Spirit of the Knight

by Debbie Peterson

Overview

She fell deeply in love with him in the early days of her childhood. And in return, she captured his heart the moment he first cast his gaze upon her...

Renowned artist, Mariah Jennings hired to paint a thirteenth-century Scottish castle, gets the shock of her life when she encounters the handsome knight who has dominated a lifetime of portraits and sketchbooks.

But Sir Cailen Braithnoch is no ordinary ghost, nor did he suffer an ordinary death. Magic of the blackest kind cast a pall over the knights centuries ago. As the ghost and his lady seek to unravel the paradox surrounding his death, black arts, otherworldly forces, and a jealous rival conspire against them.

Will those forces tear them apart, or is their love destined to last throughout the ages?

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9781628302752
Publisher:	Wild Rose Press
Publication date:	12/18/2017
Edition description:	Large Print
Pages:	400
Product dimensions:	5.00(w) x 8.00(h) x 0.82(d)

Read an Excerpt

CHAPTER 1

The Water Cuddie Pub Highlands of Scotland Early May

The scene seemed reminiscent of a Hollywood movie. Female resembling a drowned rat walks inside crowded pub during a raging thunderstorm. The buzz of laughter and chatter instantly ceases. Awkward, uncomfortable silence follows. All eyes turn upon said female and stare. Thus making said female feel as if she'd suddenly sprouted a second head, some mammoth-sized zits, or had something repulsive hanging off the end of her nose. Should she wait for the zombies to converge or just find a seat and sit down?

Mariah opted to sit down. She scanned the room looking for an empty table in the most inconspicuous corner possible. Once located, she drew in a deep breath, scurried over to the polished wooden chair, and settled into the thing. All the while she hoped she hadn't committed an unpardonable sin by attaching herself to someone else's "usual" seat. Somewhere along the way a glass of water and a menu magically appeared — meaning she had no recollection of how or when said items arrived. Nonetheless, she clung to the glass for the support it offered while she perused the menu.

Several uncomfortable minutes passed before the pub's occupants resumed their normal conversations. If normal simply denoted speaking aloud. Then again, perhaps normal also included discussing the occasional outsider as if that outsider couldn't hear them. She sighed as she slid the single-page menu to the top of the table and took another drink of water. The action caught the attention of the attractive, sandy-haired man behind the bar.

He wiped his hands on his apron and smiled as he approached. "What will you have then?"

"I think I'll just have the fish and chips." Mariah relaxed her grip on the glass and leaned back against her chair.

"Och, you're an American." His hazel eyes danced with merriment. "We dinnae see many from th' States up here."

A smile touched her lips as she tilted her chin upward and met his gaze. She never tired of hearing the Scottish brogue with their delightful rolling r's. "I imagine not. You're somewhat off the beaten path for the ordinary tourist, are you not?" she countered.

He nodded his head and laughed. "We are at that. Gimme a minute and I'll be right back with your meal."

"Thank you." Once again, the eyes of all the patrons fastened upon her person. She tugged self-consciously at the hem of her damp cotton skirt, took hold of her sketchbook, and formed the lines of a new sketch. At least the activity gave her something to do while the locals ogled and she waited. The wait took longer than anticipated, and her stomach bemoaned the fact. In her quest to arrive at the castle well before dark, she didn't take time to eat after her plane landed. The relentless storm she encountered along the way hindered her travel even further.

"I'm so sorry to have kept you waiting," the bartender said as about twenty minutes later, he set the hot plate in front of her. "But we find ourselves a bit shorthanded today. Linda couldn't make it because of th' rain."

"That's all right. If the food tastes anything like it smells, then it's well worth the wait." Mariah set her sketchbook off to the side and unfolded her napkin. She placed it on her lap and picked up her fork. Most surprisingly then, the man sat down in the chair opposite her. He didn't intend to watch her eat, did he?

"Might I ask if you're just passing through, or have you come to visit someone?" A flirtatious smile accompanied the question. She didn't return it.

"Well, actually, I'm here to do some oil paintings of Laird MacNaughton's castle. These paintings are for the Gallery of Castles project if you've heard of that. So, I'm going to live out there for a time." The comment hushed the crowd. Again.

He stared at her for what seemed like minutes instead of mere seconds. "Surely you dinnae mean to say you're staying inside th' drafty old castle itself?"

She let out a breath of quiet laughter. "As a matter of fact, I am staying inside the drafty old castle. However, Laird MacNaughton has allowed me the use of an empty bedroom inside the cottage should I change my mind."

Another prolonged silence followed the remark. She didn't know what to say to fill in the gap. Finally, he gave her a nod and offered his hand.

"All right then, my name is Evan. Welcome to our wee village. You'll find us a friendly lot."

"Thank you, Evan. I may need a few friends while I'm here." He gave her hand a gentle squeeze before she freed it from his grasp. "My name is Mariah Jennings."

"I'm happy to make your acquaintance, Mariah Jennings." He scooted his chair closer to the table and rested an arm atop it. "I think I remember reading aboot th' castles project in th' newspaper, a while back. They said something aboot th' paintings going on some kind of tour at th' end of th' year?"

