And all the while, Victoria McKinnon had either sat upon that stage and listened with raised eyebrows

or paced about, fighting a smile.

Was it possible that it was true?

And then a man sauntered up to him, dressed in velvets, with enough lace at his wrists and neck to leave

a gaggle of Highland lassies drooling for a fortnight. Connor gaped at him in astonishment.

"Roderick St. Claire," the man said with a low bow.

"So I see," Connor said, wide-eyed.

"We've played cards together on more than one occasion," the shade continued. "I have many tales to

tell you, old man, when you would care to tear a pheasant together and break open a bottle of claret. Of course," he smiled faintly, "you can indulge. I'll just pretend."

"Old man?" Connor repeated. "Old man?"

"A term of respect," Victoria called helpfully.

Connor looked at Roderick St. Claire and wondered why it was he felt such a strong urge to run the man through. He frowned. "You irritate me."

"I have for decades."

Connor rubbed the space between his eyes. "Decades?"

"I came to Thorpewold after my untimely demise during Queen Victoria's rule."

"Another woman on the English throne?"

"I fear, old chap, that it's all too true."

Connor rubbed his hands over his face. "I think I must have a few moments to think."

Roderick made him a low, flourishy bow better suited to a player on stage, then disappeared.

Connor jumped, in spite of himself. Would he ever accustom himself to this appearing and disappearing these shades did? He suspected not. He dismissed the rest of the garrison with a sharp movement of his hand. They vanished with alacrity. He sighed, stood, and went over to Victoria.

"I am hearing these tales and finding them difficult to believe," he said bluntly.

"I imagine you are," she agreed.

He paused and considered. "I see no reason why these lads would perjure themselves."

She smiled sadly. "I can't, either."

He grunted, then nodded to her before he took himself off to investigate the nooks and crannies of Thorpewold Castle proper. He walked to the one wall that seemed to be the least crumbling of all the walls. To his left was a quite well-preserved tower. Connor approached, but the closer he came, the more dread he felt.

He stood at the bottom and looked up the steps. There was evil there. He wasn't certain what had happened, but it was not of his making, and he had no desire to investigate. He turned away and walked along the wall to the far tower.

It was newly reconstructed. He admired the lower floor, with Victoria's theater equipment still contained therein. He could remember the day-and it hadn't been all that long ago-when the place had been nothing but a shell. But, by the saints, that Thomas McKinnon had been a royal pain in the arse, hammering and banging at all hours, day in and... day...

Out.

Connor looked at the tower and wondered how in the hell he knew that.

He turned to see how Victoria was viewing his lunacy. She was sitting on the stage still, but she was looking toward the gates, no doubt leaving him privacy to descend into madness. He looked at the corner tower again, shivered once, then moved away before he had any more incomprehensible reactions.

He roamed over the castle, scaling what steps he dared and leaving alone the ones he didn't. He walked through what was left of the great hall. He stepped into the garden, which was now nothing more than a grassy field. He knew it had not always been so. He could see it as a garden full of flowers and a training field full of men with swords. He watched monks coming and making offerings of plants to a woman he was most startled to recognize.

Iolanthe MacLeod.

But why would they have done that? And when?

Connor leaned on his hand against the wall and let things wash over him. He couldn't call them memories. He wasn't sure what to name them, but he knew he could not call them lies.

Mayhem, terror, decapitations. And that had just been his activities with other men in the keep. But those lads popped their heads right back atop their shoulders and brushed aside killing wounds as if they had been mere stings.

He would have suspected his reign of terror was merely happy recollections of his time as laird of the clan MacDougal, but two things stopped him. One, he hadn't been drenched by the dry Scottish rain; and two, he hadn't been cold.

Odd.

He pushed away from the wall and strode back into the bailey. He looked for Victoria, then nodded sharply at her. She lifted one eyebrow at him, but hopped off the stage just the same. She joined him at the gates and trotted alongside him as he strode away from the castle and its uncomfortable revelations.

He shook his head as he walked. Was it possible? That he had been a specter for several centuries, privy to ghostly counsels, tormenting hapless mortals simply because he could?

He considered the last. Perhaps he had been irritated at his ghostly state. And given that it would have been the Frenchman to plunge him into such a state, mayhap he had good reason to be other than his normally sunny self.

Aye, 'twas possible.

But he simply could not wrap his poor, weary mind around the thought that perhaps he had indeed been a shade for centuries.

If that was so, why was he alive now?

He was alive because Victoria McKinnon had braved medieval Scotland to tell him things he never would have known on his own.

"Who do you want to see down at the inn?" she asked, interrupting his thoughts.

He sighed. "I've no desire to see anyone else, but I daresay I must."

She nodded and walked alongside him without saying anything else for some time. Connor studied her surreptitiously. Had she truly learned Gaelic to save his life? But why? Surely there was little to recommend him here in her Future. In the past, aye, perhaps there was a bit. He was laird there, laird of a fierce and honorable clan. It had at least meant something to Morag, though for considerably less honorable reasons.

He grieved afresh for his children.

But not for the life he had left behind.

