Ghost Unlaid

Ghost Unlaid

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Marie Treanor

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Ghost Unlaid By

Marie Treanor Triskelion Publishing www.triskelionpublishing.com

Published by Triskelion Publishing www.triskelionpublishing.com 15508 W. Bell Rd. #101, PMB #502, Surprise, AZ 85374 U.S.A. First e-published by Triskelion Publishing First e-publishing July 2005 ISBN 1-933471-32-8 Copyright © Marie Treanor 2005 All rights reserved. Cover art by Triskelion Publishing PUBLISHER’S NOTE: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to persons living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

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PROLOGUE

With every step, the King became more certain. There was grief in his heart for his wife and his children, and helpless anger for what he knew they would suffer. And there was anguish for his country, his people, for he could have made things better. But beneath his saddle, his little grey horse moved slowly, inexorably on, like the march of time and fate that no mortal, even a king, could alter. His escort surrounded him protectively, still pleased with their cleverness in persuading him to avoid trouble by taking the quiet, unexpected route through Strathbogie.

Though the King could not recall being here before, the scenery was becoming

increasingly familiar to him – every rock and hillock, every bare bush and tree with new buds barely formed, even the big, black crow staring at him so knowingly from the still stark branch to his left. It was coming with the spring, this new beginning for his country, down roads he would never have taken and now could not choose. Another hand would guide, and his only comfort was that it would not all be bad. Only it was harder than he had expected to give up his fight, more painful to face the loss of his family. Yet still, behind it all, even as his men began to grow restive, to turn in their saddles, suspicious at last of being tracked and ambushed, there was a strange, excited anticipation, for this was his new beginning too. He knew precisely when the first man would fall. He had time to order his escort behind him – no point in more of them than necessary dying – and then, even while they obediently fell back, four men lunged out from the trees, weapons raised, yelling. The King smiled, for it was just as he had dreamed. Drawing his own huge sword, he rode down the first man, smiting the next while urging on his screaming horse till he found the enemy he wanted, young and tall, arrogant and callous, waiting for him. He had to try; and he had the impression his strength surprised young Malcolm. But there was never any doubt.

There was a shove from behind, another unseen enemy knocking him off the

frightened grey horse, and then from the ground where he lay winded, there was Malcolm, sword raised above him for the kill. And he smiled again, seeing not the violent, triumphant face of his enemy, but the laughing, beautiful one of his fate, for whom he would wait a thousand years.

Marie Treanor

The sword drove down, hard, and the wait began.

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Ghost Unlaid

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CHAPTER 1

There were times when Julie Macbeth wished she had not given up Taekwon-do. Such as now, when she sat facing her new boss across the sternly clear desk, to be told off like a naughty schoolgirl. Her right foot itched till she had to squash it with her left to prevent attack. “You must see, Julie that sending such obscene e-mails is not proper use of National Library computers…” “It was not obscene,” she said between her teeth, for only the eightieth time that day. “It was a joke.” “It contained an obscene word,” Mr Harding said with dignity. “And even if it had not, sending jokes to your friends on Library time…” “I have already apologized,” Julie interrupted. She couldn’t have gone through it all again if her job depended on it. Even her boiling indignation and that of her friends and colleagues – at such a fuss being made over a trivial joke was just mind-numbingly boring by this stage. “Rest assured I will stick rigidly to Library rules from now on.” “It is my job to see that you do.” Which was an extremely narrow, not to say dull interpretation of his job. If she had got the promotion (which, had there been a reasonable God, she would) she would have found better things to do than snoop on people’s e-mails and waste an entire day disciplining staff over one of the score of harmless jokes sent round the building every week. Of course, Harding knew that Julie had gone after the Head of Department job too, had probably picked up on the general resentment of the department that it had been given to an outsider instead, and was making sure that she knew exactly what his power was. It was pathetic really. And yet Harding, with his smart suit and trendy glasses, was considered one of the new whizzes of the profession, with a head full of IT and business plans. Why he wanted to be in charge of the Department of Special Acquisitions and Gifts was beyond Julie.. How could you run that as a business? “Given this difficulty,” Harding was saying now, “I think it would be best to keep you away from the Library for a while.”

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Julie stared at him, suddenly panicked for the first time. “Are you suspending me? You can’t!” He smiled thinly, pleasantly surprised that she could be rattled. “Don’t be melodramatic. Of course I can’t. You know about the Drummond legacy?” But if he had hoped to throw Julie by the abrupt change of subject, she was grimly pleased to foil him. Thinking on her feet was one of the things she was good at. So, refusing to let her relief show, she sat back in her chair, and said lazily, “Huge collection of rare books, recently discovered in some big house in the New Town.. Last I heard, the owner was haggling over price.” “He isn’t any more. Desperate to be rid of it. What we need to do now is go through it all, reject all the books which we already have in the same edition, divide those which are left according to their condition, so that we can make him a realistic offer. Then we must catalogue them before they’re brought here. That way there can be no misunderstanding.” “Naturally,” she said, letting boredom filter gently into her tone. He needn’t think he could lecture her on the basics. She had been running this department for months before his appointment. There was a pause, long enough for her to look up from the pen she was idly tapping on the desk. “I am told,” he said carefully, “that you have the necessary skills to undertake such a task.” Julie said nothing, simply met his gaze till, presumably, he realized he had been patronizing enough, and dropped it. Abruptly, he stood. “Well, get straight down to Drummond Place tomorrow morning and make a start. I’ve already made a preliminary inspection, of course, separated out some of the rarest items. I’m sure you can manage the rest.” “I’ll do my best,” she said, and he cast her a quick, hard glance, as if he suspected her – quite justifiably as it happens–of sarcasm, before walking to the door and holding it open. “Good,” he said, and Julie, dismissed like that naughty child again, rose and walked out of his office without another word. Harding looked after her with dislike. It wasn’t just the fact that she so clearly considered herself better suited to run the department than he was. It was her general air of defiance, her very appearance which goaded him. Light and quick in mind as well as body, she ruined what could have been a perfectly neat turn-out by wearing old and unprofessional clothes, probably acquired in charity shops, like today’s flowing skirt and loose, brightly coloured top.What was wrong with black trouser suits or straight dark skirts like everyone else? And as for that ridiculous hair, it should always be tied back instead of allowed to tumble wildly around her face and shoulders like some debauched pre-Raphaelite maiden!

