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her. “There’s a rather unpleasant fellow, if I must say.”
    Baillie chuckled. “A brooding artist is what we call his type in America. Though the costume concept is a bit over the top.”
    “Hmm, brooding, aye. Will the group of them be as withering as this one?”
    Baillie moved down the stairs, the rustle of her long Elizabethan skirts the only noise. She cradled the papers in her arms. “Surely not. I’ve had writers gather at my bookstore, and they could be quite entertaining and animated. Mr. Olson is one tightly wound rubber band.”
    • • •
    Leaning on the kitchen counter, Rogue chewed on the tip of a ragged fingernail while reading an interview about Jonathan from a website on her laptop. What about him had hooked her attention other than the physical appearance of someone dark and gorgeous? She’d met many celebrities with high levels of breathtaking manliness over the years, without any reaction. This man oozed, what? His outside appearance screamed confidence: the groomed beard and longer, dark hair pulled back in a short ponytail like an American gunslinger of the Old West, with his collar up in a bad boy style. An educated gentleman with eloquent speech, according to the interview postings. She tapped her toes, looking at various images of him on Google. The man had an image portfolio online that rivaled any B-list celebrity. She clicked to enlarge one. His eyes staring back at her from the professional photo seemed to erase everyone else in the room, like she stood alone only for him.
    Shuffling into the room, Robbie pulled a frayed handkerchief from his back pocket and wiped his forehead. “The guests are here. Half dozen cars just caravanned up the drive.”
    Rogue snapped the laptop shut as if caught in some guilty pleasure, yanked on the sleeves of her costume, and twisted the material at the waist, stalling to catch her breath.
    “Quit yer fussing, lassie, and get yerself out front.” Putney pulled a tray of pastries from the oven. “’Tis an easy job ya have today with those American word sellers.”
    Rogue faked a curtsy and scurried away, laughing, nudging Robbie in front of her.
    “Donna rush an old man, lass. I canna go but one speed; I’ll be there soon enough. Go make sure the part-time help do their job and no one falls in the moat.”
    “Rogue,” Baillie called, holding up the folder. “I have all their paperwork. Don’t fuss about check-in right now. Take them in the parlor for tea, and we’ll sort out who’s who in there.”
    Opening the front door, Rogue welcomed the travel weary as they oohed and aahed walking over the moat, shivering from the gusts of wind. She smiled at the lot; enjoying their stares and comments at first seeing the castle never got old. She gave the men and women time in the entryway before directing the dazed traffic to refreshments. Young men from town, hired for the event, rushed among the cabs, loading luggage on various carts. She encouraged them to hustle and pointed where to park the carts in a side hallway for now.
    “Stay close—ya’ll be needed soon to carry bags to their rooms. Go now and get a biscuit from Putney for your troubles.” She closed the guest-only front door against the bite in the wind. Though the spring equinox had passed months ago, an unusually chilly spring lingered. The sky’s display was overcast one minute with the sun breaking through the next, but it was always more blustery than still. But she was not giving up the possibility of a decent week for the guests.
    The babble of voices harmonizing with the clink of thin china made Rogue turn around. Typically, guests to the castle came in pairs, lovestruck brides or anniversary partners surrounded by immediate family and friends, and the romantic haunted castle theme brought a steady source of international couples.
    This writer event piqued her interest with the idea of meeting a soiree of creative folks. She was in awe of people who could imagine whole other