here?” If his eyes were a storm, his voice was the thunder that cracked through it. He was a Scotsman, definitely—it was clear from the burr of his words—but his clean, crisp enunciation suggested that he had traveled, as well, and spent a great deal of time in other places.
“Who are we?” she said, frowning. “Who are you?”
“Bruce MacNiall, owner of this castle.”
“The MacNialls are all dead,” she told him.
“Since I am a MacNiall, I beg to differ.”
Behind her, Gina groaned. “Oh, Lord! It sounds as if there’s been some terrible mistake.”
“There’s been no mistake,” Toni said softly to Gina. “There can’t be!” To the stranger who had arrived in perfect theatrical form, she said, “We have a rental agreement, a lease-purchase agreement, as a matter of fact.”
“Whatever you have is not legal,” he said crisply.
“We honestly believe that it is.” Gina stepped forward, smiling ruefully and trying the polite approach. Gina was petite, with a wealth of lustrous brown hair, and green eyes that surveyed the world with intelligence and an easy courtesy. Her forte was public relations. “This,” she continued politely, “is Antoinette Fraser. Toni. I’m Gina Browne. Honestly, sir, we’ve gone through all the right steps and paid a handsome sum for the right to be here. We’re registered and have a license as tour guides. I can’t begin to imagine why you’ve suddenly burst in here tonight. The people in the village, including the constable, know that we’re here. If there was a problem, why are you appearing only now?”
“I have been traveling. The constable didn’t throw you out because he hadn’t had a chance to talk to me, and find out if, for some reason, I had decided to rent the place. I just arrived back in the village this evening, and learned that my home was being turned into the Pete Rose Circus!”
“Oh! Really!” Gina sucked in air.
Toni looked at her, smiling grimly. Gina looked stricken, and certainly she felt the depth of the insult herself. “I quite enjoy the Pete Rose Circus,” she said. Arms crossed over her chest, she turned back to the stranger. “Look, we’re truly baffled by your sudden appearance, especially since we didn’t know that you existed and because we do have legal forms. Perhaps people here keep their own counsel, but surely someone might have mentioned you to us! And … we walked right in here, without even having to acquire keys—we found a set on a hook by the door. Perhaps you’re out of town too frequently, Mr. MacNiall.”
“It’s Laird MacNiall,” he said, his tone dry. “And I could hardly expect to come home and find—”
“Aha!”
The roar of the word sounded along with a new clatter of hoofbeats, cutting off Laird MacNiall. Ryan Browne had at last arrived, sword drawn, risen in his stirrups. He realized almost immediately that the room was emptied of people and filled with a huge black horse. He reined in swiftly, his eyes following the steps until they fell upon the upper landing, and he stared at the three of them.
“The great laird returns to his castle?” he said weakly.
“Where he finds …?”
The black stallion let out a wicked-sounding snicker.
Ryan’s horse, their handsome roan named Wallace, shied. “Another great laird with a bigger horse! Okay … This great laird is leaving,” he said quickly, getting the gelding under control. “But I’ll be back,” he promised.
He turned and left, the roan clattering its way out of the castle.
“I really will have the lot of you arrested,” Bruce MacNiall said. It was more like a growl than a spoken comment. “How dare you burst in here, mocking Scottish history? Americans!”
“Excuse me, I think that we’ve explained all this. We have a lease, a legal document,” Toni said. “And we’re not mocking Scottish history, we’re here because we love it.”
“Listen to me one more time, you addled woman! I own the place, and it has never been for sale or lease!”
It simply couldn’t be, yet his irritated aggression was so vehement that Toni found herself suddenly afraid that something could be really wrong. Gina looked stunned, and equally worried.
Toni stepped up to the plate, ready to do battle. “You’re wrong,” she informed the man claiming to be the living MacNiall. “We have an agreement.”
“The hell you do!”
“We should have you arrested, since you’re doing your best to destroy the tour,” Toni told him, aware that she was taking a slight step back despite her words. “And you’ve certainly no right to call me an addled woman. We have papers that prove we have leased the place. Now you say that you own it! It was filthy and in horrid disrepair. It was obvious that no one had given the least care to this place in years. We’ve been through here repairing electrical connections, replacing wires, plastering and painting—just to keep the place from falling apart completely. The first day, David and Kevin shored up the front wall. We’ve worked our asses off to make it livable.”
“I told you, I’ve been out of the country.”
“All of your life?” she said sharply. “Because if not, you should be ashamed. This place is incredible. If I had owned it since birth, I’d have never let it come to this!”
“My castle is not your concern,” he said icily.
“But it is, because for the next year—at the least—it’s our castle,” she said tightly.
“No, it is not,” he said. “I own the place and I did not lease it!”
Toni was forced to feel another moment’s unease. There was definite conviction in his voice.
“I can see that you’ve put time and work into the place,” he told Gina. “For that, I’m sorry. But the place is not now, nor ever will be, for rent. I would have stopped you, but as I said, I’ve been out of the country.”
“Well, that’s just amazing,” Toni said, stepping in before Gina could reply. “In this day and age, one would have thought that someone in this little village might have known where you were and called you, or at least said something about you when we were buying the paint and materials!”
“Right!” Gina said.
At that moment Ryan came striding back into the great hall. Being Ryan, however, he paused. “Great horse!” he said, staring at the stallion. “What a beautiful animal.”
Bruce MacNiall started back down the stairs. “He’s a mix of long and careful breeding.”
“Draft horse … look at the muscle and the size! And there’s Arab in the history somewhere. He’s almost got the legs of an American Thoroughbred,” Ryan said.
Bruce MacNiall kept walking down, talking to Ryan as easily as if they were friends meeting at a horse show. “Good eye,” he commented. “The mare was a cross between an American Thoroughbred and one of our own stallions. He is something. He’s got the strength of
