Page 23 of Once Upon A Haunted Castle
“Son…”
Beiste jerked his head out of the water where he’d been dunking to give his hair a wash.
“What the…” He looked around, swearing he’d just heard his father call out to him.
Damn it to hell. His father was dead. Sent off over the water on a great funeral pyre before Beiste had gone after Erik and Bjork.
“Son.” The voice was stronger now.
Beiste swiveled in the water, not seeing anyone around him. His men had climbed to the shore, going back to their duties.
Still, there was nothing.
“Beiste, my son.”
“Get out of my head,” Beiste growled, marching swiftly through the water toward the shore.
As soon as he stepped onto the sand, a shadow fell over him. He felt a prickle wind its way up his spine. But still, there was no one there. He drew his sword, turning in a circle.
“Who is there?”
He half-expected to hear his father’s voice again but, instead, the lad he’d brought back from Castle Gloom climbed from behind a bush.
“What are ye doing back there? Always hiding.” His voice was a little gruffer than he would have liked, but he was still irritated with the apparent voice in his head and his desire for a certain half-Scot, half-Viking minx.
John was wringing his hands, a task he’d taken to doing anytime he was around Beiste. “I’m sorry, my laird. I but…wondered if I might have a swim to get clean, too?”
“Och, aye. I should have thought of it sooner. Jump in.” Beiste finished dressing while the lad scrubbed himself the same as the men had.
When he climbed out, he had a smile on his face. Again, Beiste had a flash of knowing. The lad looked so familiar to him, yet he knew they’d never met before, he was certain. Perhaps, his merchant parents had come by the castle, once.
“Are ye hungry, lad?”
“Aye.”
Beiste clapped him on the shoulder, catching him as the mighty thwack sent the lad tumbling forward. “Sorry about that, forgot how tiny ye were. Come, let’s get ye something to eat in the kitchens. Ye can sleep in the stables tonight with the other grooms.”
John beamed up at him, straightening his shoulders. “I love horses.”
“Oh, do ye now?”
“Aye.”
“Can ye ride?”
“Aye. My father taught me.”
“Then ye’ll be a good addition to Master Collins.”
“I want to thank ye for taking me in.” The boy ran a hand through his wet mane. “Do ye often take in strangers?”
“Nay,” Beiste said with a frown. “Not often.” Save for lately. But he kept that truth to himself.
