Chapter Four

T he wind whipped past as Gavin led the way through the walled garden. Leaves rustled over plants, shrubs, and flowers showing the last colors of the season. Beyond the wall, a small orchard flourished with apple trees edged by rowan trees bright with autumn color and red berries. The surrounding slopes were a blur of heather.

"I nearly forgot how beautiful it is here." Elinor touched a late rose.

"A fine place, but for the ghosts." To him, she was more lovely than that rose.

"Well, that," she admitted.

Ahead, the medieval tower loomed, dark and broken, its bulk blocking the sunlight. In days gone by the tower had formed the far corner of the castle, with the original gate and current entrance at the south situated to face possible invasion by the English in those troublesome days. Time had wrought change. Renovations had created a fortified house with the remaining tower a picturesque ruin beside gardens that had once been the bailey yard inside a curtain wall.

Reaching the scarred door set in stone, Gavin signaled with a lifted hand that he would precede her. He moved inside, wanting to be sure it was safe. Whatever lurked at Braemore could not be trusted.

The interior was empty and quiet. Dust motes floated in sunbeams through arrow-slit windows and cracked walls. A broad central pillar supported a stone turret stair. Originally it had spanned three levels; now only the first was safe.

Elinor walked forward over a slate floor scattered with leaves, twigs, and broken stones. "Have you truly not been here since—the last time?"

"Brief visits here and there. Nothing much."

"But you always loved this place. Studied its architecture and its history."

"Loved it until I learned more about its history. Be careful of the pit as you go."

She nodded and walked past the stair into deeper shadows. The pit dungeon was hidden behind a partly collapsed inner wall and accessed by a hole in the stone floor. Gavin could sense it lurking there like a silent beast. While interested as a historian, he hated the thing now for its function and its ghost.

Their footsteps sounded gritty on the stone floor. As they walked, Gavin kept a step ahead, his hand extended protectively.

With each moment, his wariness heightened. He constantly looked around at crevices and corners, shadows and sunbeams. Every move, every hushed word, even their breaths seemed loud. Dread sat heavy in him.

The knight's curse on this place seemed to hang in the air. He should never have let Elinor come in here, he thought. He should have sent her home as soon as she arrived. But once he had seen her, he could not do it.

"The tower was used by knights and guards garrisoning Braemore," he said. "Now it is just rubble, ruin, and history. It should be taken down."

"Ruins often seem strangely alive. Do you feel it?" She shivered.

He did. His stomach clenched, his nostrils flared. He felt on high alert. Elinor glided ahead and he wanted to pull her back, keep her close, rush her outside at the notion of anything amiss. Even more, he wanted to pull her into his arms, tell her that he was sorry and explain what he should have told her months ago.

A gust of wind rippled through trees visible beyond the broken walls and shrilled through cracked stones. Cool and sudden, the stiff breeze ruffled Elinor's gray skirts, tousled her dark curls, stirred leaves on the floor, wafted through Gavin's hair. The open door creaked on its hinges.

"I feel an autumn chill," she said, rubbing her arms. "But it seems quiet enough in here. What happened here most recently?"

"One of the grooms came in to sweep the place out. That's done regularly—with the walls open to the elements, leaves accumulate, muck collects," he explained. "The door slammed shut behind him, though there was no wind. He thought someone called his name, but no one was about. He swept the place and pushed the debris into the iron grate in the floor. Then he heard a terrible shrieking from down in the pit."

She stepped toward the pit, and Gavin took her arm to guard her at the edge. Touching her felt like warm lightning.

"He'd thought that perhaps an animal had got down there, but there was nothing." He let go.

"Whoever, or whatever, was in that pit—"

"Cannot get out," he finished firmly.

Elinor stared down at the crisscrossed iron grate that covered an opening no more than four feet across. Gavin noticed she chewed at her bottom lip, thoughtful.

"It is an awful thing. Very deep, and not very wide," she said.

"The drop is over twenty feet, and the hole is less than five feet wide. Like most pit dungeons, it is bottle-shaped, smaller at the top, a bit wider down there."

"A horrid punishment." She looked at him, her blue eyes troubled.

"Centuries ago, most castles had dungeons. Some had pits too. A man might be left there for days to learn a lesson—or for weeks or months. Not years. No one would survive years in there. Starvation, thirst, madness would kill them soon enough."

"Gracious," she murmured.

"It was a different time. Though references to the pit in family records seem to indicate this one was rarely used, except in one instance."

"Have you heard or seen anything in here, Gavin?" She looked at him then. His name on her lips was gentle. He missed that. "You and Hugh had a scare in here once."

"We were exploring and heard a horrible wailing. We bolted shrieking out of here, all courage lost. We were ten," he said. "Father said it was either an animal or just the wind shrieking through the cracks."

"Or something else. The spirit of a man trapped here forever."

"You do have an imagination, Miss Cameron."

She stared down into the hole. "They call these oubliettes. From oublier —to forget. How horrible to be forgotten there." She turned. "Shall we go to your rooms?"

"Why, Miss Cameron," he murmured.

"Sirrah," she warned, tilting her head. Following, he smiled.

Returning to the house through the garden, Elinor paused. "The rowan trees are so pretty in autumn, all golden leaves and red berries."

"Mrs. Blair makes an excellent rowanberry jam. We had some at tea. I will ask her to give you some to take home."

"Thank you. But I need some rowan branches. Could you cut some for tonight?"

"Is that part of your plan? I will have someone cut them for you."

"You must cut them yourself, as the laird. Rowan helps protect a house from evil spirits, you see. We need juniper too. Also, someday we should plant lavender by the gates and entrances. It protects against strangers and dark influences, so they say."

Someday—we? Hope washed through. "We could. What is that?" he asked, as a long scream echoed. Immediately he looked to the tower, but it came from the house.

"Come on." He took her arm to run through the kitchen garden.