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  Then Gina proved everything they’d said was true by jumping an entire story in the air.

  Sarita had felt her joy. Since that day, Sarita had a bond with Gina that transcended friendship.

  “Gina, I need you. I’m in trouble.”

  Despite call after call to her sister, none were returned.

  She’d have to find a way out on her own.

  * * *

  Ian quietly shut the door when what he wanted was slam it so he could hear her startle at the noise. At least a startle would show she felt something.

  His heart pounded a rough cadence, and although he’d barely touched her, he could smell her jasmine scent.

  The dreams wouldn’t be silenced. For a week, a woman had come to him, shrouded in the darkness of the night. He hadn’t known her name then, thinking she was some spirit spreading erotic fantasies through his hours of sleep, perhaps a torment ordered by his mistress. That would be her type of mischief. In those dreams, Rebecca had made him burn in a way he’d never felt before. Not even in the days before his murder—the days when he’d been a mortal. The days before revenge consumed his heart.

  Each time, she’d touched him, kissed him, she’d led him to the brink of ecstasy, only to leave him unfulfilled by disappearing in the fog of his dream. He had to be the most frustrated man in Scotland. Knowing she was real and that she was within his grasp made it almost impossible not to take her and satisfy the promises she’d made those nights of sweet torture.

  No! No tender feelings for his prisoner despite the emotions that had gripped him when he’d first realized his prey was his dream lover. He had a job to do, and this woman, no matter how badly he wanted her, had a job to do as well. She simply didn’t know it yet.

  Revenge and passion mixed about as well as fire and water.

  When he reached the kitchen, he stopped. The staff wasn’t there.

  Ian snuffed the panic gathering in his chest. The ghosts hadn’t left him. He knew better.

  When he’d returned to dorcha àite, he’d been thrilled to find the two of them haunting the keep. They’d told him they’d been waiting for him to return, somehow knowing his story wasn’t yet over.

  They wouldn’t have left him now...

  His ghosts were the only two members of his clan who’d stood by his side as the rest roasted him like a fattened hog. His last clear memories before limbo were of seeing the nooses slipped around his loyal servants’ necks. He’d mourned their deaths while he’d lost his own battle to survive.

  “Show yerselves,” he demanded, needing their reassuring presence.

  Old Ewan appeared first, nothing but wisps of white smoke until he solidified into a more human form. His appearance hadn’t changed from the day he died. His gray hair looked wind-ruffled and his green eyes shone with wisdom. “Laird?”

  “Where’s Sile?”

  “Here, laird.” She popped up at Ewan’s side, dressed in the clan’s tartan.

  Ian frowned. “Ye know I don’t wish to see that plaid again. You’ll not wear it around our guest. Understood?”

  She bowed her gray head as her plaid shifted to a black wool gown. “Yes, m’laird.”

  “Dinner shall be in the great hall.”

  “As ye wish,” Old Ewan replied with a bow. Formality had been such a part of the man, it didn’t come as a surprise that he continued the respectful habits as a ghost.

  “And stay in your own skins. I don’t want to frighten her.”

  Both Old Ewan and Sile nodded.

  “Are we allowed to speak to the lass?” Sile asked.

  “Aye, but only pleasantries. Tell her nothing of our mistress or of what is to come.”

  “May we speak of the clan or of dorcha àite?” Sile’s smile seemed so damned hopeful. The woman had been the memory of the people, keeping all the births and deaths in her typically meticulous fashion. Her question spoke of loneliness.

  Did ghosts get lonely?

  Such a simple question, but no easy answer. How much did he want his captive to know? “You may speak of the clan but do not use our name. You may tell of history, but you’re not to discuss me. Not my name. Not my life. Nor my family’s history.”

  Sile’s smile fell to a frown.

  “Understood?”

  “Aye.” But her frown remained.

  “Two hours,” Ian ordered.

  Then he strode out of the kitchens, seeking a swim in the cold pond to quench his lust and wondering how often he’d have to repeat that ritual in the days to come.

  Chapter Four

  A soft knock made Sarita jump down from the dressing-table chair. She’d been searching the walls for trap doors—the type of bolt-holes all old castles were supposed to have. “Ian?”

  “Nay, ma’am. ’tis Sile. Yer maid. May I come in?”

  She brushed her dirty hands against her thighs, trying to hide her latest escape attempt. “Suit yourself.”

  A maid? An ally perhaps? At least she wasn’t alone in this dismal place with only Ian as company. Being alone too long with that man probably wasn’t a good thing. He had a way of affecting her she couldn’t fight.

  That, or she might be tempted to beat him senseless to get away from her prison.

  The heavy door opened, and an older woman took hesitant steps into the bedroom. She gave Sarita a visual sweep from head to toe. “The laird will be displeased. You have not dressed for your meal.”

  “Laird?”

  “The English word is lord. Lord Ian. Your host.”

  She glanced down at her pink—and now dirty—yoga pants and gray t-shirt. “I have no intention of pleasing Laird Ian. In fact, I plan to make his life as miserable as possible until he turns me loose. You do realize he kidnapped me, right?”

