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the sound of wind and rain and the odd curse from his men echoing in the silence of the hills.
    Somehow, the bloodcurdling screams that echoed from time to time in his present keep didn’t satisfy him in like manner.
    But a shade did what he had to and took what pleasure he could. Thorpewold was not Connor’s preferred location, but he had no desire to return to his hall in the Highlands, so it would serve him well enough. Besides, he’d waited a bloody long time to call the stones beneath his feet his. He hadn’t paid for it with his blood, nor had he paid for it with his gold, but he had paid for it with his very will to have it, and have it he would.
    And hold it he would, as well.
    At least now he no longer had houseguests. He’d managed to rid himself of Thomas McKinnon and several other annoying shades with one deft move during the fall.
    He paused.
    Very well, so Thomas McKinnon had wed himself a MacLeod wench and departed for safer ground without any of Connor’s aid. Connor was certain he would have driven the man away on his own, given time. It was enough that Thomas was gone. If he never had to set eyes on another McKinnon, it would be too soon. They were trouble, that family, and though he had no fear of trouble, he also couldn’t deny that a little peace, such as it might be in a hall full of chattering tourists, would be a welcome thing.
    And peace from Thomas McKinnon and anyone else of his ilk could not be prized too highly.
    He turned and walked along the wall, surveying the goings-on in the inner bailey. There was nothing remarkable there. Men milled about, doing what men did on a pleasant morning when there were swords to be used and enemies to use them on. He looked at them and nodded to himself. Aye, those men would all call him laird in the end. He would make certain of that.
    Now if he could just find himself a decent garrison captain, he might have an enjoyable and smoothly running afterlife.
    “My laird?”
    Connor turned and looked at his first aspirant, Angus Campbell, a shade of goodly skill, but not one overendowed with wit. But when looking for a captain, one had to begin somewhere.
    “Aye?” Connor asked, vowing to begin the day with a bit of patience.
    “I’ve tidings, my laird.” Angus swallowed with difficulty, as if he could barely contain his fear.
    Were the tidings so terrifying, then? Connor frowned. “Well?”
    Angus shifted nervously. “There are souls intending to assault the keep.”
    “Tourists?”
    “Nay, my laird, I think not.”
    “You think not,” Connor repeated slowly. “Perhaps you should think less and use your eyes more. If they are not tourists, what could they possibly be?”
    “Other sorts.”
    “Other sorts?” Connor echoed. “What kind of other sorts?”
    Angus began to tremble. “Well, you see, my laird, it is thus that I understand it . . .” He paused dramatically, in spite of, or perhaps because of, his shaking. “There are preparations for guests at the inn.” He paused again. “The Boar’s Head Inn, my laird. The one down the way there.”
    “They are always preparing for guests at the inn. That one down the way—aye, I knew which one, you imbecile!”
    Angus cowered. “But gear has been sent on ahead of what looks to be a full assault of many guests upon the inn, my laird. The shed is full to the brim and old Farris’s barn down the way has been filled as well. I watched a large lorry move in items of strange and ominous portents.”
    “How do you know those items belong to the guests at the inn?” Connor asked in a measured tone.
    Angus blinked. “I eavesdropped, my laird.”
    Well, that was something useful, at least. “What else did you hear? And pray that ’tis something I will find to my liking,” Connor said with a growl.
    “I heard the name McKinnon mentioned, my laird,” Angus said, his teeth chattering.
    “Impossible!”
    Angus trembled violently. “ ’Tis so, my laird.”
    “I thought I’d rid myself of that