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And yet with all of that, he was always uneasily conscious of her graceful body moving within those loose clothes. Honesty compelled him to admit that for some reason they made her look sexier than most of those tight, short skirts that professional women were supposed to wear. And in his eyes, that was a crime too. In the outer office, Julie found Maggie standing by her desk with her pink leather jacket already on, her pixie face avid. Peter stuck his curly head in from the reading-room where he had been on duty. “Well?” they said in unison. Julie grimaced. “I’ve been told off. And sent to deal with the Drummond legacy by way of punishment.” “Not much of a punishment for you!” Maggie said derisively. “Or me,” she added thoughtfully. “Oh I don’t know,” said Peter. “The rumour is, Jack Drummond wants rid of the whole house because it’s haunted. He’s decamped back to London.” “Boogie-boogie,” Julie said sourly. “I thought you’d be pleased to get your hands on that at last,” said Maggie, picking up her bag. And of course, she was pleased.. It was just that she knew she could have managed the whole thing better on her own.

Next morning, she walked from her Abbeyhill flat down the hill to Drummond Place. Though it was a fair distance, the bright autumn sunshine and the fresh east-coast breeze made it extremely pleasant to be outside – and with the job to be done at the end of it, it came close to the perfect morning for Julie.. She could even wear her jeans and her favourite, comfortable old T-shirt (too Lara Croft for the bosses) since she was not working in the Library. Leaving the Victorian buildings behind for the cleaner-cut Georgian architecture of Edinburgh’s New Town, she reflected not for the first time that there were worse areas of the city to live. Set out in elegant, spacious streets and crescents, and green-filled squares turning slowly into the burnt orange, browns and golds of autumn, there could not have been a greater contrast to the higgledy-piggledy Old Town centered around the castle. Though these days, a house in either location would cost a fortune, more than Julie would ever earn. Her best hope had been the Abbeyhill flat, planted somewhere in between the two fashionable districts, central and, the estate agents had told her, bound to “come up.” She found the Drummond house quite easily. On the end of a tall, Georgian terrace, it was still fronted by its original big iron gates. What looked like very dusty dark red Victorian curtains hung in the nearest ground-floor window.

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The stunning stained-glass front door was opened by a very bright and cheery woman with grey hair and a smart shirt-waister dress. “Good morning,” Julie said brightly. “I’m Julie Macbeth, from the National Library…” “Oh yes, come in!” The lady spoke in the refined Edinburgh accents of Morningside. She held the door wide and Julie stepped across the mosaic floor of the vestibule and inside the wide, open hall. Like most of these houses, this one was built on gracious lines, with hugely high ceilings and an elegant staircase curving up to the upper floors. “This way!” Obediently, Julie followed her tapping court heels across the hall to a room at the back of the house. Throwing open the door, and flicking the light switch on, the lady said, “This is the library. It’s very dusty, I’m afraid – no one has cleaned in there for years! Mr. Harding said you would be working here for a few days?” She sounded rather doubtful. Peering past her, Julie said soothingly, “Yes, if that’s all right. If we just take away what we want, then Mr. Drummond can auction off the rest with the house. What a beautiful room!” “Do you think so?” Unexpectedly, she shivered. “It gives me the creeps! I never go in there as a rule. I’m Amy Burton, by the way – I was old Mr. Drummond’s housekeeper.” “Ah. You live here then?” Julie had managed to wriggle past her into the room, and stood for a moment looking around her.. It was a big room, every wall lined with books from ceiling to floor. A mezzanine platform ran round three quarters of it, with a wooden rail to prevent accidents, and a narrow spiral stair for access. It even had little wooden ladders that slid on rails around the bookshelves. Julie felt a little shiver of delighted anticipation. Mrs. Burton was saying, “I have my own flat at the top, but of course, I’ll be moving out now.” She sighed. “Chances are the house will be divided into apartments anyway.” “Maybe you could just buy your own,” Julie suggested. “At New Town prices?” Mrs. Burton said tartly, and Julie smiled sympathetically. “There’s always the Lottery!” She was gazing at the big, Georgian fireplace which dominated one wall, books on either side of it, and at the faded blue Persian rug which lay before the marble hearth. In the middle of the floor stood two large mahogany desks with a high-backed leather chair at each. One was piled high with two precarious columns of largely crumbling leather-bound books. “I’ll keep an eye out for flying pigs as well,” Mrs.. Burton said drily. “Are you sure you’ll be all right in here? I know it’s a bit cold… Through that door in the corner is a wee wash room – Mr.

