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pushed her way into the castle.
    “You’re not married then? No Mrs... Uh...”
    “Heathcliff, Laird McKinnon, at your service. There is no Lady McKinnon.” It may have been the first time in his adult life when the confession sounded like good news to his ears.
    “Heathcliff? That’s your first name?” She looked as if she might burst out laughing. At least she’d gotten used to looking at him without blushing—for the most part. He had that effect on many a lass, for all the good it did him once they discovered who he was.
    “My given name, yes. You find it amusing for some reason?”
    “I’m sorry. I’m sure you get teased all the time about Wuthering Heights. It’s just that my middle name is Catherine.”
    He felt as though he’d been saying as much all the long day, but he said it again. “I doona understand.”
    She rolled her lovely eyes. “You don’t know Wuthering Heights? I thought every British kid had to know the classics.”
    “Classics?”
    She gave him a kindly smile that made him feel like a simple child. Though he liked the smile, he cared not for the feeling.
    “Books. Wuthering Heights is my favorite, written by Emily Bronte. Published in 1847, I think. Maybe ‘48. I’ve read it dozens of times.”
    His blood ran cold, pushing a chill to every extreme of his body. His grandmother’s voice rang in his ears. When a Muir gets a feeling, everyone best keep on their toes . Though he was only one quarter Muir, there was enough in his blood to make the townsfolk leery of him. Perhaps they were justified in their suspicions after all. For his chill tasted of something else as well and whispered in his head...
    Something wicked this way comes.
    “Do you have this book with ye, lass?” He tried his damnedest to appear casual.
    She frowned and rolled those eyes once again. “It’s not like I carry a copy with me when I go on vacation. But I can tell you the story.”
    “I’d rather ye tell me that date again. When did ye say it was published?”
    “1847. I think. I could be wrong, but it’s somewhere around there.”
    “Nay, lass. Ye’re mistaken. Surely ye meant to say 1747.”
    She shook her head. “No. I’m sure it was mid- nineteenth century. Victorian era.”
    “ Victorian era? Mid-nineteenth century? Just what year do ye suppose it is now?”
    “Uh, twenty twelve.”
    She gave him that indulgent smile again and he most definitely did not like it. In fact, it was best he not appreciate anything about the woman since she was obviously mad. No matter what she’d said about wearing her underthings to protect her hair, the woman was not right in the head. And if his doorstep continued to be as busy on the morrow, his family castle would be a lunatic asylum by New Year’s Day.
    No matter how she might help him learn to speak with the child, he would get the daft young woman on her way in the morning, to get her good and far from his young charge. God, or Fate, had gotten it wrong. Sending Brianna Colby to his door was not going to solve his problems. And since even the bloody Man in the Moon hadn’t come to his aid, it might be best if he stopped answering his door altogether.
    Someone slammed the knocker on the front door. Then they slammed it again. And again. The sound resembled that of a blacksmith striking his anvil.
    On another day it might have been amusing to have his thought interrupted by such banging. But not this day, for he was certain Something Wicked ...
    ...had arrived.

CHAPTER SIX
     
    As Heathcliff reached for the doorknob, hairs arose on the nape of his neck. But he was no coward. Not answering his door had been a silly notion. Of course he would open it and deal with whomever stood upon his stoop.
    He ignored the fact that he was unable to breathe while he swung the door wide, but there was no one there. At his feet was a strange square box covered with green cloth. A missive was perched upon it, growing soggy under a covering of snowflakes that sparkled as