  “Och, aye. ’twas necessary, ye ken.”

  Although used to Artair’s brogue, Sarita had to think hard to understand Sile’s words. “No, I don’t ken. Why was taking me against my will necessary?”

  “You’ll have to be asking the laird, m’lady.” Sile walked to the bureau and opened the door wide. Her fingers tripped over the row of old-fashioned gowns. “Are ye sure ye donnae wish to dress nicer? We donnae have other clothes for ye. Only gowns and plaids.”

  “What I want is to get out of here.” Not that Sarita thought there was a chance in a million Sile would do something to anger her laird, but she had to try. “If you help me escape, I’ll see you’re well rewarded.”

  Sile shut the bureau and clucked her tongue. “Nay, lassie. Ye’ll not be playing that game with me. I’m loyal to the laird, as is my Ewan. Ye’re to be our guest. Best resign yourself to that fact. ‘Twill make yer stay here easier. Now, if ye donnae wish to change yer clothes, please follow me to the dining hall.”

  About to refuse the summons to dinner, Sarita winced when her stomach growled loud enough to make Sile throw her a knowing smile. “Fine. I’ll eat a little something.”

  “Follow me, m’lady.”

  Sarita tried to take in everything she could about her surroundings, unsure of when she’d escape again to seek possible ways out of this ancient mausoleum.

  At least the long corridors were beautifully decorated as opposed to her austere bedroom. Several ornate yet old tapestries hung from the stone walls. There were a few places where paintings had once hung, judging from the faint shadows left behind. Heaven knew why they’d been taken down.

  Unfortunately, there was nothing to help her know more about her prison.

  “What happened to the missing pictures?” she asked Sile.

  The servant didn’t stop her pace. “The laird ordered many of the clan’s portraits taken down.”

  “Why?”

  “Ye’ll have to ask the laird.”

  “What clan is this?”


  Sile shook her head and kept walking until she led the way out of the corridor into a new room.

  Sarita’s first glimpse of the dining hall took her breath away. Enormous and cavernous, with vaulted ceilings much like an old cathedral, the room was dominated by a large wooden table that could seat more than twenty people. The chair at the head of the table had a place setting, as did the chair to its right. Three silver candelabras with white candles graced the table, but only the one closest to the captain’s chair was lit. A small fireplace held a banked fire that provided light and plenty of warmth.

  Had this been any other circumstance, the setting would be romantic.

  Ian stood close to the fireplace, speaking softly to an old man. Sile moved across the room, listened to whatever Ian was saying, and then she and the old man left the dining room.

  Ian glanced up as Sarita strolled to the table, a fierce frown fixed on his handsome face, probably at her choice of clothing.

  Sarita smirked, savoring the few tiny victories she could earn over her captor.

  Without a word, he went to the table and pulled out a chair.

  She eyed him warily but settled in the chair, telling herself she was merely there to satisfy her hunger. Not to spend time with him.

  Her best plan was to maintain her distance and keep a sharp eye open for a way out of this mess.

  After he’d left her earlier, she’d paced every inch of the bedroom that served as her cell. The heavy door wouldn’t budge—not that she’d expected to have free run of wherever she was imprisoned. The view from the window told her no one could escape that way. Three stories up at least, and far too small for even Sarita to fit through.

  The heather spread across the field like a blanket declared she was still in Scotland. That and Ian’s hypnotic brogue. Guessing her prison might be some old castle, she’d searched for a way to disprove that notion. A light switch. An electrical socket. Anything that spoke of this being anything but a centuries old stronghold.

  All she’d found—or all she hadn’t found—only solidified her theory.

  She’d run her fingers over the hearth, looking for latches to secret entrances. Bolt-holes, Artair had always called them when he and Rebecca had shared their pictures of the places they’d seen on their Scottish vacation. Every castle was supposed to have a way for the occupants to sneak out if an attack against their fortress became successful.

  Sarita hadn’t found one, but she had plenty of places to search when Ian placed her back in the room for the night.

  She would find a way to get home.

  Then she’d find out who was behind this—whether Ancient, demig or demon. Artair and Johann would know where to search for clues, but she was going to steer them directly at Helen first.

  None of the psychic calls to her sisters, even those to her closest sister, Gina, were answered. She was in this alone.

  Although she wasn’t sure how Ian managed it, some kind of enchantment had been spun around the place to keep her from getting a message to anyone. That meant he was already connected to her world, the world of gods, goddesses and magicks.

  The time had come to stop trying to reach out for assistance and help herself.

  She launched her attack with one pointed question. “How long before Helen comes her to see whether you captured me?”

  “Helen? Who is Helen?”

  “Oh, please. Don’t play dumb. Helen—the one who put you up to kidnapping.”

  “I know no Helen.”

  Although she still wasn’t convinced, she tried another tack. “If Helen isn’t behind this, which Ancient set you up here?”

  He took the chair at the head of the table to her left. “Nay, lass.”

  “No? No, it wasn’t an Ancient who had you drag me to this Godforsaken rock or no, you won’t answer my question?”

  The stubborn shake of his head almost made her growl in frustration. Picking up her water glass, she took a sip, biding her time and sizing up her foe.