That surprised him, though the longer he thought about it, the more it rang true. What life was there to go back to? If the Frenchman had ended his life in truth, his clan would be no worse off than they were now. His cousin was quick witted enough to lead the clan in Connor's absence. Indeed, hadn't he instructed Cormac to do just that? Connor had assumed his absence would not be more than a day or two.

Now, he wondered.

He wondered about a great many things, actually. Was it possible? Could he have lived centuries as a ghost, haunting the castle behind him, wreaking havoc upon those who dared enter and doing his damndest to make everyone who knew him as miserable as he? He paused in midstep. It sounded quite a bit like him in life, actually. "Connor?" Connor looked at the woman next to him, who had stopped as well and was looking up at him in faint consternation. Now, here was a wench for you. Handsome, fearless, red-haired, with a temper to match. She reacted to his frowns with a mere lifting of one eyebrow, as if she thought them interesting, but not too worrying. She treated his demands lightly. She honored his requests when she apparently thought them worth the effort. She only yawned when he bellowed.

Aye, what was not to like about a wench such as she?

" 'Tis naught," he said. "Lead on, MacDuff."

"Lay on," she corrected, then walked away.

He frowned and caught up with her in a pair of strides. "Aye, I suppose it is. Isn't it?"

"It is."

"It feels a familiar phrase."

"It's a phrase from Shakespeare. From the Scottish play."

He looked down at the ground as they walked. "The Scottish play? That is the name of it?"

"No, but you never say the name of it unless you're acting in it. It's bad luck."

"Is it?" he mused. "I daresay I do not fear bad luck. I survived a Frenchman's would-be killing blow and

the loss of my bairns. Perhaps things will go well for me from now on."

She looked at him with a faint smile. "I hope so. For your sake."

And for her sake, as well. He was tempted to ask her what she thought of everything she had seen that

morning, but he found himself distracted by the sight of Thomas McKinnon coming down the inn's stairs.

His hand went to his sword before he could stop it. Thomas only smiled.

"Laird MacDougal."

"McKinnon," Connor growled.

"Oh, good grief," Victoria said. "Didn't you two have enough yesterday?"

"I daresay we did not finish our argument," Connor said, throwing Thomas a look full of promise.

Thomas only smiled. "Whenever it suits you."

"Don't bring that MacLeod wench you wed along to watch. She irritates me overmuch."

"Don't worry," Victoria muttered. "She's sick with Thomas's first child, poor woman."

"Oh, she's much better," Thomas assured her. "But she's having a nap. I was just looking for some way

to get a little exercise. How kind of your friend here to offer me that opportunity." "Friend?" Connor repeated. He turned the word over in his mind and found it easily as irritating as looking at Thomas McKinnon was. "Do not use that word again. It makes me desire to run something through." "As long as that something isn't my sister, I'm all right," Thomas laughed. "I imagine you all are looking for a snack. I think Mrs. Pruitt's still on duty in the kitchen. Besides, who knows what else you'll find in there besides food?"

Connor looked at Thomas and frowned. "Not more ghosties."

Thomas shrugged. "Let's just go and see. Then I'll trample a few of the weeds down the way from Mrs.

Pruitt's garden with you if you like."

Connor grunted his assent and gestured for Victoria to lead the way into the kitchen. And there, sitting at the table as innocently as you pleased, were three hale and hearty men enjoying their own repast. Two were Scots, that he could see readily. The other was an Englishman; that he could tell just as readily. Victoria made introductions. "My grandfathers from both sides, Ambrose MacLeod and Hugh McKinnon." "A MacLeod and a McKinnon?" Connor echoed in surprise. "What next?" "Fulbert de Piaget. He's kin to my younger sister's husband." "An Englishman?" "I'm afraid so." Fulbert de Piaget opened his mouth, no doubt to retort as he saw fit, but Connor growled at him before he could begin. Fulbert disappeared with a curse. Connor had to sit down. He held on to the table for support and looked at Victoria. "Inn ghosts?" "Back from their holiday, apparently," Victoria said, sitting down next to Connor.

He turned his attentions to the flame-haired ghost. "You're the McKinnon."

Hugh nodded proudly. "Aye. Grandfather several times removed to young Victoria. And a fine lass she is," he said, as if he dared Connor to disagree with him. "Spirited," Connor said, finding he had no reason to argue the point. "Beautiful, as well." A wheezing noise came from next to him. He looked to find Victoria turning quite red. "Breathe, Vic," Thomas suggested. "Shut up, Thomas." Thomas calmly handed her a plate full of very interesting things. Connor watched her sort through the vegetables, then continued to watch as she flung a particularly plump something at her brother. It landed with a satisfying splat in between his eyes.

"What was that?" he asked in wonder.

"Brussels sprout," she said curtly. "I only wish I had more."

"I would give you mine," Connor said as Mrs. Pruitt set an overflowing plate before him, "but I might find them to my liking." He applied himself to a goodly bit of his repast, then realized he was being watched.

He looked up to find the other Scottish ghost staring at him. "Who are you?" Connor asked.

"Ambrose MacLeod."