Mariah nodded, swallowed the first bite of her food, and followed it with another drink of water. "Yes, that's right. They are. As we speak, there are several artists painting ancient palaces and castles around the globe. Once we have them all complete, the entire collection will go on a ten-year, worldwide tour. The stint will begin in London. Each of the chosen cities will host the gallery for about three or four months, and then they'll travel on to the next city. Afterward, the paintings will return to their countries of origin for permanent placement by the board member representing their country."

"Does old man MacNaughton get to keep any of th' paintings?" he asked.

"Well, I'm not sure about the originals. I suppose Gordon Humphries, your British representative, could give him one or two if he so desires. However, Laird MacNaughton will receive giclée copies of everything I do, regardless," she said. "That's all part of the contract and a bonus of sorts for allowing us to invade and paint his property."

"Th' laird will appreciate that, I'm sure. However, th' place is so remote, I'm surprised they even considered it for th' gallery. Especially since he doesn't allow tourists on th' property."

"I believe that's one of the reasons the board members wanted his castle included in this project in the first place. They said in comparison to the other castles in the British Isles, very few people are even aware of its existence."

"Only th' locals and th' few visitors that happen by the place." He pointed to her sketchbook then. "I couldn't help but notice you worked on a sketch while you waited for your supper. Do you mind if I have a look?"

Mariah shrugged and as she handed him the book she said, "There really isn't anything that spectacular to see. I just have a tendency to draw when there's nothing else to keep me occupied. So I usually keep a sketchbook close by."

Evan nodded and took a great deal of time flipping through each of the pages. Some of her sketches startled him a bit. Yet, she couldn't see which of her drawings caused his eyes to double in size because he tilted the book upward and tucked his head down.

When at last he spoke, he cleared his throat and said, "I see now why they have hired an artist such as yourself for this project. You have an extraordinary talent for medieval images. I especially like your stalwart knight in his various poses, this one here in particular." He turned the book around so she could see the sketch he referenced. All the while, his eyes probed hers. "I can actually see th' sadness, pain, and anguish reflected in his eyes. Very nice."

"Thank you." Mariah took in a small breath and slowly released it as she gazed into the eyes of her fourteenth-century knight. She knew them so well she could paint them in her sleep. Although Evan couldn't know it, those penetrating eyes were a most incredible shade of gray. His dark brown hair, trimmed beard, and mustache, set them off to perfection.

She had drawn this same knight in all his various moods and stances for as far back as she had recollection. Her mother often said — to anyone who cared to listen — that she sketched this man incessantly from the moment she could hold a pencil in her hand. She followed that comment by saying it creeped her out.

Nonetheless, whenever anyone asked her about his identity throughout the years, she simply said she didn't know. And in truth, she didn't. She had no idea why his image remained forever entrenched in her mind. Perhaps her psyche created him from a storybook read or a movie seen while in the stages of her early childhood. Either way it didn't really matter. She stopped trying to figure it out years ago.

"So, tell me, is th' man that served as your model from around here?" he asked, pointing to her knight.

She shook her head. "Nope. I can guarantee you he's not from around here."

"Evaann, we need another pint over here," one of the husky patrons hollered out in familiar, friendly fashion.

Evan shrugged and gave her an apologetic smile. "I'm afraid duty calls. Enjoy th' rest of your meal."

A thing easier said than done, Mariah murmured inwardly as all eyes watched every mouthful she took. So she hurried. Yet at the same time, she made every effort not to appear hurried. Once she finished, paid her check, and made her way to the door, Evan bid her goodbye. Just before the door closed, he invited her to return often. He said they'd keep a chair open with her name on it. Pleasant enough comment she supposed. However, just as she exited through the doorway, one of the customers jabbed his companion with his elbow.

"I wonder how long she'll last out there," he snickered, unconcerned as to whether or not she heard him speak.

The other one snorted and said, "I don't think she'll last th' night."

With a slight toss of her head, she got into her car and drove off. She didn't have any difficulty following Laird MacNaughton's simple directions. Within fifteen minutes of leaving the pub, she stepped on the brake just outside a massive set of iron gates. Those gates connected to a stone fence at least six feet in height. Her mouth dropped as she studied the structure that lay just beyond the fence. Without taking her eyes off the imposing castle, she switched off the engine, and stepped out of the car. The recent rain left a trailing mist over the grounds and thick clouds shrouded the castle. She found it both mysterious and enchanting. And — this very setting is how she would paint the main portrait. She'd need look no further for inspiration.

Filled with desire to explore the place in its entirety, she made her way to the towering stone fence. As instructed, she yanked on the third stone down from the top of the wall, left hand side, and removed it. The key and a letter rested atop the crumbling mortar. She collected them both. Her letter contained all the information she needed to find the caretaker's cottage, her rooms, and run the generator. The caretaker, who'd gone on extended holiday with his wife, said the generator could prove a might touchy.