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Drummond used to clean that himself, and I’ve made myself do it once since he died, so feel free to use it. Would you like some tea or coffee? It’s only instant, I’m afraid.” “I’d love some coffee!” Julie said promptly, and smiling cheerfully, Mrs. Burton bustled off to make it. Walking towards the windows across the central rug, which seemed to match the one at the fireplace, Julie reached up to grasp the heavy curtains. Instantly, she was enveloped in a cloud of dust, and sneezed violently four times. But she persevered, on the grounds that she would only need to do it once, and then the dust would settle. It didn’t very noticeably, but the autumn sunlight flooding into the room through the grubby windows gave it a much more pleasant glow. What she had thought to be a picture above the fireplace turned out to be a mirror, almost opaque with dust. Standing on tiptoe before it, Julie wiped it with her sleeve till she could make out her own face staring back at her. Her cheeks were still flushed from her brisk walk in the Edinburgh wind, her wild Pre-Raphaelite hair tumbling more crazily than ever. She had to admit, ruefully, that she didn’t look like the head of a National Library of Scotland department. In fact, she looked more like a delinquent schoolgirl than a mature and responsible woman the wrong side of thirty. Oh well, who cares? she thought gleefully. I have this to myself…! Eagerly now, she moved to the desk piled high with large books. These then were the specially rare ones that Harding had picked out. Clearly he had never worked with rare books before. Leaving aside the criminally careless way he had left them, the first two weren’t remotely scarce in the National Library – there were already three copies of each and several other editions to boot. Smirking smugly, she replaced them, her fingers lingering lovingly on the top one – they were still beautiful books to her, full of their own life, their own history, which always meant as much to Julie as the information they contained. A little frisson of excitement tingled up her arm from her fingers, as if the books beneath were agreeing. This was the place, she thought, to forget all her petty disappointments and remember why she loved her job. She was just going to enjoy studying the books. Rather unkindly, she decided to leave Harding’s pile till last, so that she could laugh over it with Maggie or Peter if they came to help.

Just a little later, with Mrs. Burton’s coffee clutched in one hand, she made a brief round of the shelves, enjoying the familiar musty smell that Maggie had dubbed Old Book when it clung to her hands and clothes like perfume.

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The library, like the house itself, had been in the Drummond family for more than two hundred years, and the collection reflected the fact. There was everything here, from bound manuscripts to incunabula to paperbacks, covering every conceivable topic from religion to particle physics.. Astounding that such a fine library should only recently have come to light – and how dreadful to have to give it up! If she had been young Mr. Drummond, she would have hung on to it like grim death. Although she supposed in fairness that the insurance would be ruinous. Abandoning her cup on the empty desk, she began to think of the unspeakable Mr. Harding quite kindly – his punishment was pure delight to her. Spinning around, she kicked out with her right leg, bringing her foot to an absolute halt barely a centimeter away from the book-pile on the next desk. It still worked. Grinning, she climbed up the nearest ladder and pushed off, hurling at high speed around the walls – it even did corners. Delighted, she laughed out loud, and had already begun to scoot wildly back again before she saw him. Sheer startlement sent her tumbling off the still-moving ladder into an ungraceful heap on the floor, from where she stared up in astonishment at the man who sat cross-legged and wobbling on top of the precarious book-towers on the desk. “Well,” he observed, looking in apparently mild surprise from Julie to the books beneath him. “This is different.” His eyes moved on around the walls. “Or perhaps not.” Julie closed her mouth. “Where in hell did you come from? I didn’t see you come in!” “I know you didn’t.” The light eyes, sparkling with the reflected sun from the window, came back to her. They looked amused. She struggled to sit up. “That,” she said pointedly, “is no way to treat rare books!” This time he grinned openly, forcing her to realize with an unaccustomed jolt that he was extremely attractive. Straight dark hair, fetchingly rumpled, hanging almost to his neck, framed a lean face with broad cheekbones and full, sensual lips that looked as if they could persuade any woman to anything.

And he had a slightly pointed chin that added an air of humor, even mischief to his

appearance. “True,” he agreed. And of course, his voice was a melter too, curiously deep and soft at the same time, his accents definitely Scottish, yet with a hint of something exotic and unknown.Russell Crowe meets Sean Connery. Uncrossing his bare, brown legs, he slid his sandaled feet gingerly on to the desk and jumped agilely down without dislodging any of the books.. He was wearing a sort of long, sleeveless brown tunic that came down to his knees. Definitely a hippy look. Especially when it wasn’t clear what he

