Page 19 of Ghost of the Ton

“Did you not hear me”—she hesitated, unwilling to remind him of the contract that bound them—“Lord MacLennan?”

He stopped, then turned to face her. Another child joined in the wailing.

“For fuck’s sake!” he cursed, and balled his hands into fists.

“What must I do?” Mia cried.

He lifted his hand to his face, then brushed it across his brow, as if wearied by the weight of the world. Then, at length, he sighed and slumped his shoulders, as if in defeat.

“Cover yerself up and get inside,” he said gruffly, gesturing to the castle building. “Ye’re frightening the children.”

Mia bit her lip to stem a cry of despair. Loathe her he might, but she’d not hide herself away in shame. Clutching her valise, she tilted her chin up, then, with as much dignity as she could feign, approached the huge, arched doorway of the castle building. The guests parted, flowing back like a receding tide as she walked past, almost as if they were welcoming her as a new bride into their home.

But a home was where one was loved, cherished, and wanted—or tolerated at the very least.

Therefore, Mia had no home.

Chapter Eight

Mia stepped through the castle doors into the hallway. No—a cavern.

The walls, made from huge gray slabs mottled with texture, stretched toward a high beamed ceiling, from which hung a chandelier fashioned from jagged, pointed shapes that wouldn’t look out of place in a Medieval torture chamber. Flagstones lined the floor, in differing tones ranging from charcoal to marble white. Though uneven, the stones looked as if they had been polished and worn with use, as if thousands of feet had walked upon them over hundreds of years.

Mia’s footsteps echoed as she crossed the floor. How many brides had been carried across it by a loving bridegroom? Perhaps that was what Mia’s husband had hoped to do with the beautiful Aurora Young.

What might Aurora have thought of this place? A pampered lady such as her would have expected light, comfort, and warmth. The air in the hallway seemed to shimmer with the cold and the dark. A breeze whispered over Mia’s skin and the flames flickered from the candles on sconces, casting dancing shadows across the floor. The place was a haven for ghosts, with dark corners and niches sunk into the walls where the shadows obscured what lay within.

Mia approached one wall where a huge tapestry rippled in the breeze. Unlike the delicately embroidered fire screens that graced the drawing rooms of London, this tapestry was primal, earthy. Instead of soft pastel shades, it had been woven in earthy shades of green, brown, and gray, with the occasional splash of dark red. She drew near and traced the outline of a shape with her finger, then recoiled. The shape was a stag, its legs thrust out at unnatural angles, as if the beast were in the final throes of death. Its mouth was open, teeth bared, and a single white-rimmed eye stared directly at her. A spear protruded from the animal’s flank, which was a chestnut brown save for the smears of red where the arrowhead had pierced the flesh.

The scene was set against a backdrop of a huge mountain—the same mountain, perhaps, that towered over this very building. Yes—it was. As Mia let her gaze wander about the scene, she caught sight of the image of a dark-gray building among a forest, its turrets peeking over the tree line—the turrets she’d noticed on her arrival.

How long ago that seemed, though it could not have been more than an hour! Then, she had viewed those turrets with a sense of hope that, though her husband might be surprised to see her, he would, ultimately, be thankful that she lived.

But this was no place for her, nor a debutante such as Aurora. It was harsh, primal, and savage, where men ruled not through wealth or rank, but through pure, unbridled brutality.

Mia glanced back at the image of the stag. Did the animal accept death as she herself once had, or did it kick and scream against the cruelty of the world?

She lifted her gaze and froze. Mounted on the wall was the head of a stag, its fur identical in color to the animal in the tapestry. Two huge antlers protruded from the stag’s head, branching out to form sharp, vicious points. Its eyes stared at her with a baleful malevolence, and though Mia retreated, the animal’s gaze followed her. The eyes blinked and her stomach fluttered in fear. Then she chided herself. It was a reflection of the flickering candle flames, nothing more, a product of the ever-present breeze.

Mia drew her cloak around herself and shivered. Old buildings were known for harboring the souls of the dead—ghosts for whom no respite could be found.

And I’m just one more ghost.

Voices came from behind a set of doors carved with a pattern of leaves and vines. Creatures were carved among the leaves—birds, a catlike animal, and, in the center, the head of a stag.

Savages the folk here might be, but their craftsmanship surpassed anything Mia had seen, even from London’s finest furniture makers.

The doors led to a passageway that opened out into a hall even more cavernous than the one she’d left. An enormous fireplace dominated the far wall like a huge, gaping mouth in which a fire blazed, as if a dragon resided in the castle. In front of the fireplace was a long wooden table, laden with platters of food, and Mia’s stomach rumbled at the scent of roasted meats. Similar tables ran along the perimeter, with rows of chairs either side.

Servants milled about, clearing the tables with a clatter of cutlery and the scrape of chairs. A young boy dropped a plate that shattered into shards. An older woman approached him, muttering, and clipped him around the ear. Then he scuttled off and returned with a broom. Mia retreated against the wall and held her breath, unwilling to disturb their toil while they chattered to each other.

“I dinnae care what Mrs. Bron says,” a young woman said. “It’s a right shame, that’s all I have to say.”

“Ha!” another woman said. “If that’s all ye have to say, Ailsa, then I’ll eat my arse. Ye’ve a right tongue on ye when ye get to gossiping. Come and help me with this pie—I cannae carry it on me own.”

“Ailsa’s right, though,” a manservant said as he approached them. “Here—put that down. It’s too heavy for a lass. Ye’ll drop it and earn yerself a leathering.”

“Aye, I’m right, Lachlan,” the first girl said. “She were a beautiful creature, that Miss Young. And her name! Aurora—I’ve never heard anything so pretty. She’d have given the master a dozen bonnie bairns.”