True to Gavin’s word, they reached Cormac MacFie’s modest tower-house with only a light damping, having kept just ahead of the front edges of the pursuing rain clouds.

Apparently, they’d been seen because the keep’s door stood wide in welcome. Sure enough, as they dismounted, a great bear of a man opened the iron-grilled gate and came long-strided toward them, a smile to rival Gavin’s own spreading across his equally red-bearded face.

“Friends, Cousin, I greet you!” he boomed, making for Iain. He thrust out a hand. “You are welcome to my hearth, MacLean,” he declared, and nearly crunched Iain’s fingers.

“I have heard much of you,” he added, pumping Iain’s hand as he grinned at Gavin. “My cousin honors my house by bringing you here.”

“It is good of you to have us.” Iain smiled. “I have looked forward to meeting you.”

Iain glanced about, grateful indeed.

The smell of peat smoke, roasted meats, and fresh-laid floor rushes wafted out from the tower house’s opened entry. The most appetizing smell, fresh-baked bread, made Iain’s stomach growl and his mouth water. And more than made up for his host’s crushing grip.

“Your hospitality is much appreciated,” Iain said once the giant released his hand.

Gavin’s cousin more times over that Gavin himself could recall, Cormac MacFie turned to welcome the others. Gavin in particular received an enthusiastic hug, and Iain would’ve sworn he heard Gavin’s ribs cracking.

“I didnae ken you’d taken a wife,” he said to Gavin, releasing him at last and waving them all into the ground floor of his keep, a low-vaulted storage area piled high with ale casks, sacks of grain, and a jumbled assortment of rusty-looking weapons.

Iain noted the weapons, but Cormac bustled them so quickly through the dimly lit undercroft, there was no time for a closer inspection.

At the arched entrance to a narrow-winding stair, Cormac snatched a hand torch from its iron bracket on the wall and led the way up the steps toward the beckoning food smells and where they’d all find a dry and warm place to rest their bones for the night.

Likely not the sumptuous bed Iain had shared with Madeline the previous night – a chaste sleep of deepest exhaustion, even if they had slept hip to hip.

But he knew Cormac’s guests would sleep on comfortable and clean pallets or beds.

And he ached for his with a vengeance.

Perhaps even more than he craved the savory-smelling meats and sauces provided by their host.

Sleep called him, as did an insistent voice at his ear.

An urgent tugging on his sleeve.

“Psst, sir… I must speak with you.”

Nella clutched a handful of his plaid and held fast. “Please.” She pulled him away from the stair, leading him deeper into the gloom of the undercroft. She paused near a sputtering wall torch.

The torch’s flickering light played across her face, revealing the same anxious look he’d noted back at Fortingall beneath the ancient yew.

“See here, lass…” He cast a longing glance at the now-empty stairwell, his stomach clenching at the tantalizing food smells drifting down the stair’s curving length.

“I am tired and hungry,” he said, turning back to her. “Can we no’ speak abovestairs? In the comfort of the hall? We can share a cup of ale before the hearth if that would suit you?”

“My pardon, sir, but nae.” She shook her head. “I would not risk having anyone hear what I must tell you.”

Iain frowned.

Something in her tone sent shivers through him. Equally unsettling, her gaze kept flitting about, almost as if she feared someone – or something? – would leap out of the shadows and lunge for her.

“You are troubled?” Iain peered at her. “What is it?”

She stepped closer, gripped his arm. “Do you believe in ghosts?”

“Ghosts?” he echoed, incredulous. “As in spirits of the dead?”

She nodded. “I do, you see-” she broke off and glanced aside. After a long moment, she looked back at him and drew a great, quivering breath.

“I live alone in a wee cottage. Little more than a cot-house really, but, sir, I am well content there and enjoy my solitude,” she said, speaking quickly. “Because I have often been harassed by those who do not understand me, I put about a bit of prattle that I receive visitations from the dead.”

At Iain’s silence, she tightened her grip on his arm. “Please do not condemn me. I did what I must to ensure my peace and for no other reason. I harmed no one and never would. I have not communed with ghosts and ne’er hoped to do so.”

Releasing his arm, she began wringing her hands. “It was just a defense. A ruse for my protection,” she explained. “Such rumors keep folk from one’s door.”

“That I believe.” Iain slid another glance at the stairwell. Sakes, but it called to him.

He folded his arms. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because I was visited by a ghost at MacNab’s hall last night. A true one.”

“And you want me to know?”

What was it about him? MacFie and his selkies. Doon’s crone trying to give him faery fire stones, and now this woman and ghosts at a poor MacNab’s.

“Did you tell this to MacNab?”

“Nae.” She shook her head, her eyes round as a full moon. “The spirit, a woman, instructed me to speak to you.”

Chillbumps rose Iain’s flesh. “A woman?”

“Aye, sir, and a very beautiful one, if in a rather delicate, gentle way.”

Iain’s blood froze. “A fey-like woman?”

She nodded. “Aye, that, too. Almost fragile.”

“And she bid you to seek me?” He could hardly get the words out. Nella could be describing the ghost of his late wife.

Lileas.

He steeled his spine, narrowed his eyes. “What else did she say?”

“She said she was your wife, sir, and that I should assure you that she is well and wishes only your happiness – even if that be at another woman’s side.”

“Guidsakes!” Iain stared at her, felt his stomach drop to his toes. When his knees jellied as well, almost buckling, he decided to become Iain the Doubter again. “I dinnae believe in haints,” he asserted, feeling a bit better already. “Ne’er have, ne’er will.”

He leaned toward her, slitting his eyes even more. “Ghosts exist only in late night tales told by bards before hearth fires. In true life, there’s nae such thing.

“When we die, we’re gone.” He straightened, folded his arms – and tried to ignore the queasiness in his gut.

Nella looked pained, but held his gaze. “She also said that although she enjoyed her time with you, it was her own choosing to go. That she was needed elsewhere and had her own path to follow.”

“A spirit told you all that?” Iain the Doubter cocked a brow.

“Aye, sir, that was about the whole of it.”

“Nothing else?” Iain couldn’t keep the annoyance out of his voice.

“You do not believe me.” She glanced across the undercroft, toward the stairwell, then back to him. “I understand,” she added, hurt in her voice. “Still, I do not lie, good sir. Nor would I willfully distress anyone.”

“Did she tell you her name?” he probed, pleased when she shook her head.

“Nae, she did not, and truth is, I was too frightened to ask.”

“Did she say how she died?” Now he had her. If she said the ghost claimed to have perished in childbed or of a fever, he would sleep easier that night.

But Nella shook her head again. “She did not mention her passing. But I suspect she must’ve drowned.”

Iain’s heart stopped.

He could feel the blood draining from his head.

“Drowned?” Mercy, he was afraid to ask, but had to. “What makes you think that?”

“Because she was dripping wet and had seaweed tangled in her hair.”

“Wet and sea-” Iain got no further.

The great and newly styled Master of the Highlands fainted on the floor of Cormac MacFie’s undercroft.