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wore underneath. Julie had never heard that young Mr. Jack Drummond was a hippy. But then she couldn’t actually recall hearing anything very much about him at all, except that he was keen to sell his late uncle’s books to the National Library for a very reasonable price… But now he was moving across the space between them, his step quick, lithe, unconsciously graceful, his almost-black hair shimmering in the shaft of sunlight with an unexpected glint of chestnut. After this blank moment of distraction, Julie found herself staring at one long, brown-fingered hand held down in front of her face. Blinking, she understood finally that it was to help her up. She took it a little gingerly, feeling the unexpected strength in the slim fingers which immediately closed around her hand, and in the lean body brought uncomfortably close to hers as she was pulled smoothly to her feet. She was half-ashamed of her physical reaction to this complete stranger. It had been a long time since she had felt such a strong attraction, and it was making her hot and confused. She could feel the betraying color seeping into her face. She wished he would move away, so that he wouldn’t see, but he hadn’t even let go of her hand. And God help her, his touch was electric. Hazily, she realized he was smiling down at her.. “Greetings,” he said amiably. “Who are you?” She swallowed. “Julie Macbeth,” she managed. “From the National Library.” His eyebrows shot up, and following them, she registered that it was a mono-brow. Beware of a man whose eyebrows meet in the middle… “Macbeth, son of light,” he observed, gazing at her quite intently. “Daughter, in your case.” It crossed her mind then that he was not quite sane, and she knew her eyes looked rather doubtful as he bent and kissed her hand with quite unnecessary reverence. There was some deep emotion emanating from him too, which she was quite at a loss to account for. And yet her breath caught at the unexpectedly soft touch of his lips – it was a mere brush. She whipped her hand away. And then felt clumsily ungracious, particularly after his own, oddly courtly gesture. At once he stepped back, leaving her body perversely cold and bereft. To cover it, she said loudly, “Mr. Drummond, I presume?” “Do you?” There was a faintly quizzical amusement in his face now, yet it was far from the patronizing smirk of a man who imagines he is smarter than you – that would have led to fresh regrets about renouncing Taekwon-do. This was merely pleasantly challenging. So, lifting her chin, she said, “I understood you had gone back to London – fleeing from the ghosts which allegedly haunt your uncle’s house.”

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Again, that quick smile flickered across his mobile face. “Ghosts don’t frighten me,” he observed. But she was slowly gathering her wits now, and with them came recognition of the appalling manners she had been displaying to her host. Lifting one hand in a self-deprecating gesture of apology, she said hastily, “I’m sorry. Mrs. Burton didn’t say you were here. I can arrange to come back some other time that suits you better…” For it had suddenly struck her that his odd tunic must be a sleeping garment, that he had just got out of bed and wandered around the house till he had, without warning, come across her abusing his antique furniture. Her face burned. “Oh no.” His hand lifted again, reaching out till one finger brushed her hot cheek, butterflylight.It didn’t help. His smile flickered and was gone as his hand fell. “Please don’t go. What did you come to do?” She blinked. “Sort out which of your books we would like to buy. Catalogue them. I thought Mr. Harding had already spoken to you about it.” “Not to me.” He sounded apologetic, but seeing her obvious mortification he added kindly, “I imagine he spoke to Mrs. Burton.” The unnecessary kindness made her smile, and as the immediate answer glimmered in his own eyes, she found her breath catching yet again. Somewhere in her stomach a glow had begun and was spreading dangerously downwards. Clearly she had been too celibate for too long. In quick panic, she brushed past him to the desk where her computer lay. She said breathlessly, “Then you don’t object if I start work now?” “Not at all,” he said generously. “Don’t mind me. I shall just sit here and read.” And picking a book off the top of the tower he had so recently vacated, he eased his hip on to the desk and put one foot on the dusty leather chair, resting the book on his bare knee. Julie began to be very sure that he wore nothing at all underneath that tunic, and had to squash her imagination quite firmly. But how was she meant to concentrate on dusty old books when this extremely handsome stranger sat only feet away, flaunting his semi-nakedness in front of her maidenly eyes?

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CHAPTER 2

She managed it for a couple of hours, taking some of the early printed books one at a time to her desk, checking the computer where necessary, and cataloguing the basics. After hesitating briefly, she decided to leave the more difficult analytical cataloguing until later when she could rely more on her concentration. As it was, she could not resist glancing up every so often to see what her silent companion was doing. He was always reading. He didn’t even change position, apart from swapping which leg he rested his book on.

The sun filtering through the grubby windows glinted on his golden skin,

highlighting for her edification the clean line of his collarbone, the bulging muscle of his bare arm.It was towards the end of the two hours that she noticed something odd about those arms. They looked – uneven.

The nearest one to her, the right, was thicker.

Shifting position slightly, she peered

surreptitiously closer. Yes, the left arm looked normal for a man who worked out pretty well. But the muscle of the right was huge, as if he lifted enormous weights with only one arm. Her eyes stole up to his face. Lost in his own concentration, it seemed a gentle face, quite unsuited to a man with that right arm. Or to a hard-nosed city businessman. It was undeniably handsome, she allowed, though not in any usual way. Something about his features, or the way they were slung together, was almost – quaint. And his eyes, so steady on the page, were so light as to be… They moved, quite suddenly, immediately encountering hers in their guilty observation. “Am I disappearing?” he asked, and she laughed too breathlessly, praying that he didn’t see the flush mounting inevitably to her cheeks. “Not noticeably!” Searching wildly around for an excuse, she grasped at the straw of a previous thought. “Sorry, I was just wondering if you were a fencer.” The thick eyebrow rose over a frown of incomprehension. There goes another theory, she thought. “Fencer?” he repeated. Feeling foolish, she reached out and made a couple of imaginary sword passes in the air. “Fencing. With swords.” His face cleared at once. “Of course! Yes, I have done that. What made you think so?”

