Chapter 5

PEN

If Scotland was already a fantastical place, the snow only enhanced it, casting a curtain of mystery over the landscape. The van lurched down the path, the snow steep on all sides. When Storm finally parked the van in the round drive with a bit of difficulty, Pen unbuckled, pulled on her jacket, and slid from her seat, landing in the snow with a crunch . She couldn't stand another moment in that small space with him.

Despite doing absolutely everything in her power to think of literally anything else, Pen had spent the better part of the two-hour drive from the ruins trying not to think about the way Neil Storm had pulled her close.

Or the way he'd held her hand when he tugged her along after him.

Or the way he'd cupped her cheek and leaned in.

Or the way he smelled (of vanilla and coffee and something musky she couldn't quite place—not that she'd thought about it). (She definitely hadn't thought about it, and it definitely hadn't flooded her senses, making the bag of chips she bought when they refueled taste stale on her tongue.)

Pen could still imagine the press of his fingers on the inside of her thigh, the pressure building between her legs as he lifted her up and over the fence, and his muffled laughter when she flailed miserably. And he hadn't meant to, it had been an accident, but a finger had slid up even farther, applying the smallest of force against the crotch of her jeans.

And she'd liked it.

Fuck.

She breathed sharply, letting the air cool her down. She was blushing hard, heat rising from her neck and flooding her cheeks, and she felt the strange, sudden urge to bury her face in the snow. She couldn't get him out of her goddamn thoughts.

Get it together, she urged herself. It was Neil Storm, for crying out loud. The man she'd reportedly hated for the last few years.

Fuck.

"Did you say something?" Storm asked, frowning over the hood of the van.

"Nope!"

Had she said something? For fuck's sake, she was unhinged.

Gritting her teeth, she tried to ignore him as she pivoted to survey the purple sky. Pen could feel Storm's eyes on her, tracking her movements. When he closed the door and angled away from her, she found her eyes drifting back to him. She considered his tousled hair and his loose sweater. Storm was hot in that probably-works-in-a-library sort of way. She didn't know why she had a thing for the soft, nerdy look, but Neil Storm had it and more, and the longer she looked at him, the more vulgar her thoughts turned.

Because she was imagining his hand there, slipping onto that soft spot on her full thighs, squeezing gently, fingers traveling up to toy with her—

Oh, god, what was wrong with her?

She dug her nails into her thigh, trying to calm herself as the others began gathering their things. Pen could hear Laszlo and Daniela moving in the back seat, their voices muffled before they opened the doors and came out into the cold night. There was a sudden change in the air, a tingling down her spine as she glanced about them.

They were well and truly alone in this place.

Blinking, snow melting on her lashes, Pen turned and surveyed the property. She wasn't sure what she'd expected. She'd never been to a castle before coming to Scotland. Oh, she'd seen them in film and travel guides with people like Rick Steves. And every time she heard the word "castle," she imagined tall turrets, gardens, and large, wooden doors.

This castle was none of that. While it wasn't entirely small, it wasn't huge either. Larger than the last, this one rose out of the ground, towering over the trees and blotting out the purple clouds in the sky. After a day spent looking at ruins, it was a breath of fresh air.

And for a castle in Scotland, it was in great shape. The snow illuminated it at night. Stone stacked up in two small turrets on either side of the rectangular base. It was two stories in height, windows littering the front and the towers.

The garden, however, was a different story. It was overgrown, dried, and withered to the left and right of the castle. The trees had snaked their fingers over it, leaving little room for the sky and natural light to make the stone building known. Powdery snow was sprinkled over the lot of it, covering the castle in a bit of mystery. Stone stairs led up to its entrance, where a set of small wooden doors were opened inward, casting a soft glow over the steps. A figure waited impatiently on the upper landing, back hunched and hands fiddling with a large ring of keys.

"Let's go!" Daniela said. She dropped her bags beside Laszlo and made a run for it, pausing on the first landing to catch her breath before weakly jogging the rest of the way and stopping beside the figure.

