Chapter One

October 1820

T he dream again. The woman stood by his bed, gowned in gray wisps, long hair flowing like silver down her back. She whispered a plea or a name—he was not certain. Moonlight threaded between the curtains and sifted through her. As she reached out to him, she vanished. He woke with hand extended.

Sitting up against the pillows, Gavin rubbed a hand over his face. Had he slept one night through since he had returned to the castle? The dreams of the Gray Lady were back after a year or so, and other disturbances had increased.

Though he lived in Edinburgh now, he came often to Braemore as plans to sell moved forward. Recently, he was aware of strange thumps and footsteps; glimpsed shadows or small lights; and saw objects or doors move when they should not. While familiar oddities here, they were becoming more frequent, more insistent.

Fisting a pillow, he stuffed it under his head and sought sleep, soon drifting. Then a whisper began like water, like wind. Opening his eyes, he waited.

Near the ceiling he saw a light, but not from moonlight; the tiny pale glow vanished then. He had seen it in the library a few times. So had Elinor, who insisted it was the Gray Lady. Elinor. He sighed.

A hard thump shook the closed door. He sat up, saw the handle rattle, turn.

"Go away," he growled. "Leave me be. Leave now. "

The handle stilled, followed by a long ache of silence.

Then there was a blow so hard against the door that he thought the wood had cracked.

Enough. He'd had days of this—years, generations of this at Braemore Castle, but not so fierce as recently. For generations, family and others claimed to see a Gray Lady in the house, small bursts of light, a gentleman in velvet and long curls descending a stair, and dark shadows in the old tower. Now the disruptions were making a believer even out of him, much as he wanted to resist.

Thump. Gavin leaped from the bed, shirt long against his knees as he strode across the room, grabbed the door handle, and pulled.

The hallway was empty. He craned, looked, but knew he was alone tonight. The housekeeper and staff habitually returned to their homes in the glen, with the laird so frequently away. Besides, they disliked ghosts.

Generally, he fended for himself at Braemore, eating cold suppers and enjoying the solitude to read, prepare lectures, and write. Years in the regiment had trained him to be sufficient unto himself, nor did he have a demanding nature. He was content enough in Braemore's quiet surroundings among the steep hills a dozen miles south of bustling Edinburgh where he kept a house to be close to the university.

Tonight, he just wanted to sleep. Annoyed, he pounded a fist against the doorjamb, closed the door, locked it, and went back to bed.

The knocking resumed. Throwing off the covers with a muttered curse, he tugged trousers over shirt, boots over stockings, grabbed a waistcoat, took up the beeswax candle burning in a pewter dish, and left the room. He stomped along the corridor and down the steps, letting each determined footfall announce to any door-thumping, handle-turning, whispering apparitions to leave the laird the hell alone.

In his study, he poured a dram of the excellent Highland whisky made by a MacGregor cousin who claimed it was an old faery recipe. The kegs were likely smuggled, but such schemes helped Highlanders. Settling in a comfortable chair, lighting an oil lamp, he took a magazine from those on a table and riffled through it.

What he craved when he was at Braemore was peace. He loved its setting, its history, the steadiness of knowing generations of Stewart ancestors had lived here.

What he did not enjoy were the ghosts of those ancestors. Though he tried to tell himself that imagination conjured odd notions in old places, he could not explain everything here. This latest visit to Braemore was proving that.

Frowning, he sipped the whisky and flipped pages. He enjoyed Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine for its articles on history, philosophy, and so on, and he had written a few pieces himself on aspects of medieval Scotland. Typically, though, he went past the magazine's fictional pieces.

But in the hour before dawn, as ghosts knocked about upstairs, he turned a page to find a story by E. E. Cameron entitled "A Dark Entity Vanquished."

Any reminder of Elinor Eva Cameron startled him and brought feelings of regret, remorse, and stubborn remnants of love. He had not shaken those feelings in the months since their engagement ended. Yet surely Edgar, not Elinor, had authored this story. Though Elinor loved the subject, Edgar, a lawyer, often penned articles for Blackwood's. Here, he had written some phantasmagorical nonsense so popular around Halloween. Gavin read on, resisting thoughts of lovely Elinor, who might never speak to the laird of Braemore again. An engraved illustration depicted a grim hooded figure rising from a tomb. Gavin huffed. Melodramatic but entertaining, the story did not disappoint: a deathly spirit, a harrowing adventure, and a ghoul finally banished to hell.

Yet certain elements were eerily similar to the carryings-on at Braemore. A Gray Lady, an old tower, a prisoner; death and tragedy, but set in another place and time.

In childhood, Hugh Cameron, his staunch friend, had often brought his younger cousins Edgar and Elinor to Braemore, as their grandparents had an estate nearby. The Cameron children had seen or sensed the haunts, so Braemore Castle must have inspired Edgar's story. That made sense, Gavin reasoned.

He sipped illicit whisky, listened for whatever scuttled about above stairs, tried not to think about Elinor, and read the story again.

Edgar Cameron had given him an idea. If invited here to vanquish a ghost, would Edgar bring his twin sister along?

"We have an offer for the property," Hugh Cameron, his friend and solicitor, said. He reached across Braemore's mahogany desk to hand over pages removed from an envelope. "A generous one. But there are stipulations."

"Stipulations?" Gavin asked. "Clear the overgrowth, repair the garden wall, demolish that damned tower, and so on?"