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She shrugged. “Your arms…” Embarrassed, she closed the book on her desk, absently wiping dust off the cover He smiled, putting his own book aside. “You know about swords and fighting?” “Not swords. But I used to do Taekwon-do.” “Taekwon-do,” he repeated. “Korean martial art. Were you good?” “Quite good,” she said modestly. She was a black belt. She could have been the Scottish women’s champion, even world champion… “And now?” He had got to his feet, stretching luxuriously so that the tunic rode further up his muscled thighs, instantly distracting her from her own lost glories. “Now? Oh, I don’t do it any more,” she answered, forcing her eyes to stay on his. His hands dropped to his side as he wandered across to her desk. “Why not?” he asked curiously, and she was foolishly taken by surprise. She dropped her eyes, pushing the book away from her, muttering, “I – I hurt somebody. I gave it up. Would you like some coffee?” He blinked at the change of subject, but instead of answering, he perched on the front of the desk, facing her, picking up the book she had just rejected. A not uncommon seventeenth century treatise on fireworks. “People get hurt in fights,” he observed. “It wasn’t a fight. It was a demonstration. I cracked his ribs.” They had been her fiancé’s ribs, but somehow that seemed too much information. Yet when her eyes flickered up to check his reaction, he was smiling at her. “You have such beautiful hair,” he said unexpectedly. He leaned towards her. “And it smells delicious, like my mother’s garden…” Her breath caught. She always seemed to be doing that around him, and he was too close again. Agitated, she stood up, but that didn’t help - she was just hemmed in by the chair, and now on more of a height with him. His hip eased off the desk so that their bodies were almost touching. She could actually feel heat off his. Her mouth was suddenly dry, the glow in her nether parts sharpening into the pain of need. He leaned closer, causing a panic that was more delicious than scary, reaching out with his left arm. And moved the chair back for her.

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She swallowed. “Thank you,” she managed. Her voice shook. Coughing to cover it, she stumbled clumsily out of his disturbing presence. With the length of the desk between them it was easier. She could say almost naturally, “I’m going to ask Mrs. Burton for more coffee – can I get you some too?” He shook his head, still smiling very faintly. She fled. For a moment, in the big hall, she even leaned against the closed door of the library to calm the ridiculous drumming of her heart. She was behaving like a school girl confronted by her first hunk in leather pants. The thought made her giggle. There had never been a hunk in leather for her, only Justin in white cotton… When she called, Mrs. Burton appeared at top of the stairs. “Are you all right, dear?” “Yes, fine – I was just wondering if I could make myself some more coffee? It’s dusty work!” “Of course, dear. I’ll show you the kitchen.” She ended up watching Mrs. Burton do it, but at least she knew now where the kettle and the coffee were kept. Eventually, she forced herself to say casually, “I didn’t realize Mr. Drummond was still here.” “He isn’t,” Mrs. Burton assured her, handing her the milk to put back in the fridge. “He went back to London the day before yesterday.” Julie blinked, still stupidly holding the milk in front of her like a shield. “Oh. Well I suppose he didn’t actually say he was Mr. Drummond – I just assumed…” Mrs. Burton’s hand stilled on the handle of her mug. Oh no, not again! “Who?” she said, her voice just a little higher than normal. “Who didn’t actually say?” “The man in the library. He seemed so much at home I thought it must be Mr. Drummond!” Mrs. Burton smiled distractedly, but at least she released her coffee. Julie took it, sipping thirstily. “Oh yes,” the housekeeper agreed vaguely. “Quite at home…” Damn him! “Then you do know him?” Julie said, relieved. “It’s not just some nutter wandered in off the street?” “Oh no, dear. Don’t worry – he’s quite harmless! Now – do you think you’ve done enough work for today?” “Oh no.” Julie grimaced. “My boss will expect me to work till five. Lunch breaks are a luxury nowadays you know! Coffee breaks unheard of – cheers!” Mrs. Burton’s smile was mechanical. Julie shrugged. Can’t amuse all the people all the time. Turning away with a word of thanks, she made for the door. She was almost through when Mrs. Burton’s voice called after her.

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“Perhaps you should bring a colleague with you tomorrow? You know, just in case I go out for the day. Health and safety…” “Go out whenever you want,” Julie said generously. “I’ve got my phone and my computer, so I’m never cut off!” All the same, it did strike her as she walked back across to the library, that perhaps Mrs. Burton didn’t believe her semi-naked, sword-fencing nutter to be quite as harmless as she had said. Julie began to kick herself mentally for not asking outright who the devil he was. Well, that was easily remedied – she would ask him! For some reason, she fully expected him to still be where she had left him. But he wasn’t there. Or on the book tower. Or on the mezzanine or anywhere else. “Hallo?” she called. No response. “Oh nutter, where are you?” Gone. Stupidly, it felt lonely now. Too quiet, although the stranger had said very little. Julie worked for most of the day in cold, silent solitude, glancing up eagerly at every tiny noise, which was never him. She knew it was unreasonable, not to say foolish, to miss someone she knew so little, but the truth was she did. He had seemed to fit in the library, adding a little spice and fun to her work, and now that he wasn’t there, the work she loved seemed oddly dull. Toward five o’clock, when the sun had moved beyond the range of the dusty library windows, and the cold became really quite uncomfortable, she was sure, suddenly, that somebody was in the room with her. Glancing up at the door, she saw no one. Nor had he snuck in again. Apart from her the library was empty. Yet she was sure… Looking back at her computer, she sighed and finished the entry. It was difficult to shake off the feeling that she was being watched; yet it was not an uncomfortable feeling. She found, weirdly, that she actually quite liked to imagine he was there. “Julie, you need to get out more,” she muttered, and pressed the button to shut down the laptop. As she closed the lid, there was a tap on the door, and she looked up quickly to see Mrs. Burton poking her head around. “All right, dear?” “Just off.” “Fine. I’ll switch the burglar alarm on when I’ve seen you out,” Mrs. Burton said, casting her eyes around the room. “Get much done?” “Not bad. But it’s a big job. It’s the most amazing private collection I’ve ever seen.”

