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Wind? Too much gusty sighing on her part? She stared at the medieval-looking clothing hanging on the rack above her. Well, nothing was moving now. She snorted to herself. Too much talk of ghosts. Either that or sleep deprivation was catching up with her. She turned back to her work.
    One metal hanger clanked against another. Victoria looked up sharply. She wondered, a little desperately, where the breeze was coming from.
    But there was no breeze.
    And she could see now that one of the capes was definitely moving.
    All by itself.
    Victoria dug the heels of her hands into her eyes and rubbed vigorously. When she could see again, she looked at the spot where the clothing had been moving.
    Only now she could she what had been moving it.
    A man stood there, dressed in what she could only identify as medieval Highland gear. His hair was a flaming red not unlike her own. He had a very large sword hanging down by his side. He was wearing a crisp white shirt and had a heavy plaid blanket of sorts pleated around his waist, with one end thrown over his shoulder. It was fastened with an enormous silver brooch that sparkled with emeralds and rubies.
    He was fondling a purple velvet cape and making noises of appreciation. He stood on tiptoe to reach the caps on the rack. He lovingly caressed one with a long, luscious feather on it. Victoria felt her jaw go slack. She pinched herself.
    “Ow,” she said involuntarily.
    The man whipped around to look at her, squeaking in surprise.
    Victoria couldn’t seem to retrieve her jaw. She could only manage garbled sounds of surprise and disbelief.
    The man shifted nervously.
    Victoria clamped down on her raging imagination with an iron fist and forced herself to speak. “Are you a ghost?” she demanded.
    The man gulped, then took off his own cap and clutched it nervously between his hands. “Hugh McKinnon,” he said. He made her a low bow, then promptly vanished.
    Victoria felt herself start to go numb. It began at the top of her head and traveled downward. She realized in horror that she was going to faint. She didn’t have time to faint; she had to finalize production arrangements. She had to get the last of her stuff out of her apartment for the summer. She had to make sure Michael Fellini had everything he needed and would enjoy that first-class flight she had booked for him. She had to empty out the prop room that she no longer had rights to—but that was okay because she now knew for a fact that it was haunted. Let Mr. Yoga Man put that in his feng shui and smoke it.
    She felt herself keeling over. At least she was close to the ground and it wouldn’t hurt so badly when she landed.
    She looked up at the ceiling as consciousness began to fade. She was greeted again by the sight of one Hugh McKinnon, dressed in his Highland gear, leaning over her and watching her with consternation on his face.
    She sincerely hoped that this wasn’t some kind of cosmic foreshadowing. Her dad had warned her there were otherworldly things going on both at the castle and the inn Megan owned down the road from that castle. No wonder Thomas had laughed out loud every time he heard her mention doing Hamlet .
    She wondered if, for the first time in her life, she might have leaped where she should have looked.
    Too late now . . .

Chapter 2
    Connor MacDougal stood on the parapet of Thorpewold Castle and stared out over the bleak landscape before him. It wasn’t in his nature to be overly sentimental, but in times like these, when the tourist season was coming on and there were hauntings and otherworldly things going on at all hours, he found himself longing for the quiet of his hall in the Highlands.
    Of course, in his day there had always been a bit of bloodshed with neighboring clans to enliven what might have otherwise been a dull spring afternoon. And, true, there had invariably been the excitement of a properly executed cattle raid to hold his interest for a day or so. But for the most part, he had enjoyed