across his skin, for there was a light in Faolan’s eyes that made it plain the man believed what he was saying.
“Ye mean ye’ve dreamed about her, man.” Broen softened his tone, commiserating with his friend over the topic. “Understandable, considering—”
“It was more than a dream,” Faolan interrupted. “It was so real it scared me.”
An uneasy silence filled the room. Faolan’s face was drawn tight with tension as Broen swore softly.
“I would have called any man who accused ye of being afraid of anything on this earth a liar.”
“Except we are nae talking of anything natural.” Faolan sat back down, looking older than his years for a moment. “I do nae want to believe it meself, and ye are the only man I’d confess it to, but I swear that woman is haunting me. In the darkest hours of the night in my dreams, I see her in a stone room wearing naught but a pure white robe…” His voice trailed off as he looked like he was captivated by the vision once more.
“It’s clear ye believe what ye’re saying, so it’s best I take Clarrisa to Sutherland so we can both hear the explanation of how Daphne died. Only that knowledge will end this.”
Faolan slapped the tabletop. “Nay! It’s clear I need to settle accounts, so Daphne can rest in peace. She haunts me, so I must be the one.”
“Ye are nae making sense, man,” Broen argued. “Clarrisa has naught to do with Daphne’s fate.”
Faolan straightened. “She does, and it’s me she’s haunting, so I must be the one to take the York bastard to me uncle.”
Broen looked closely at his friend and noticed the dark circles beneath his eyes. The emotion in his friend’s eyes burned brighter than what he’d ever felt for Daphne. It was a truth he didn’t care for, but he couldn’t ignore it either. Clarrisa’s face surfaced from his memory, her blond hair shimmering like a spring morning. She was far more fetching than he’d admitted to himself… Oh Christ. He didn’t need that sort of trouble. Broen shook his head. Faolan snorted.
“I mean what I say, Broen. I’m taking Clarrisa to me uncle to satisfy Daphne. Since she’s haunting me, ye can just make yer peace with my decision on the matter.”
“If Daphne is truly haunting Raven’s Perch, it will take more than delivering one Englishwoman to the Highlands to get her to leave.”
Faolan grunted. “I suppose ye know a thing or two about ghosts walking the halls of yer home.”
Someone used the heavy brass knocker set on the door.
“Come,” Faolan barked. There was a hint of uncertainty in his voice, which drew a sound of disgust from Broen.
Distrust between them was a new thing—a sign of the troubled times, but it was also a result of Daphne. Broen tried to recall her dark eyes and the way they’d seemed irresistible the last time he’d seen her, but what surfaced instead was the memory of the last look Clarrisa had shot him, her blue eyes full of spirit and determination in spite of the burly Chisholms retainers flanking her petite form. There had also been a hint of regret, but he was better off not noticing that. He needed to recall that she was English, nothing else. But it seemed good sense wasn’t prevailing, because his thoughts lingered on that last look she’d sent him. He itched to take action, feeling the walls around him closing in.
“Where did ye put her?” Faolan asked his men.
Broen jerked his attention to the men who’d entered. Both tugged on the corners of their bonnets before the eldest spoke. “I put her in one of the kitchen storage rooms. She did nae give me any trouble, so I thought to spare her the dungeon. That’s a right frightful place for such a slight lass.”
Faolan frowned, appearing as though he was going to argue. The elder of the two men looked surprised, but his years gave him the courage to speak plainly. “Those storerooms have solid doors and bars. The lass cannae be going anywhere unless someone lifts it for
“Ye mean ye’ve dreamed about her, man.” Broen softened his tone, commiserating with his friend over the topic. “Understandable, considering—”
“It was more than a dream,” Faolan interrupted. “It was so real it scared me.”
An uneasy silence filled the room. Faolan’s face was drawn tight with tension as Broen swore softly.
“I would have called any man who accused ye of being afraid of anything on this earth a liar.”
“Except we are nae talking of anything natural.” Faolan sat back down, looking older than his years for a moment. “I do nae want to believe it meself, and ye are the only man I’d confess it to, but I swear that woman is haunting me. In the darkest hours of the night in my dreams, I see her in a stone room wearing naught but a pure white robe…” His voice trailed off as he looked like he was captivated by the vision once more.
“It’s clear ye believe what ye’re saying, so it’s best I take Clarrisa to Sutherland so we can both hear the explanation of how Daphne died. Only that knowledge will end this.”
Faolan slapped the tabletop. “Nay! It’s clear I need to settle accounts, so Daphne can rest in peace. She haunts me, so I must be the one.”
“Ye are nae making sense, man,” Broen argued. “Clarrisa has naught to do with Daphne’s fate.”
Faolan straightened. “She does, and it’s me she’s haunting, so I must be the one to take the York bastard to me uncle.”
Broen looked closely at his friend and noticed the dark circles beneath his eyes. The emotion in his friend’s eyes burned brighter than what he’d ever felt for Daphne. It was a truth he didn’t care for, but he couldn’t ignore it either. Clarrisa’s face surfaced from his memory, her blond hair shimmering like a spring morning. She was far more fetching than he’d admitted to himself… Oh Christ. He didn’t need that sort of trouble. Broen shook his head. Faolan snorted.
“I mean what I say, Broen. I’m taking Clarrisa to me uncle to satisfy Daphne. Since she’s haunting me, ye can just make yer peace with my decision on the matter.”
“If Daphne is truly haunting Raven’s Perch, it will take more than delivering one Englishwoman to the Highlands to get her to leave.”
Faolan grunted. “I suppose ye know a thing or two about ghosts walking the halls of yer home.”
Someone used the heavy brass knocker set on the door.
“Come,” Faolan barked. There was a hint of uncertainty in his voice, which drew a sound of disgust from Broen.
Distrust between them was a new thing—a sign of the troubled times, but it was also a result of Daphne. Broen tried to recall her dark eyes and the way they’d seemed irresistible the last time he’d seen her, but what surfaced instead was the memory of the last look Clarrisa had shot him, her blue eyes full of spirit and determination in spite of the burly Chisholms retainers flanking her petite form. There had also been a hint of regret, but he was better off not noticing that. He needed to recall that she was English, nothing else. But it seemed good sense wasn’t prevailing, because his thoughts lingered on that last look she’d sent him. He itched to take action, feeling the walls around him closing in.
“Where did ye put her?” Faolan asked his men.
Broen jerked his attention to the men who’d entered. Both tugged on the corners of their bonnets before the eldest spoke. “I put her in one of the kitchen storage rooms. She did nae give me any trouble, so I thought to spare her the dungeon. That’s a right frightful place for such a slight lass.”
Faolan frowned, appearing as though he was going to argue. The elder of the two men looked surprised, but his years gave him the courage to speak plainly. “Those storerooms have solid doors and bars. The lass cannae be going anywhere unless someone lifts it for
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