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“Yes, old Mr. Drummond was very proud of it.” “But his nephew’s not so interested?” “Well, he was at first. But he hasn’t really got the space for it, and he decided he’d rather give it to the nation….” “Very public spirited,” Julie approved, grabbing her jacket from the back of the chair, and picking up the laptop. “Is burglary a big problem round here?” she thought to ask as Mrs. Burton opened a tiny cupboard in the hall on the way past and began to set the alarm. “No worse than anywhere else. Just since there was all that publicity about the books, the police want me to be careful. I heard something one night, someone outside in the back garden.” “Scary when you live alone,” Julie said sympathetically.

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CHAPTER 3

“By yourself again, dear?” Mrs. Burton greeted her anxiously at the door the following morning. But the girl, dressed today in a long fawn skirt of some soft, swirling material, and a loose red peasant shirt, just smiled and looked so bright and pretty and capable that the housekeeper felt her worries falling away. She found she was actually glad to see her back. “No one else is free,” Julie said airily. In fact, she hadn’t asked. Dropping a jar of coffee into Mrs. Burton’s surprised hands on the way, she made at once for the library. “Och, you shouldn’t have!” Mrs. Burton called after her. “I’ll bring you a cup along in a minute!” Julie waved a grateful acknowledgement and opened the library door. She saw him at once. This time he was sprawled in the easy chair by the fire, one bare leg hooked revealingly over the arm. The fire was lit this morning, she was delighted to see, the flames crackling merrily, sending wild shadows dancing across his lean face as he looked up from his book, a paperback this time, and smiled. He was wearing the same old tunic as yesterday, or one very similar. “Hallo again,” Julie said calmly – she had herself well in hand today – closing the door and walking purposefully to her desk. “Miss Macbeth,” he said politely, unwinding himself and getting to his feet. “Mr. – Whoever you are,” she returned pointedly. But he continued to smile at her without speaking while she shoved her jacket over the back of her chair and got the laptop out of its case. “Well?” she said with a hint of impatience.. She was standing no nonsense today.. “I can’t keep calling you You all the time!” “Or Nutter,” he agreed thoughtfully. She paused in the act of opening the laptop. Part of her wanted to giggle. She risked a glance at him, to find his eyes gleaming with so much appreciative laughter that she had grinned back before she meant to. “So you heard that? I apologize. I meant Mr. Nutter. So who are you?” “Not the person you thought I was,” he confessed.

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“I know that already. Mrs. Burton told me, although she didn’t mention who you actually were.” “She doesn’t know.” “Doesn’t….” Julie broke off, staring at him. “She lets you live here and doesn’t know who you are?” “It’s complicated.” Julie felt her eyes narrow in quick irritation. She said acidly, “I can understand most things if they’re explained to me in words of one syllable.” “If I did you wouldn’t believe me.” “Try me,” she invited, but he shook his head, smiling faintly. Irritated by all this unnecessary mystery, she shrugged impatiently and sat down. “Then you’ll excuse me if I get on with my work.” She set about starting up the necessary programs and connections with undue force, determined to ignore him. She didn’t know if she was angry or piqued, but either way she was not about to let him interfere with her day as he had done yesterday. He, however, had other ideas. She was flipping uselessly through the records she had made yesterday when his shadow fell on her.. Deliberately, she clicked on New Record and reached for the nearest book. It was the paperback he had been reading when she came in. It was an early Jeffrey Archer. She laid it down again, lifting her gaze slowly to find him watching not her, but the computer screen. Was she really piqued again? .He said interestedly, “What do you use the machine for?” “Cataloguing. And checking the National Library’s lists to see which of these books we already have. We don’t have the space for duplicates.” There was a pause while he apparently took this in. Then, “Clever,” he observed. “Hardly rocket science,” she said tartly. “Even in libraries, the computer age is fully upon us.” His eyes shifted at last to hers, disconcertingly searching from one to the other. “You are angry with me,” he observed. “I don’t know you well enough to be angry. I’m busy, that’s all.” She hunched her shoulder, but he disregarded that. Instead he surprised her again. “Do you have a husband, Julie Macbeth?” She stared at him. “No.” “Why not?” He sounded interested. “Do you prefer to follow your career?”