"Some of that, and a singular condition." Hugh paused. "Get rid of the ghosts."

Gavin gave a curt laugh. "But they lend such charm to the place."

"The ones in the house are not much trouble. But that rascal in the old tower is the reason Braemore has not sold. Visitors to Scotland would love the romantic notion of a haunted castle. Buying that same property is another matter."

"Shrieking spirits, stones thrown, people shoved down steps, and a tale of a prisoner dying in a pit dungeon is not romantic? Disappointing," Gavin drawled.

"The spirits must go, or there is no sale."

Gavin skimmed the request for improvements; nothing unexpected. The original thirteenth-century castle had been renovated and wings had been added two hundred years ago. Work was always needed. The last item was underlined.

Eliminate the ghaists and houlets.

"Not very likely." He tossed the page to the desk. "I should open the place to tourists instead. The ghosts could bring in enough income to support repairs."

"They might. But your father brought in a minister to bless the place years ago after your sister fell down the tower stairs and broke her leg. It did not seem to have an effect, from all accounts."

"Father said Constance fell due to horseplay where children did not belong. But Mother was upset, so a minister came to do whatever they do in such cases. The trouble grew worse for a while. But you know that."

"I saw the Gray Lady and the shadow figure myself once or twice. And you and I heard shrieks in the tower. We ran like the hounds of hell were after us."

Gavin laughed. When they were young, he and the neighboring Camerons had relished looking for ghosts. He sighed, reminded once again of Elinor. She was much on his mind of late. But he had heard that she was engaged again, perhaps even married by now. Hugh did not offer much news about her and Gavin did not ask. He only hoped she was happy and had forgiven him some.

"While you were away last month, the interested purchaser looked at the place," Hugh said. "Books were thrown, doors slammed. There was a howl in the tower. The ghosts were not quiet. There will be no purchase unless it can be declared free of bogles and spirits. Perhaps you should summon another minister."

"Or a priest to sprinkle holy water, burn incense, and order the wicked souls out? That tower is more trouble than the house. I should raze it," Gavin muttered.

"A historian of your caliber could not harm a stone in that tower."

"For the sake of its history, aye. My ancestors helped preserve Scotland's freedom. But the tower is a precarious ruin."

"Nonetheless, it must be declared free of hauntings. There might be ways to do that privately. We could consult my cousin."

"Cousin?" Gavin asked sharply.

"Edgar Cameron."

"Ah. I see. Recently I read a ghost story that he wrote for Blackwood's. " Gavin cleared his throat. "His solution for the ghost was rather good, I thought. The idea did occur to me, I admit, that he might have some idea how to deal with the ghosts—and then you bring this news." He tapped the purchaser's list of requests.

"If you found his solution interesting, you could ask what he thinks of the situation here."

"Though he is probably not fond of me after—well, it is in the past. His sister will be married by now, I expect."

Hugh watched him steadily. "She ended the engagement two months ago."

His hand on the page stilled. "I had not heard."

She had not married. He drew a breath. Every day he thought about her, cared about her, though he had sent her away and she had accepted another's suit. Now he imagined that delicate, delectable lass heartbroken, in need of an old friend, if the friend was fool enough to hope—

But Elinor was too spirited to be vulnerable, too positive in nature to be heartbroken for long. And if she needed a friend, she would not choose him.

"Braemore, listen." Hugh brought him back. "Perhaps Edgar can help after all."

Gavin looked up. "I was intrigued that spirits were banished in his story. He did his research. Perhaps his sister helped. She was always interested in folklore and such. But chants and charms may have no influence on the nicky-bens that supposedly haunt Braemore."

"Surely you believe them to be real. Your housekeeper and staff will not even stay past dark. By the way, Mrs. Blair told me she hopes I can convince you to return to the city tonight, with Halloween approaching."

"Days away." Gavin waved a hand. "Mrs. Blair and the staff live down in the glen, not here. It is hard to keep staff, true. More than one has run away screaming."

"So did we as lads."

"We did enjoy a good scare. But such things are easily explained in a poorly lit, drafty old castle. I will admit that it is harder to explain them lately."

"A remarkable concession for you, sir." Hugh tapped the desk. "So. Invite Edgar here in a sincere effort to dispel the haunts. We will verify his visit with a notarized letter to satisfy the buyer."

"Does Edgar have the stamina for ghosts? He never liked them. His story surprised me in that regard."

"Stamina! He was two years in the Black Watch, and would still be there but for the leg injury. But he is well suited to the law and writing, and surely can advise you on hauntings."

"Good." As a lieutenant in the 42nd Highland Regiment of Foot, which some called the Black Watch, Gavin had come away with a cracked pate that had altered his life for a few years. He rubbed his fingers over the scar under his dark hair. Catching Hugh's concerned look, he stopped.

"Otherwise, I could open the property to tourists. Some are turning their estates into hotels and doing well, I hear."

"The offer comes from a man who would do just that," Hugh said.

"I would rather do that myself than hand it over to a stranger. Will you take a message to Edgar when you return to Edinburgh? Tell him he can have the run of the place to stomp about, chant, dance around a bonfire, whatever helps."

"Then you can sell the place and be done with it."

"I suppose so." He sighed, thinking of ghosts, the Braemore curse, and five hundred years ending soon. Whether superstition or caution, that was his reason to sell.

Yet he wished there was some way to keep Braemore and bring peace to its walls.