"Who's that?" Pen asked, turning to Laszlo.

"The groundskeeper."

"She seems exciting," Storm cut in, leaning around Pen. He was so close that his hand brushed her thigh, and Pen flinched away, trying to put some distance between them.

"Would you give me some space," she gasped.

"I'm not exactly trying to cuddle you, Skinner."

"Could have fooled me."

"Well, it's cold," Laszlo said, motioning to the castle. "Unless you two would rather stay out here and bicker in the snow all night?"

Pen shook her head and rounded toward the back of the van for her things. Laszlo waved to them as he hauled his and Daniela's bags up the steep steps. Pen stopped short as Storm motioned to her large patchwork duffel bag in the trunk, his suitcase already on the ground by his feet.

"This yours?"

"Yes?"

He looked from the bag to her. "No offense, but it's hideous."

She sucked on her teeth, swallowing her retort. You can do this, Pen. Play. Nice. For Laszlo. Only for Laszlo.

"It's made of recycled material." She couldn't help the bit of pride that seeped into her tone.

He ogled it. "I can tell." Storm raised a brow, and she wanted to pinch it between her fingers. "Penelope Skinner, saving one tree at a time with her… bag." She opened her mouth to retort, but he lifted her bag, weighing it. "It's heavy."

Pen nodded, puffing out her cheeks. Calm. Cool. "Ugh, yeah, but I can—"

"I've got it." He threw the thing across his shoulders, large and bulky and nearly bursting at the seams, before closing the trunk and grabbing his bag.

"You really don't need to," she called after him, struggling to jog across the gravel drive. She nearly slammed into him as he spun toward her, the bag held out to her. He waited a beat, shaking it. When she didn't take it, he sighed.

"No, I really don't. I could let you take it up if you're so hellbent on doing everything yourself. It's all yours."

Pen stared at it for a moment, dreading the thought of carrying it upstairs. She reached out as if to take it, but he snatched it back with another long, blush-inducing sigh.

"Sometimes, Skinner, people just want to help." He turned and hurried up the steps, disappearing past the groundskeeper without so much as a hello.

Why. The question bouncing around her head was: Why? She thought back to her conversation with Laszlo, to that pause after she'd asked if Storm was going. Why hadn't she seen this coming? Why hadn't she foretold this, the most dreadful of scenarios?

Out of breath, Pen stopped on the stairs. Snow flitted down around her and she shivered, pulling her jacket close. She wanted to tear her bag away from him. She wanted to grind his face into the snow and demand to know why he was being nice. The Neil Storm she knew didn't carry her bag or help her get out of trouble.

The Neil Storm she knew didn't cup her face gently and almost kiss her.

Damn it, now she was thinking about the castle ruins again. Pen tugged violently on the end of her braid as she stalked up the snowy steps toward the castle. She wanted to demand why everything he did contradicted the Neil Storm she knew. He shouldn't be sitting with her in the car in companionable silence. He shouldn't be carrying her bag, and he certainly shouldn't be touching her the way he had.

"Ye look like ye want to punch something," the groundskeeper called out from the top step. Pen paused on the steps, scrutinizing the woman.

She wasn't much older than them, in her early forties with graying blond hair and watchful, dark eyes. Her frame was hidden under a large, heavy coat, a knit scarf wrapped tightly around her neck like a protective charm. Hands worn from years of hard work fiddled absently with a giant key ring at her belt.

Feeling a bit like a toddler, Pen stomped her way up the last few steps, stopping before the woman. "Or someone," she responded, glaring through the door.

"Fanny." The woman offered Pen a hand. "I'll be giving yer group a tour of the grounds."

Pen perked up, eyes crinkling as she smiled. "We get a full tour? I thought we'd just get a key in one of those little boxes."

"Ye thought I'd leave the key in a wee box, did ye?" Pen shrugged sheepishly, and Fanny laughed. "Americans. Yer used to normal doors." She brandished a large skeleton key. "Cannae exactly fit this into one of those wee boxes."

"No, you can't," Pen agreed with a chuckle.