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Her almond-shaped eyes narrowed with sudden hostility. “Is this the bit where you ask if I’m a lesbian?” That got him. She finally had the satisfaction of seeing him thrown off balance. His jaw actually slackened so much it fell open. She laughed, and he pulled himself together enough to smile again. He actually looked relieved. “I would never ask such a thing,” he assured her. “I know you are not.” “You know no such thing,” Julie said drily. “And since it is none of your business, I am not about to tell you!” “But I do know. I know because your body answers mine.” Swift color flooded into her face and neck. Quite suddenly she was hot all over and she didn’t want to think about that terrible, pleasurable glow spreading down from her stomach. At once confused and outraged, humiliated that he had seen so much and furious that he dared to mention it, she could find nothing to retort except to blurt out in some vague idea of defensive feminism, “Perhaps yours answers mine!” “Oh, it does,” he said softly. “It does.” Fortunately perhaps, at that moment there was a familiar tap on the door. “Mrs. Burton,” Julie said in relief, “with the coffee.” “Don’t tell her I’m here,” he said, bolting suddenly across to the other side of the room, providing Julie with the gratifying sight of his tight, swiftly moving rear beneath the tunic. Bewildered, not to say bemused, she forced herself to turn away, and went to meet Mrs. Burton, who was already inside the door carrying coffee in the same mug Julie had used yesterday. Her eyes were darting beyond the younger woman, as though looking for her companion. Apparently she didn’t find him though, for she said nothing. As Julie thanked her and took the mug, it was on the tip of her tongue to ask who he was, but she would not give him the satisfaction of hearing her do so. She wouldn’t care enough to ask. Mrs. Burton left again immediately, clearly in a big hurry to do something else, and Julie turned to go back to her seat. There was no sign of him. Though she couldn’t think where he could be hiding, she wouldn’t let him see her looking, so she simply sat down and pulled the next book towards her. A second later she felt him beside her again. “You spent your childhood here,” she guessed, without looking up. “And know all the hiding places invisible to the naked eyes of adults.”

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“Actually I lived mostly in the north, in Moray.” Reaching past her so that his hand brushed her arm, causing a frisson of electric prickles that she would have died rather than admit to, he picked up his abandoned paperback and straightened. “I’ll just go over here and read this. I won’t disturb you.” She already knew that he would, just by being there. The weirdness of this whole situation was bothering her.. To his retreating back, deliberately not looking at his tantalizing bottom, she said coldly, “It’s a big house.” He glanced back at her over his shoulder. “I like it here. I like talking to you. You’re – peaceful.” “That’s not what my boss thinks,” she said drily. The stranger resumed his former position in the big chair, asking invitingly, “What does your boss think?” Julie shrugged. “He thinks I’m disruptive. He thinks I resent him because he got the job that should have been mine.” “And do you?” “Of course I do!” He grinned at that, the quick smile that danced compellingly across his face, making his eyes gleam and the golden skin around them crinkle disarmingly. Julie had to look away quickly, but not before her own eyes and lips had answered without permission. “Well – bring him here tomorrow and I’ll fight him for you,” he offered. “I’d fight him myself if it would help!” “But you don’t practice Taekwon-do any more,” he reminded her. “I could make an exception,” Julie said grimly, standing up to go to the shelves. “Would you show me some time?” She glanced back at him, frowning slightly. “Show you what?” “Taekwon-do.” She paused, her breath catching. Memories of earlier sparring bouts flooded back, mostly the ones that had changed her victory into Justin’s conquest as he had carried her triumphantly off to bed. But she couldn’t think of that now. And not because it was too painful. Because her wayward mind was substituting Justin with the man in this room. And in her mental image he wasn’t wearing white cotton but the ubiquitous brown tunic. Or at least he was pulling it over his head, to reveal a muscled, golden chest beneath, rising and falling with his quickened breathing while he reached out for her with those

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strong arms and she touched her lips to those curiously delicate-looking clavicles, feeling the entire length of his body pressed close to hers… Shocked at the extremely graphic nature of these unbidden fantasies, she whisked herself away to the bookshelf, trying to get herself in enough order to choose the right book and bring it back to her desk. “Well?” he said at last, and after several blank moments Julie remembered the question. “No,” she said baldly. “I won’t show you Taekwon-do.” “You wouldn’t hurt me.” “If you’re a novice,” Julie said steadily, “I could hurt you.” “My ribs,” he said, “don’t crack.” “Yes they do!” she said impatiently. “And then so does your relationship!” That, she thought in panic, was a mistake. That was implying that they had a relationship. She looked across at him furtively, but he said only, “Is that what happened with you and the man whose ribs you broke?” She closed her eyes, for she had never talked about this, not once in four long years. But she found she was nodding. “Men,” she said with difficulty, “find it hard to be beaten by a woman.” “You hurt his pride more than his ribs, and he left you.” Laughter that was at least part tears caught in her throat. “In a nutshell,” she said shakily. “I might have got away with it if it hadn’t been for the press. But somehow the local paper got hold of the story, and then the nationals picked up on it, and before long we were getting phone calls from London, New York, Rio for God’s sake! – wanting to interview us on TV. It was too – difficult.” Surreptitiously she swiped her hand across her eyes and when she glanced up to see if he had noticed, she found him beside her, offering a large linen handkerchief. Again the involuntary watery laughter as she gave up and took it from him. “Where did you get that?” She could see no place to keep it in the tunic, but he misunderstood. “I can’t remember. From my wife probably.” “Your wife?” Pausing with the handkerchief already at her nose, she stared at him in, she was sure, ludicrous dismay. Why had she never thought of a wife? Because a married man doesn’t float around other people’s houses in his night wear, flirting with strange women? Throwing the handkerchief back at him, she said coldly, “Why don’t you go away and get dressed and let me get on with my work?”

