Page 5 of The Castle of Carnal Desires

I missed my family, especially Gran, who was always quick with a joke, a hug and a snippet of wisdom. I missed my friends. Tonight would be cocktail night with my small group of friends. It was a tradition we’d had since college, and this was one of the few cocktail nights I’d ever missed.

I set the cheese and wafers on a plate and grabbed a mug and the bottle of wine I’d picked up in town. I walked up to my room, memorizing the route.

Harris had lit my fire, so the room was warm. I put another log on it and hoped it didn’t go out. Placing my wine on the bedside table, I watched the flames lick and curl in the ancient stone fireplace. I felt… alone.

I mentally tried to shake myself from my funk. I was going to be here until after Christmas, at the very least. I needed to perk up and do my job. Besides, I was in a haunted castle, in theory I was never truly alone. Maybe I should get to know my roommate better.

“Durell? Laird Durell?” I felt like an idiot calling out into the darkness. No answer.

I flopped back onto the bed and stared at the top of the ornate four poster bed, with its short velvet curtains. I didn't blame him for not wanting to appear after I freaked out this morning.

"Aili."

I shot up off the bed and saw Durell standing in front of the fire. I could see the flames flickering through him. Too damn weird.

"Uh… hi?"

Now he was here, I didn't know how to communicate with him. Everything I could think to say would be lost in translation between English and olden Gaelic.

He was still looming in front of the fire. "Please sit." I pointed to the chair. He stared at me with his sad eyes, but eventually he sat.

Eesh, what was I thinking? How do you make polite conversation with someone who was dead? What would Miss Marple say about asking someone how they died? Social faux pas?

"Geez, what have I done? How am I going to survive in this god forsaken place for two more weeks let alone two more months? I should have told Ellengrew to stuff this job up his wazoo. Given the temptation of the McTavish twins, my professional reputation is going to be shot by the end of this anyway. I should just cut my losses and run now. At least then I might be able to get another decent position elsewhere. And I wouldn't be stuck in a draughty old castle venting my blues at a centuries old ghost who doesn't understand a word I am saying. " I slapped a hand to my forehead. Idiot.

"Ye dinnae like Alba, lass?" My head whipped around. Durell was looking at me intensely, his head slightly cocked to the side.

"You speak English?"

He seemed to struggle to find the words, "As ye say, ay've been a ghost for centuries. I've learned a wee bit of the of the Sassenach language."

"But this morning, you were only speaking in Gaelic?"

"Ye were fashin yeself, lass. I could nae think when you were screaming like aBeanSi."

His English was heavily accented but I could understand the basics. My gran had raised me on the old tales of the Celts. “I did not scream like a banshee! And the McTavish twins said you could only speak some old dead version of Gaelic.”

“I dinna like speakin’ the language of the invaders, ye ken? Tis better if the lads speak the language of their kin.” I nodded. I could understand that. When Durell died, the English were public enemy number one.

I looked him over. He was so rugged, but I imagined he would have been quite the heartthrob in the 17th century.

“You are quite handsome for a ghost. I bet in life you bedded your fair share of milk maids.”

He chuckled, and it lit up his face. I felt a wave of happiness poured off of him and settle in my chest. When he smiled, he was beautiful. His longish mahogany hair was a little wavey, and he had a small cut on his temple and another across the bridge of his nose that drew attention to the deep, deep blue of his eyes. I cleared my throat and tried to rein in the extremely inappropriate thoughts I was having about a dead man.

“How old were you when you...you know?”Good, Aili, nothing kills an inappropriate crush like reminding yourself that the guy is actually dead,I chastised myself.

“Aye, I was thirty and three.” His smile was gone, and the sadness was back in his eyes.

I think the ghost whisperer was safe, because I had about as much tact as CIA interrogator. But even still, a part of me was desperate to know how he died, despite the rudeness of asking.

Oh, I’d heard the basic story that the history books told; a rival clan snuck into the town under the cover of darkness, and killed every man, woman and child sleeping in the village, and then made their way up to the keep, where they fought and slaughtered all its inhabitants, including all the fighting clansman asleep in the barracks.

But I wanted to understand why someone would do that. Were they really that barbaric as history painted them?

"Ye wish to ask about my death, lass?"

I nodded. Well, if he was offering.

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