Fanny gestured to Pen, and she slipped through the doors, pausing on the entry rug beside Laszlo to take it all in. She had seen Edinburgh Castle, a village within its walls, full of museums and exhibitions. From the outset, it was tall and striking, towering on a landscape of sharp, jagged rock that overlooked Old Town.

But this castle? This castle felt like people had lived here, like it held the homely touches of a family, of a refuge in the Highlands passed down from generation to generation. It was a place caught in a time capsule. The walls were clothed in tapestries, and some of the colors had drained from the garments. The floors, though stone, were covered in rugs of rich colors, some new, others worn down by feet.

The castle might not have been large, but it was still a castle, and that, in and of itself, was some type of magic. The corridors were narrow, with strange doors set into stone walls. Pen's eyes dragged over the details, taking note of anything and everything she saw. This was a place that could inspire. This was a castle where she could write.

Her friend had chosen well.

"A few rules 'fore we start," Fanny called, drawing their attention. "When I leave this castle, I willnae be coming back during the week. Only reach out if ye have a true emergency. The nearest hospital is three hours away, and we wouldnae want ye to bleed out or anything rash."

"That's reassuring," Daniela said.

"Why won't you be coming back?" Pen asked.

Fanny turned to her, expression masked. "We ask ye not to smoke, party, or move anything in the castle during yer stay."

"What about orgies?" Daniela asked, deadpanning.

Fanny looked between their group with narrowed eyes and pursed lips. She opened and closed her mouth several times before she cleared her throat and said, "Cannae believe I have to say this, but no orgies either."

"Well, that's no fun."

Pen scanned the open room. Before she knew it, she was spinning toward Storm, pulled to him like a magnet. She was startled to find his eyes already on her. Blinking, he turned away, lips pressed into a thin line as he looked around at the foyer like nothing was at all strange between them.

Fanny led Pen and the others through the vestibule with hooks for their coats to their left, the floor covered by a plush rug with a family crest. A large stag was embellished with bits of gold thread that caught the dim lighting and was surrounded by laurels, and Pen stared down at it until Laszlo closed the door behind them, blocking it from view. Pen returned her attention to the groundskeeper.

"This castle was built in the late eighteenth century. It has only had five owners in that time, which we know is a wee bit unusual. There was something of seventy-five years left to dust and ghosts after the family was unable to produce any more heirs. My grandfather was hired on by the owners of the castle in the mid-twentieth century, and we have been its caretakers ever since."

"Ghosts, you say?" Daniela asked.

"Ghosts," Fanny agreed. "If yer here, I'm assuming ye read the description on the website? It's why we keep the cost so low. Just enough for upkeep and the like."

That's not worrying, Pen thought, wiping her sweaty palms on her pants.

They stopped just inside the foyer before a large painting of a woman. It was hung beside a staircase that led up to a landing that overlooked the foyer before splitting off to separate wings of the castle.

Pen kept her distance from the oil painting, eyes locked on the woman's face. Although she knew little about art, Pen guessed it dated back to the early to mid-nineteenth century. The woman was dressed in black, stays pressing her breasts up to spill over the swooping collar of her empire-waisted Regency gown. Her skin was white, so translucent it was stark against the black of her hair. Her eyes were gray, and no matter where Pen seemed to stand in the foyer, it felt as if they followed her every movement.

"Creepy, isn't it?" Daniela asked, leaning close.

"Creepy," Pen agreed quietly.

"Who was she?" Laszlo asked.

"We dinnae ken, but many visitors have claimed to see her ghost lurking in the hall at night or looking out over the grounds from the abandoned wing. Some say she is searching for a boy she killed. Many say his screams can be heard when the clock strikes three."

Also not worrying, Pen thought.

"Have you seen her?" Laszlo asked.

"The woman in black?" Fanny shook her head. "Nay, not the woman in black."

