay abed, where it would remain until the rain ceased and they could put it out to sea on a great pyre as he’d requested. An ancient and worthy burial for a man who’d been as great and fierce as all the ancient kings, including Beiste’s own grandfather.
Beiste didn’t bother to take a torch with him. He could climb these stairs in the dark and he kind of wanted the haughty wench to trip behind him—as uncharitable as that was. Though to be fair, he didn’t want her to get hurt, either. He kept a keen sense on her, so if she did, in fact, trip as he wished, he could quickly catch her, too. He might be a beast at heart, but he wasn’t cruel unnecessarily.
Surprisingly, up the three flights of stairs they went and she never once faltered. Not even on the sixteenth stair that had risen in the middle creating an unsettling foothold for anyone who traversed it. Nor on the twenty-seventh where a large chip had been broken from the tip of the step when someone dropped a heavy boulder on it during the construction. That had been some twenty years before when the Norsemen had ruled heavily in the area. Only recently, with his father, they had worked to bring Scotland together as one unified country.
Dunstaffnage was the most well-fortified castle for hundreds of miles around. Mirroring the Norse skills and use of stone to build fortresses that were impenetrable, it featured walls ten feet thick in places, rising high and mightily into the sky.
At the third floor, he nodded to the guard standing outside his father’s chamber. The man glanced curiously behind him at the woman he’d let in, but said nothing. Beiste was fully aware how odd it was to bring a stranger to see his father’s body. But he didn’t care. He wanted to see the shock on her face. For her haughty nature to dissipate.
He opened the door, the scents of illness and death washing over him in a hazy, thick wave. Beiste swallowed, suddenly hating his own plan. His father’s soul, freshly gone from his body, would no doubt frown upon him.
Behind Beiste, the lass gasped. He turned in time to see her cover her mouth with the back of her hand, her eyes widening and meeting his.
“He is gone,” she murmured. “Ye didna tell me.”
Beiste swallowed and cleared his throat, feeling it constrict with emotion at seeing his great father brought down. “This morning.”
Tears welled in her eyes. “I am too late.”
