I blinked, trying to make sense of the situation. “What—no, this ismyroom. You—you’re the one who’s—”
“Aye, I’m the one,” he interrupted, waving his hand as if to dismiss my entire train of thought. “And now ye’ve gone and broughtmehere, too. So, let’s nae waste time arguin’ about whose room it is, eh?”
I gaped at him, unable to find words for a long moment. I glanced toward the door. Was I still fainting? Was this some twisted dream?
He sighed, apparently unimpressed by my silence, and pulled out the chair at my desk, plopping down into it as if he owned the place. “So, who are ye, then?”
I stared at him, still crouched half over the floor, my mind too numb to think of anything clever. “Darcy,” I muttered. “Fitzwilliam Darcy.”
He gave a nod, eyeing me with mild disdain. “Aye, a proper name for a proper sassenach. Ye’ve the look of someone wi’ more titles than sense.”
That stirred something like pride or dignity, or perhaps just stupidity in me. I straightened. “I hold no titles, sir, but I will have you know, the D’Arcy heritage is a proud one, all the way from the Normans who—”
He leaned back in the chair, shaking his head with what could only be described as disappointment. “I ken no’ but here I am, saddled wi’ an Englishman. Of all the folk to get tied to, it had to be a sassenach who faints like a lass in a church pew.” He shotme a look as if my fainting had been a personal offense. “A Scot would’ve stood his ground.”
“I— I fainted?”
“Aye, ye did.” He seemed quite amused by this fact, leaning back in my chair with a smirk. “Down like a sack o’ potatoes. No’ even a wee fight.”
My legs wobbled slightly beneath me as I backed away from the stranger. I finally found my voice, pushing past the numbness that had kept me frozen. “You’re trespassing,” I said, standing up straighter and feeling a spark of my old self return. “I’ll wake the household if I must. Call the footmen. You’ll be thrown out on your ear before you can say another word.”
“Aye, is that right? Gonna wake the whole house for a wee tantrum, are ye?” He crossed his arms, his eyes dancing with amusement. “Go on then. I’m sure the footmen would love to see ye blubbering aboot ghosts at this hour.”
I bristled at his tone. “I don’t blubber, and I don’t believe in ghosts.”
He raised an eyebrow, smirking. “Then what’re ye so worked up aboot, lad?”
My mouth opened, but no words came out. It was maddening, how casually he sat there—inmyroom!—as if my threats were nothing more than an idle game.
Then, as if to prove his point, he leaned over and casually swept his hand through the wood of the table beside him, his fingers sinking into the solid surface as though it were made of water. My heart stopped, and I hardly know how I kept from crumpling again as he pulled back, producing a pen knife as if from thin air. He inspected it lazily, then tossed it onto the table with a soft clink. “That’ll serve ye well.”
I stared, my pulse pounding in my ears. That wasnotpossible. Was it? Itwasn’t… right?
“Ye see?” Ewan said with a grin. “Ye’re havin’ yerself a fine wee tantrum, and fer what? Ye canna throw me out.”
I slapped my own face—hard enough to feel the sting, as if that would somehow wake me from this madness. But when I opened my eyes again, he was still there, looking more amused than ever.
“You’re not real,” I said firmly, my voice shaking only slightly. “This… this is absurd. I’m imagining all of this.”
He sniffed the bottle again, pulling a face as if I’d just insulted his honor. “Aye, well, if I’m no’ real, then I’ve got nae business drinkin’ this swill, do I?”
I shook my head, my hand tightening on the back of the chair to steady myself. “Whoareyou?” I demanded again, my voice rising with the frustration of being completely unmoored.
The man tilted his head, considering me for a moment. “Ewan,” he said finally, as though I should have known all along. “Ewan Douglas Malcom McLean.”
My blood ran cold.McLean. Isobel McLean.
I gaped at him, my throat tight. “Mclean… The brooch…” I whispered.
His eyes glinted. “McLean, ye’ve got it, lad. There’s nae wrong with your hearing.”
I stared at him, my mind struggling to make sense of what was happening. “But… you’re dead,” I said slowly.
He raised his bottle in mock toast. “Aye, tha’s the long an’ short of it, lad.”
And then I did the only thing a sensible man could do in such a situation.
I sat down hard on the bed, rubbing my face with my hands, and muttered, “I need more brandy.”