  The old man walked back into the room, carrying two plates of food. He set one in front of Ian and the other in front of her.

  One look told her she’d be hungry a while longer. “I can’t eat this.”

  Ian glanced at her food then at her. “Why not? ’tis a beautiful piece of lamb.”

  “I’m a vegetarian.”

  “A what?”

  “A vegetarian. I don’t eat meat.”

  “No wonder you’re such a wee lass.” He pointed at her plate with his fork. “You’ll eat the meat.”

  Who the hell did he think he was? “I won’t.”

  Ian’s face flushed red. “You’ll not argue with me. You’ll eat the lamb.”

  Sarita reached for a piece of bread from the platter Sile set on the table. “This smells wonderful. Is it homemade?”

  Sile knitted her brow. “I’m not understanding the question. What is homemade?”

  Such an odd question. “You know, from scratch—put all the ingredients together and stuff instead of from a box of mix.”

  Sile shrugged. “I kneaded it meself, if that’s what ye’re asking.” With another shrug, she followed the old man out of the room.

  “You’ll eat more than bread, lass.” Ian grabbed a couple of pieces of bread for himself.

  “You might be my kidnapper, but you’re not my boss. I don’t eat meat.”

  His narrowed eyes and low snarl were surely meant to frighten her, but they didn’t.

  They ate in silence as Sarita sized up the man. Trying to read him was akin to throwing herself against one of the stone walls surrounding her.

  The potatoes and carrots were tasty, as was the bread. She pushed the lamb chop to the side of her plate and wished there were some greens somewhere on the table. The thought of asking him to accommodate her with a salad or some zucchini crossed her mind and quickly fled. Requesting something from Ian seemed too much like begging, and she would do nothing to give him the upper hand. If all she had to eat were potatoes, carrots and bread, she’d get by.

  Not that she planned on staying long anyway.

  The old man came back to clear away the dishes. As he exchanged pleasantries with Ian, Sarita surreptitiously stuck her index finger in her glass of water. She almost blurted out a curse when she couldn’t freeze it. Damn it if she couldn’t even lower the temperature enough to cool it down.

  The man glanced back at her as she dried her finger on her linen napkin, frowning as though he knew what she’d been trying to do. He couldn’t, of course, because that wasn’t one of Rebecca’s powers.

  Did he know Rebecca was the Earth Amazon?

  He knew. She was sure of it.

  She broke the silence, figuring she needed to find out more about her captor and his servants. “What’s your name?” she asked the old man.

  “They call me Old Ewan, ma’am.” His voice was soft, almost as ghostly as his appearance.

  “Old Ewan? Why not just Ewan?”

  Ian chuckled. “With six Ewans in the clan, we had to find a way to keep all from coming when one was called.”

  “Are you Sile’s husband?”

  “Aye. I have that honor.”

  Ewan nodded to Ian and carried the remnants of the meal away.

  Pushing his chair away from the table, Ian stood. “Would you like to stretch your legs? Perhaps a turn around the courtyard?”

  Anything was better than being put back into her mausoleum of a bedroom. “You mean you’re not confining me to my room?”

  “Nay. I only ordered that earlier to see you got some rest since you’d been hurt. You are free to come and go as you please. At least within the castle walls.” He offered his elbow.

  She pushed away from the table and pointedly left her chair by sliding out on the side away from Ian. Not exact
ly sure which way eventually led outside, she decided to head toward the large room right off the dining hall. She didn’t have to look over her shoulder to know Ian followed.

  Guarding her reaction to the room, she wouldn’t give Ian the satisfaction of knowing how impressive she found it to be. This castle was nothing short of enchanting, making her feel as though she’d found herself in a different time.

  People actually lived in places like these?

  More flames greeted her, this time a roaring fire in a massive stone hearth. Several chairs formed a half moon around the fireplace, and she was sorely tempted to curl up in one and relax, hardly remembering a place where she felt so much at home.

  Not that she’d moved around as a child. Her “aunt” had spent most of her time in London, leaving Sarita behind in Los Angeles with a nanny. At least Lalita had loved the ocean as much as her charge, and they often spent hours enjoying the fresh air and the spray of the waves. The house they’d moved into on the Malibu shore finally gave Sarita a place where she could commune with the water, but they’d only lived there a few months before she’d left for college to study marine life.

  Once she got the job at Sea World, she’d never gone home again. Lalita had left—moving back to India—and with her went the only thing tying Sarita’s heart to her aunt’s house.

  Instead of parking herself in front of the fire, Sarita headed toward the double doors that she hoped led outside.

  Her shadow of a host followed, chuckling when she had trouble opening the heavy doors. With a mere flick of his wrist, he pushed one open and gave her a condescending bow. “You’d be strong enough to open my door if ye ate meat.”

  She ignored the barb and stepped out into the chilly night air.

  The wall caught her attention. Tall and imposing, it would take some effort to scale. Her eyes found stairs to reach it, which didn’t surprise her because the thing had a catwalk—a way for guards to have been able to keep an eye on possible attackers in days gone by.