Chapter 10

Chapter Ten

H is voice!

She jumped up again and spun around. Nothing. The room was the same, messy and empty of all but shadows. There was an ache low in her belly and her head was spinning, and she kept remembering the hand on her body, touching, urging her, until she had climaxed harder and stronger than she could remember doing for a very long time.

If ever.

She had thought she was dreaming, like before, when he had made love to her by the Cailleach Stones. It was only after the climax that she realized it wasn't a dream after all. The man was real. She could feel his wrist beneath her hands, the rough hairs and the powerful muscles corded under his skin, the bones within. And his pulse, as real warm blood pounded through his veins.

He was here and he was real.

Except, when she peered over the side of the mattress, he wasn't here after all. There was no one here, and certainly a man wouldn't have had time to rush from the room and down the stairs, not without her seeing him, hearing him. . .

But she had heard him.

That deep Scottish voice—like warm whiskey seeping into her every pore. A shiver that had nothing to do with fear zigzagged through her body, and she was acutely aware of the lingering ache between her thighs.

"Where are you?" she asked the empty room. Because he was here! She knew it. Felt it. And deep down she had known it for a while.

"I'm seated on your bed, lass."

Her gaze found the source of the voice. Nothing. Except . . . She squinted. There was an indentation on the side of the mattress, and now that she looked more closely she could see it was a very large indentation for a very large . . . ghost?

"I can't see you," she whispered.

"You saw me once," he whispered back.

Bella blinked. The night in the kitchen after Brian had left, the brief but vivid image of the Scotsman in the kilt. Big, tall, dark-haired, with pale eyes the color of the evening sky. Maclean. It had been his hand, his fingers, inside her just now, knowing just what she liked, just where to stroke.

She didn't know whether to laugh in amazement or cry with embarrassment.

"Why are you here?" Her voice was sharp.

The dent moved, flattened out, and then she heard the floor creaking from the approach of a heavy weight. Suddenly she was frightened. He was much bigger than her, and he was invisible.

"Stay away!" she cried. "Don't come near me."

The creaking stopped, and she heard him sigh. "Verra well," he said. "I dinna know why I'm here. I canna answer you."

"You're . . . dead?"

"I dinna think so."

"But you must be!"

He laughed, that soft husky sound that caught her low in the belly and intensified the ache. "I'm far from dead at the moment, believe me."

"Who are you?" But she knew; she'd known all along.

There was a pause, and Bella waited, and then he spoke again. "I am the Maclean."

Even though she'd known what he was going to say, the name made Bella dizzy. She thought about lying down on the bed, but she didn't dare in case he saw it as an invitation. This was the Maclean, the Black Maclean, the man she had been fantasizing about ever since she saw his portrait.

"Then you must be dead," she said as matter-of-factly as she could, "because the Maclean died over two hundred years ago."

"Two hundred and fifty," came the dry reply.

Suddenly it was too much for her.

"Go away," she whispered. "I . . . I need to dress. Can you wait downstairs?"

Another sigh. "Aye. I willna go verra far," he said, and she had the feeling he was mocking her. The heavy footsteps moved toward the door, and then it closed very quietly, all by itself, and he was gone.

* * *

Bella sat down and tried to order her thoughts. She had known there was a ghost in her cottage, but there was a difference between knowing and knowing .

But was he a ghost? A man who said he wasn't dead, whom she'd only seen once but who'd made his presence felt by moving objects, touching her, speaking to her.

Did that make him real?

He'd felt real a moment ago, when he'd sent her into blissful orbit.

Bella took a deep breath, and then another. She had heard, somewhere, that sometimes the spirits of the dead walked the earth because they did not realize they were dead. They needed someone to explain it to them, guide them gently on their path to wherever they were meant to be, and then they would just . . . vanish.

