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“Um.” I winced, and Matthew threw his head back and laughed. “It was very mechanical.”
Matthew laughed harder, his shoulders shaking, and punched his thigh.
“Mechanical, she says…” Matthew wheezed.
“Yeah, like he was following a manual. Insert Part A into Part B. Twist, and complete.”
“Oh. My. God.” Matthew pounded his leg. “We are getting you laid. That’s it. Not only did you have to deal with Chad but bad sex too? Nope, sorry. New mission. Forget restoring order to this place, which by the way looks lovely. I’m requesting aneworder. Find Sophie a proper man.”
“Nope, no way.” I stood and put my empty glass on the table. Stretching my arms over my head and yawning, I turned to the first guest room door and saw my suitcase. “Much like you, my dear friend, I’m on sabbatical.”
“All sabbaticals come to an end,” Matthew yelled after me, and I closed the door, but not before flipping him off, even though I couldn’t help but laugh. I let out a happy sigh at the sight of the bed, piled with puffy pillows and thick blankets, and barely made it through my nighttime bathroom routine before I was sound asleep.
Later that night, I was thrust from an easygoing dream of walking the beach with Arthur by what sounded like a shriek. Sitting up, I pawed at my eye mask and ripped it from my face, my head swiveling as I tried to remember where I was.
Right. Scotland. In a castle. What had that sound been? I’d only caught the tail end of it when I’d been jarred from my dream, and I wasn’t sure that I wanted to hear the sound again. It was bone-chilling and jarring in a way that made me deeply uncomfortable. Did ghost coos shriek? I slipped from my bed and padded to the window in my tower room.
The rain had abated, and a sliver of light showed on the horizon. Below me, movement caught my eye. Lachlan strode across the gravel parking lot and climbed a set of stairs that led to a wall. There, he began to walk, back and forth, and I realized he was on top of what was likely a battlement.
He was standing watch. A shiver rippled across my skin at the thought of just what he might be standing watch for. When he turned, his gaze coming to my window, I stepped back, not wanting him to see me at the glass, watching him.
Diving back beneath the thick fluffy comforter on the bed, I pulled it up to my chin, waiting for the fear to settle in. Something was up at this castle and, apparently, I was in charge of putting things to rights. The image of Lachlan, a lone figure in the dusky dredges of dawn, standing on the ancient wall came back to me. Oddly, knowing he was out there, watching for whatever secrets the wind held, comforted me, and I slipped back into a dreamless sleep.
CHAPTERSEVEN
Sophie
“Och, don’t worry yourself about Clyde, hen. He’ll do you no harm.” This came from a man who sat by the fire, a box of feathers and threads next to him, a folded newspaper at his side.
I jolted, as I hadn’t even seen him sitting there, or I wouldn’t have been rambling on about supposed ghost coos wandering the halls. I took in the man’s attire, roughened work pants, a faded flannel shirt, and shaggy white hair and wondered if he was making fun of me.
“Clyde, is it?” Matthew asked, his eyes lighting, and crossed to the man. “Is that the name of the ghost coo?”
“Aye. Was Hector with him?” the man asked, biting off a piece of string in his mouth, and then twining it around a small feather.
“I can’t be sure. Who is Hector? Also, I’m Matthew.” Matthew offered his hand, but the man just held up his hands to show they were full and gave a quick nod.
“I’m Archie. Hilda’s my better half and sees to the insides of MacAlpine Castle. I handle the outside.” Archie winked at me from under bushy eyebrows. “Hector is Clyde’s keeper. They come as a pair, but you don’t always see them together.”
“Ghosts?” I clarified, drawing closer to see what Archie was making. “You’re saying Clyde is a ghost cow and Hector is a farmer?”
“Coo,” Archie corrected, holding another bit of feather to the light. “And, yes, that’s the way of it.”
“Fascinating, I’d love to hear more,” Matthew said. He looked every inch the Scottish outdoorsman today, with fitted denim pants, a thick plaid shirt, and sturdy hiking boots. How had he had time to plan appropriate outfits? I’d barely dug out my favorite faded UCLA sweatshirt and tossed a few leggings in a bag before we’d been ushered onto the plane. Now, spying the moody gray skies outside, I realized that I might need to do some shopping. I wondered if Amazon delivered to castles.
“Clyde likes you. That’s a good thing,” Hilda said, swinging back into the room with plates in her hands. “Go on, sit.”
“Clyde likes you,” Matthew mouthed at me, his eyebrows raised almost to his hairline, and I swallowed a laugh. We crossed the room and dutifully sat at the table, gaping at the food that Hilda continued to bring out from the kitchen. Eggs, thick-cut bacon, grilled tomatoes, sausages, a bowl of beans, a plate piled high with toast...the list went on.
“There now. A proper Scottish breakfast to sort you out this morning,” Hilda said, wiping her hands on a tea towel. “Will it be tea or coffee then?”
“Um, coffee, please,” I said, and Matthew nodded his assent. I stared at the mountain of food, unsure how to proceed. I rarely ate breakfast back home, usually just mainlining coffee until I almost passed out from hunger, and then I’d sneak fast food combo meals past my judgmental assistant who subscribed to the California diet of choice—green smoothies and air. Archie didn’t join us, and I assumed that he must have taken his breakfast already. When it seemed that no further information on Clyde was forthcoming, we both shrugged. I took a piece of toast and a spoonful or two of scrambled eggs.
“What are you making, Archie?” Matthew asked and I was incredibly grateful that he had come with me, or I would just be sitting here in awkward silence trying to figure out how to proceed with two people who so casually accepted a ghost “coo” into their lives.
“I like to make my own flies for fishing,” Archie said. Matthew’s eyes met mine over the breakfast table. Neither him nor I had any frame of reference when it came to fly fishing. There wasn’t much I could contribute on that particular subject matter.
“That’s interesting. Is there a particular science to it? Or a reason you’re making them instead of buying them?” Matthew saved me from speaking.