After driving through and securing the gates, Mariah took hold of her bag and exited the car. She retrieved her digital camera and set about taking a wide variety of pictures. Once she photographed the entire exterior from every possible angle, she strolled toward the castle entrance. All the while, she fixed her gaze on the turrets and towers high above her.

Something from those lofty heights demanded her attention. Though perhaps she perceived nothing more than the unique architecture coupled with the mist that cloaked them. Together they formed a fascinating picture. The array of missing stones added a certain charm to the ancient castle and gave it an even more mysterious look. Did those stones break away from the outer walls during a siege? If so, she decreed the courageous knights of this castle as victors over their opponents. Perhaps she could include such a scene in one of her smaller paintings.

She made her way to the large weathered doors, squeezed down on the stubborn latch, and thrust her hip against the splintered wood. The hinges moaned against the intrusion as she entered the great hall. Her gaze swept the entirety of the room. Remnants of ancient furnishings remained within the boundaries of its walls, as did two massive tables set perpendicular to the entrance. Long benches, sturdy in design, sat beneath them. A few bedraggled tapestries hung on the walls. The dais sat empty, void of the ornate chair from which the succession of lords governed the people.

Just as she turned to face the spiral staircase, a sudden heaviness permeated the air surrounding her. She took in a series of shallow breaths as her heartbeat accelerated in response. The familiar feeling usually meant a ghost or ghosts occupied the space next to or near her. Every muscle in her body tensed as she turned around, expecting only heaven knew what this time. The past two and a half years taught her that not all ghosts appreciated the intrusion of visitors, especially the medieval sort. Such specters could carry a nasty, formidable attitude and amazing abilities she didn't quite understand.

"Hello?" She took a half step forward, swallowed past the dryness in her throat, and assumed a calm persona. "I'm sorry. I don't mean to impose —"

No one responded to the overture. Once again, she turned away from the outer walls and took a step toward the main stairway off to the left of the hall. In that same moment, someone tugged on a lock of her hair. Goose bumps popped out on her skin. She gasped and whipped around to confront her unseen companion. Mariah scanned the room as she wrapped her hands atop her arms and rubbed against the chill.

Did she just hear a deep, masculine chuckle or simply the wind echoing through the crevices? Apprehension made her shiver. As the heaviness dissipated a bit, Mariah released her breath. If a ghost, rather than her imagination, had just greeted her inside this hall, at least he appeared somewhat tolerant of her presence. For now —

She forced all thoughts of ghostly entities into a pen, made her way to the stone staircase, and climbed the steps. According to her letter, they prepared her bedroom on the second floor, west wing, and last room down the main hallway. It didn't take her long to find it.

The wooden door shuddered and groaned as she opened it. Mariah peeked in before she stepped all the way inside. She noticed the antique armoire first and then the highboy dresser. To the left she spied a Victorian era bed, which separated two magnificent night tables. Hurricane style lanterns, with round frosted glass, adorned the tabletops. An ancient stone fireplace, already stacked with wood and kindling atop the iron grate, centered the right hand wall. One electric floor lamp, with the cord still coiled around the base, stood in the corner. A small desk and chair completed the furnishings. In truth, she hadn't expected anything quite so grand.

She made her way to the large arched window located between the armoire and dresser, opened the linen draperies, and gazed at the view. In the distance, tall trees with substantial trunks indicated a very old forest. The woodland lay just beyond the green grassy fields surrounding the castle. Nothing modern marred the area's pristine beauty. Contentment settled in as she rested her head against the casement. If a piece of heaven existed on earth, then surely she found it right here at Laird MacNaughton's castle. Ghosts or no ghosts, she found it a pity her final assignment had a deadline attached.

The light inside the room waned as the sun traveled west toward the hills, and with a bit of reluctance, Mariah turned away from the enchanting view. She made her way to the night table closest to the window, retrieved the matches, and lit both lamps. They cast a warm golden glow throughout the room as well as a couple of eerie shadows that danced along the walls. Right then the disembodied laughter and the tug on her hair popped into her mind. The memory fueled a burning need to activate the generator before darkness filled the castle. Her note said she could find "the beast" in the bailey.

Numerous whispers accompanied her steps as she descended the staircase. Surely the continuous winds traveling through the various chimneys and wall fissures created these haunting sounds. At least, that's what she told herself as she made her way outside to the lower bailey. The generator, a cumbersome rectangular looking thing, sat against the innermost wall. She took the caretaker's letter from out of her pocket as she approached the machine. He told her the main switch lay just beneath the six round gauges on top and just next to the largest two beneath them. She needed to flip the switch and click the start button. If that didn't work, he said, then she needed to turn the hand crank on the opposite end of the generator. He already filled the machine with enough petrol to last several weeks. They stored the surplus fuel inside the carriage house next to the cottage, should she need to refuel.

(Continues…)

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Excerpted from "Spirit of the Knight"
by .
Copyright © 2014 Debbie Peterson.
Excerpted by permission of The Wild Rose Press, Inc..
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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