She felt a stab of disappointment. She didn't want him to go away. She had an eighteenth century Highland chief in her cottage. They had been together in bed. . . She squeezed her eyes tight shut. Oh God, this was the man Brian had accused her of having steamy thoughts about, and she had, but Bella knew she wasn't ready for that kind of relationship with a . . . a ghost. And what if he now expected her to be his sexual plaything? It was true, he had left the room when she asked him to, so perhaps he could be trusted. Come to think of it, he had been very polite. Thoughtful, even. A gentleman.

Except he wasn't, not according to the legend.

She mustn't be lulled into trusting him; this wasn't the time to let her emotions overrule cold good sense.

Grabbing up a sweater, she pulled it over her pajama top, and some baggy trousers over the bottoms, then tugged on some warm socks. It seemed a bit silly to cover herself up now, when he had seen so much of her, but it gave her confidence.

Wondering if she was completely insane, Bella picked up the candle and made her way cautiously down the stairs.

The kitchen was empty.

Bella wasn't deceived. He was there, she could feel his presence like warm breath against her skin. Nervously, she edged into the room. "Maclean?"

"Lass."

His voice came from right behind her and she jumped and backed away, trying to steady her breathing. Her gaze flicked about, but there was nothing to see but shadows.

"I saw you . . . I think I saw you once. Are you wearing a kilt and a black jacket?"

"Aye, a plaid and a velvet jacket, and I have my claidheamh mor at my side. I am like the painting you have a likeness of, only without the trews."

"The tr-trews, of course." She flicked a glance at the painting. "You sound very tall."

"Aye, I'm tall. Six foot and four inches. I canna stand straight in your wee house."

He was complaining about the height of her ceilings? Bella cleared her throat. It was bizarre; she was talking to someone who wasn't here, and yet she could see him in her mind. Tall, stooping beneath the ceiling, his dark hair falling forward, his pale eyes fixed on her. Maclean was here in her cottage, and tonight he'd made her feel so wonderfully alive she could still feel the aftershocks.

"Why are you here?" Her voice shook, but she hoped he didn't know why. Please don't let him be able to read my mind.

"Here?"

"In this cottage."

"I dinna know."

"Are you sure you're not dead? Maybe you are and you don't know it. Maybe you need to accept it and then go on your journey."

He made a scornful sound, and she felt her face flush.

"I was taken by the Fiosaiche and I have been sleeping in the between-worlds for two hundred and fifty years. Now I am awakened and my task is before me, but I dinna know what it is except that I am to become the man I should always have been. To fail means I must return to the between-worlds, and believe me that is not a place anyone would wish to go."

Bella sat down and tried to make sense of this. Between-worlds? Where had she heard this recently? It sounded crazy, but then the whole thing was insane. "What is the Fiosaiche ? I've heard that name."

"She who decides our fate when we die. The Fiosaiche has powerful magic. She can send a soul to the world of the dead or punish them in the between-worlds, or she can return you to the mortal world, as she did with me."

"You mean a sort of witch? A sorceress?"

"Aye."

"So the between-worlds is something between life and death?"

"Aye, a place of punishment and waiting."

"Do you mean purgatory?"

"It is no' called that." He sounded impatient. "Many souls are gathered there to hear their ultimate fate, but there are other creatures, too. The ancient ones who walked this land before man, and monsters and beings we know only through fable and legend. The between-worlds is their home."

Bella remembered then where she'd heard of the between-worlds—the hag in her dream. "Is there a—a doorway into it?" she asked cautiously.

"Aye, but it is closed."

"Are you sure?"

Maclean didn't answer, but whether because he was considering her question or because he found it simply too foolish, Bella was uncertain.

"You say you have a task to perform, that you have to ‘become the man you should always have been,' and the Fiosaiche hasn't told you how you're going to achieve this?" Bella frowned, concentrating on the moment in case she ran screaming out the door. "Her planning isn't great, is it?"

That laughter again, so sexy it made her shiver. He was standing beside her. She wondered if she reached out her hands whether she would feel him, big and solid. She clenched them tighter in her lap.