Pen noticed Fanny didn't specify further, and the thought of even more ghosts made her shiver. She wanted to look away from the painting, but she was drawn to the woman captured on canvas. There was a small, jagged tear in the canvas across the top, splitting the charcoal paint like a wound on skin. It was uneven and imperfect, almost as though something or someone had scraped their sharpened nails across it.

"Don't you have records?" Storm asked from Laszlo's other side.

"No. They were all lost from a leak in the roof. Many of the books in the study were replaced in the eighties because of it. The castle has since been repaired, but too late for the records, I'm afraid."

Pen frowned, forcing herself to focus on the groundskeeper.

"There are different versions of the legend," Fanny continued. "Locals stopped coming here in the nineties after an incident involving a local youth, but my pa used to tell me of the weeping maiden trapped here. He said she was a young noble lady who'd died alone and heartbroken, having murdered a boy. Her family shunned her, and she was left to waste away in her room, looking out wistfully over the grounds for someone to take her away."

Storm cleared his throat. "Well, that's depressing."

Fanny laughed, winking. "Our legends are milder than others. Ye should take one of those haunted tours in Edinburgh. It's nay dubbed the City of Ghosts for no reason."

Pen shuddered as she pictured the dark crypts under the city, the soft, echoing sound of heavy boots. There was a part of Pen that was beginning to think staying in this castle was a bad idea, and not because Storm was here. If she was that scared down in the vaults beneath Edinburgh, how could she spend an entire week in a supposedly haunted castle?

Stepping to the left of the staircase, Fanny tapped a wall, making Pen jump to attention. "This here is the cellar. I dinnae suggest going down there unless ye have a death wish."

"What's wrong with the cellar?" Pen regretted having asked it immediately.

"There's said to be an angry spirit down there. Mostly sticks to the shadows, ye ken. A wee little thing. My pa said it was the maiden's brother, protecting her and ridding this place of any wrongdoers or some sort." She patted the wall fondly. "Should be fine if ye keep out, though. Ghosts willnae hurt ye unless ye give them a reason to."

Pen and Laszlo shared a look of horror.

"Anywho!" Fanny motioned them to the stairs, ignoring their dubious expressions. "Much of the castle is easy to navigate," she promised, crossing to the staircase, "but let me show ye the upstairs level where the bedrooms are."

Pen fought another shiver. Something about this place and that painting felt off. She met the woman's gray eyes before reluctantly tearing her gaze from the painting and hurrying up the plush steps after the group.

It seemed much of the castle had been renovated over the years. Wooden steps and banisters had been put in place, dating back no more than a hundred years, Fanny told them as they trailed behind her. While much of the décor was faded, there were copies of paintings hung in golden frames that caught the light, and the wallpaper was newer, only peeling in small, dark corners.

There was a peculiar, almost earthy scent lingering in the halls, growing stronger the higher they climbed. No matter how much Pen tried to focus on it, she couldn't quite place the scent. As they ascended the staircase, she ran her fingers over the smooth wood of the banister, taking in the small details, the gathering dust, the paintings and curtains leached of color. If Pen didn't know they were in a haunted castle, she would have assumed as much from the décor alone.

Fanny led Pen and the others up to the second landing, and though she was speaking, Pen could not focus on the groundskeeper's words. She kept imagining the portrait below, a woman with a knowing, unwavering stare. She had expected paintings and statues and strange old props set about the castle. After all, they'd wanted the haunted experience, hadn't they?

But that painting of the woman… Even the thought of it sent a shudder through her.

It felt alive .

"This is the east wing, where ye'll be staying. And that"—Fanny gestured to their right, eyes wary—"is the west wing. The west wing and any locked doors or passageways throughout the castle are strictly off-limits."

Pen peered down the darkened hallway. "What's wrong with the west wing?" Pen asked.

Fanny paused. Pen swore she saw something there, a twitch of her lips, a furrow of her brow, something close to fear reflected in her tired eyes, but it was gone just as soon. Clearing her throat, Fanny turned toward the east wing, toward the light.

"Unless ye want to be sleeping with the ghosts, I'd suggest following me."

Pen decided she did not want to sleep with the ghosts.