His eyes were suddenly very red. “You, Mairead MacLeod, are terribly fierce.”
“Well,” she said with a faint smile of her own, “perhaps not that, but I didn’t beg.”
“Of course you didn’t.”
“Master James went on to a very bad end on a pyre himself, if you’re curious.”
He smiled, a crooked thing that was utterly charming. “Did you watch?”
“Of course,” she said pleasantly. “Accompanied by a fairly robust collection of women—and a few men—he had put to the test of witchcraft.”
“Did the gaggle of you shout any of those salty words at him as he met his well-deserved end?”
She shook her head. “We simply watched him silently because silence, as you well know, is a much more terrifying option when you have the choice.”
He rubbed his hands over his face, then looked at her and smiled. “I do, as it happens, which leads me to wondering if that thought started out as someone else’s.”
“Nay, it was yours,” she said confidently, “though I won’t say I hadn’t thought it myself before we met.”
He nodded, then put on what she could tell was a deliberately cheerful smile. What she wanted to do was tell him to take himself off to bed, but she imagined he wasn’t going to fit in that wee nook anyway. Perhaps she could eventually convince him to stretch out in front of the fire and rest his poor head.
“I had a visitor whilst you were gone,” she said, looking for something to speak about that wasn’t so terrible.
He looked at her in surprise. “Jamie?”
“Nay, Ambrose.”
“Ambrose is a ghost?”
She smiled. “Of course. Don’t you believe in ghosts?”
“Of course no—” He looked at her and shut his mouth. “Forgive me. I’m not thinking clearly.”
She laughed a little, mostly because she’d had four hundred years to accustom herself to her situation. It was odd, though, wondering what her afterlife would have been like if not for Oliver Phillips and his insatiable curiosity four hundred years earlier.
And his chivalry, it had to be said.
She pulled herself back to the present moment. “He is,” she said. “He’s collected a little group of lads who go around with him, wreaking havoc and making matches.”
“Making matches,” he said, looking at her in disbelief. “As in, matches between humans?”
“The very same,” she agreed. “Apparently, their success rate is very good.”
“I hate to ask how they go about it.”
“I would say they frighten their victims into marriage, but I’m sure there’s more to it than that. I believe there is a bit of helpful nudging of various circumstances now and again.”
“Ambrose MacLeod,” he repeated. “Your nephew.”
“He always did have a romantic streak,” she said. “Who would have suspected that it would find such flowering in his afterlife? I daresay he and his companions should run some sort of service for those seeking happiness in love, but I’m not sure who would be brave enough to sign up.”
He shut his mouth. “I can’t believe we’re having this conversation.”
She laughed more easily that time. “I share the sentiment, truly. I would actually be surprised if you hadn’t met at least one of his victims, though I don’t think he had aught to do with your coming to Scotland.”
“No, that was all the lads,” Oliver agreed, then he frowned. “At least I think it was all the lads.” He rubbed his hands over his face, then smiled. “I’m not sure I have the energy to think about it at the moment.”
“I would prepare a meal for you, but I fear that is beyond—”
