Page 5 of Bride of Fire
Hallie threw open the lid of the chest and began pawing through the contents. “What does a ghost look like?” She flung rags of clothing, scraps of leather, and bits of fabric here and there.
“How should I know?” Jenefer smirked, taking another bite of oatcake. “Only fools believe in ghosts.”
Feiyan winked. “Fools and Highlanders.”
“What about these?” Hallie asked, showing them a couple of torn plaids of mud-colored wool.
“Nay,” Feiyan said. “Those aren’t otherworldly at all. We’d look like beggars.”
Hallie tossed the plaids aside and continued rummaging.
Jenefer sighed and bit off another morsel of oatcake. This was pointless. The whole plan seemed far too complex. When it came to battle, she preferred direct confrontation. A face-to-face challenge. Hand-to-hand combat. A straightforward attack. And a clear victory.
Even if they were capable of pulling off some sort of deception to make the Highlander believe that Creagor was haunted, they were never going to find a garment in that chest that looked like it belonged to a ghost.
“Maybe?” Hallie asked, pulling out a huge threadbare cloak of black velvet. “If we tear it into three pieces?”
Feiyan twisted her lips in indecision. “I fear ’twill be invisible. We’ll do the haunting at night, aye? Black garb will only vanish into the shadows.”
Feiyan should know. As a lass, her mother Miriel had worn black clothing to steal invisibly through the woods.
Hallie nodded and cast the cloak atop a growing pile of rejected garments.
“This is a waste of time,” Jenefer said. “Unless you have angel’s wings tucked away in that chest—”
“This?” Hallie asked, holding up a length of wispy white cloth.
“That?” Feiyan cocked her head. “’Tis a veil, aye? Won’t we be mistaken for nuns?”
Hallie wrinkled her nose and lowered the cloth. “You’re right. Itdoeslook like a nun’s veil.”
But suddenly Jenefer saw something entirely different. She gulped down the oatcake and snatched the veil from Hallie. She draped it over the shoulder of her nut-brown surcoat, then twirled. The silky fabric caressed her in sheer, wraithlike folds.
“I can make this work,” she decided with a wry smile. “And I promise you I won’t look at all like a nun.”
Chapter 4
Morgan ran a hand back through the dark tangle of his hair. He knew he should be pleased. In just under a fortnight, the company had finally crested the brae and caught their first glimpse of Creagor.
True to its name, the sandstone castle resembled a gold jewel, set on a low hill of green velvet grass. Unlike his rugged Highland home with its majestic peaks and towering waterfalls, the Borders featured gentle glens and bubbling burns. The land here was fertile, the weather mild. Life would be easy in such hospitable surroundings.
So his father had told him. His English mother, of course, had less pleasant memories of the Borders. Content in the Highlands, Hilaire didn’t miss the battles between the English and the Scots, where loyalties were constantly shifting. And she had no interest in returning to the stormed castle where she’d nearly lost her life.
But despite the gasps of wonder and enthusiasm around him, Morgan felt nothing. He might be past the crushing sorrow of losing his wife. But he could take no joy in the world, no matter how beautiful. What he suffered now was a sort of numb resignation.
Beside him, his old maidservant Bethac murmured, “I think your son likes it here, m’laird.”
He glanced down at the bairn, who gurgled and waved his fists. But he still felt nothing.
Bethac’s face fell.
Morgan sighed.
“We’ve much to do,” Colban announced in a strong, confident voice. “’Tis already midday. The sunlight lasts a wee bit longer this far south, but if we want to be settled in by nightfall, we’ll need to make haste.”
He looked expectantly at Morgan.
Morgan had nothing to say. He didn’t know where to begin. Colban expected him to take command. But he couldn’t even summon the spirit to respond.