"Did the Fiosaiche send you here?"

"I had nowhere else to go but home," he said bleakly. "I dinna imagine it would be destroyed and everything gone. I thought I would come home and live here again, become the man I used to be."

Bella wondered what he would have done if there had been someone resident in his castle. Throw them out? Run his sword through them? Perhaps it was best not to ask. This man was possibly both brutal and violent, and she must not forget that and lower her guard. She was dealing with an eighteenth century Highlander, a barbarian with a surface veneer of sophistication, and according to legend that veneer was very thin. She needed to be extremely careful.

"So what are you going to do?"

"Do?" he asked, although it was more like a demand.

"Yes, do . You have no home, so you've taken up residence in my cottage. I think I have a right to know your plans. What are you going to do?"

"Wait."

"I see." Bella looked up to where she thought he was. "But I live here. I'm finding it a little difficult coming to terms with the fact that you're here with me and I can't see you."

She heard the smile in his voice. "I will sing if you like, so that you won't be frightened and you will always know where I am."

"I'm not frightened," Bella said levelly, although she was.

It occurred to her that it might be difficult to get any work done with a singing ghost. Bad enough that she sang to herself, but if Maclean did it, too . . .

"But . . . won't you get bored? What do you do all the time?"

"I watch you," he said, "and I walk with you."

She went cold. "I don't understand."

"You are the only one who can see me, hear me, feel me. No one else can. I want to stay here with you."

Bella had a ghostly stalker. "My lease runs out in four weeks, but apart from that I don't think I want you to stay here."

"These are my lands. You are the interloper, Bella."

Oh God, he knew her name. Goose bumps rose on her skin; she rubbed her arms vigorously. "How long have you been here?"

"I was born in 1716 and I—"

" This time, I mean."

"Since your man left you."

"I knew you were here, I knew it. The mug moving—that was you, wasn't it?"

"Aye. No' that it was easy, mind!"

"You've never touched me before, though."

"I've tried," he said promptly. "This is the first time you've felt me."

Bella swallowed, refusing to let her imagination distract her with memories of his warm fingers.

"You've walked right through me many times," he added with a note of complaint.

That explained the zings she'd been getting.

"You couldn't talk before, you couldn't touch before. What's happening?"

"I dinna know exactly, but I think it has something to do with you, Bella. The Fiosaiche is giving me back these things, rewarding me, whenever I please her. I'm just no' sure what I am doing right and what I am doing wrong." He sounded petulant, as if he wasn't used to being subordinate to another.

"So it's possible you may soon become a man again?" Bella asked curiously, trying not to imagine how she must look, talking to an empty room.

"I will be myself again," he said proudly, "the Black Maclean, Chief of the Fasail Macleans."

"Except there are no Fasail Macleans left."

She was sorry for her words; his sigh was the saddest sound she had ever heard. Bella's soft heart fought with her good sense, and she clenched her hands again so that she didn't reach out to comfort him.

"You are making a book about me," he said with quiet pride, but there was an edge in his voice that spoke of desperation. "I can help you with that."

"Oh? I know quite a lot already—"

He snorted. "I have read the lies you write on your machine. Mabbe you dinna want the truth, is that it?"

Now she had made him angry. Bella edged away, but when he spoke again his voice was soft and persuasive rather than the ranting of a bully.

"You said you wanted to know what happened, Bella. I can tell you what I remember, and mabbe together we can learn the truth."

Bella was aware of her growing sense of excitement. What other historian could say she had a direct link to her subject? Maclean could tell her so much, things no one else knew. Always assuming it was the truth, of course, she reminded herself. But even so . . . this was a unique opportunity.

Maclean didn't wait for her answer. "I had a sister," he said loudly. "She died when she was wee. You said in your book that I was my parents' only child, but I had a sister, though I canna remember her name."

"You have trouble with your memory, then?"

"Aye, it has holes in it. I remember unimportant things, but the rest is . . . difficult."

Convenient, said her cool common sense. Was he saying he did not remember what he had done two hundred and fifty years ago? "Tell me something unimportant, then," Bella dared him, and held her breath.

Maclean gave it some thought. "The tutor I brought to Loch Fasail to teach the children was my kin—a cousin of my father's cousin. He dressed in clothes more suited to an Edinburgh dandy, and he wore a wig. When he arrived to begin his work he had so much luggage the children believed he must be a king, and ran about screaming with excitement."

Bella smiled at the image.

"But it wasna just his clothes that were above his station, his ideas were verra grand as well. He thought I was a fool, and that he could order my people about and encourage them to go against me, all for his own benefit. It seems he had some misguided notion that Fasail was his by blood right, when the truth was I only invited him because I was asked to by his father. He was no' a good man. When I heard all he had done, I came for him and dragged him out of his house. He was cursing me, and using words I had certainly ne'er heard a schoolmaster use. I threw him in the loch."

"Could he swim?"

"The place I threw him in was shallow enough. He was spluttering and splashing, and when he climbed out he looked like a slippery eel, his lace sleeves all dirty and his high heels full o' muck. He packed up all his trunks and off he went home to Edinburgh."

The picture he conjured, and the satisfaction in his voice, were a little shocking, but to Bella it was just like the Black Maclean she had always imagined. Bold and larger than life, dangerous and arrogant, dispensing his own brand of justice upon the hapless schoolmaster.

"You like that," he murmured in that husky, sexy voice. "I thought ye would."

"I must be going mad," Bella rubbed her hands over her arms again, but now the goose bumps weren't from fear. "You're offering to help me write my book?"

"Aye, I am."

"And you won't hold back, even on the bits that put you in a bad light?"

"I swear to you I willna hold back, Bella, but there are things I do not remember."

An idea was forming in Bella's mind, a way of testing the truth of Maclean's convenient memory.

"I give you my word I will do my best," he said.

He was making her an offer too good to refuse, and it gave her an excuse to say yes. She nodded. "All right. You can stay here. As I said, my lease runs out in four weeks, though perhaps I can ask about extending it. But if you stay, you have to let me know where you are, and you can't go sneaking around when I'm getting dressed or sleeping. I agree it was very . . . nice, just now, but I didn't ask you to do that and I don't think you should touch without consulting me."

"It was verra nice," he murmured thickly.

"Tomorrow," she said hastily, "I'm going into Ardloch. I have to shop and see about my laptop. You can come with me if you like," she added blithely, hoping again he couldn't read her mind.

"Walk, do ye mean?"

"No, drive in the car."

He shuffled. "Ah."

Clearly he was nervous about the car, and who could blame him? It must have been quite a culture shock to wake up two hundred and fifty years into the future.

"Maybe you're wrong, Maclean. Maybe someone else can see you. If you come into Ardloch we might be able to find out."

"Aye." He was tempted, just as she hoped. "Verra well, I'll come in the . . . car."

"Do you want something to, eh, eat? To drink? A cup of tea, perhaps?"

"Cat's piss," he muttered with disgust. "I wouldn't mind a dram of whiskey, but I canna seem to eat or drink anything."

"Oh. Do you sleep?"

"No, but sometimes I dream."

Bella was suddenly reminded again of the nightmare she had been having before Maclean woke her up. The hag in the green arisaid and the each-uisge , and the magic bridle, and the hideous loch monster panting behind her. Dear God, what next?

"Okay." She pulled herself together and managed a smile. "You dream down here and I'll go and . . . ah, dream upstairs."

She moved past him to the door, but he touched her hand. Big warm fingers, slightly callused, brushed over her skin. If she closed her eyes she could see him standing there looking down at her, big and handsome and barely tamed.

"Thank you," he said quietly.

As Bella made her way upstairs, she had the feeling he had not said that to many people. Maybe it was even a first.