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He blinked, reluctantly picking up the discarded square of linen. It was exquisitely sewn, Julie saw, even embroidered. With a letter L. A first clue when it was too late to care. He said, “I am dressed.” Julie sat back in her seat regarding him, letting the mockery fill her eyes as they wandered from his shaggy head down to his naked legs and his sandaled feet. “You walk down Prince’s Street like that? In October? I suppose you might get away with it during the Festival, but…” “No,” he interrupted, throwing her off-balance again just when she was beginning to enjoy her sarcastic rant. “No?” she repeated uncomprehendingly. “No what?” “No I don’t walk down Prince’s Street.” She said, “There’s something very strange about you.” And she meant it. It wasn’t just his odd manners, his ridiculous dress, the way he hid from Mrs. Burton, appeared and disappeared without obvious cause or means… It was him. The way he spoke. His expression in repose which was – sad, she realized suddenly, sad beyond belief, and yet so distant that it was as if he was in another world from hers entirely. “But I am faithful,” he said, “and loyal. Like you.” Julie blinked. “I’m not loyal to Mr. Harding. I’ll trash him to anyone who’ll listen.” He smiled, reaching down one hand to her face as he had done yesterday, only this time it was not one finger but his whole hand which cupped her cheek, caressing.

“Why do you denigrate

yourself?” “To save others the trouble,” Julie said wryly, mainly to cover the mounting flush in her face. His hand was still there. She reached up to catch his wrist, to brush him away, but as her fingers touched him he moved quite suddenly, ducking his head down to hers so that she knew he meant to kiss her. For a second, his parted lips paused in the air over hers. She had time to avoid it, and the means. For some reason, she didn’t. It was as if those lips and those light, reflective eyes, paralyzed by the touch of his hand on her face, hypnotized her. But more than that, much more, she wanted to know what his kiss felt like. She wanted it more than anything. She heard her own breath rasp unsteadily, and as if that was what he was waiting for, he moved at last and covered her mouth with his. Warm, gentle, unbelievably tender, his lips caressed and tasted. And so did hers.. Opening wide to him, she touched his lip fleetingly with her tongue, pressing her

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mouth closer, with a sound very like a moan rising up from her stomach. Obligingly, his hand still cupping her cheek, he deepened the kiss, the caress of his tongue and lips melting her completely, sending wild shafts of desire shooting through her entire body. Blindly, she reached her arms up to his neck, to pull him nearer, and felt his mouth smile into hers, loosening its hold. “Oh you’re real,” he murmured, “so very real…” Once, twice more, his lips brushed hers, then he lifted his head, letting his hand slide down to her neck where it held and moved, making her gasp. She could feel her stiff nipples brushing painfully against her shirt. And then, astonishingly, she saw that his body was shaking with curious laughter, gentle yet excited. “I wonder,” he said softly, “Oh I wonder if I could…” It was the laughter that did it. She knew it didn’t matter what her body wanted, whether or not his was capable of it – and my God she didn’t doubt it! She knew she was a fool for allowing it to go even this far. Jerking away from him, slapping his hand off, she said coldly, “No you couldn’t. Neither your wife nor I will let you!” “Ah.” He sat back on the desk, regarding her enigmatically. “Actually, my wife could not object. She is dead.” “Oh shit.” Swallowing, she gazed up at him contritely. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know that. Is it – I mean, was it recent?” “No,” he said, and smiled, a faint, curiously ironic sort of a smile. “It was a long time ago.” For a moment, he looked so sad, so lost, that she instinctively offered comfort, reaching out to touch the nearest part of him – which happened to be his bare leg, just above the knee where his tunic had risen. Swallowing again, she said gently, “But you miss her still?” “Not so much,” he said vaguely, still sadly. “Time passes. I miss – companionship. I miss – joy.” His turn of phrase was as peculiar as ever. Wondering exactly what sort of joy he meant, she would have removed her hand, only his came down to cover it, holding it warmly against his skin. Following with her eyes, she saw there was a white scar running jaggedly across his knee. “What’s your name?” she asked quietly. For a moment she thought he would not answer. But when she lifted her eyes to his troubled face, he let out a breath like a sigh. “Lulach.”

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For some reason she felt as if she had been entrusted with some precious secret. Ignoring that, she said, “Lulach, you won’t find these things by hiding in here and…” She broke off, gasping as she realized that his hand, which had been gently kneading hers against his leg, was moving her fingers upwards. And they didn’t mind; they didn’t mind at all. “Oh, I don’t know. I might,” he said, suddenly teasing, as she whipped her hand away. “You are incorrigible! Go away and put your clothes on! Then you can bring me more coffee!”

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CHAPTER 4

To show she meant it this time, she stood up and went quickly across to the spiral stair, climbing up to the mezzanine to examine and gather up some books. But her mind was not on books, it was on Lulach – a strange name for a strange man. She felt unaccountably pleased, almost uplifted, because he had told her his name. And yet her whole body was taut with excitement, her hands still shaking, because he had kissed her. And kissed her like that. Justin’s kisses had been passionate. She could still remember that. But now, it seemed to her they had been almost – calculated, a means to an end, i.e. sex, which had admittedly been wonderful, but he had never kissed her like that. With Lulach, his kiss had seemed more of a tasting, a promise of some new, unpredictable passion to come. And if she was honest, she couldn’t wait. And not just because there had been no one since Justin. There was something about Lulach that tugged at her heart as well as her loins, and it wasn’t pity. Of course she sensed his great loneliness which he had just explained to her in some part, and she wasn’t entirely sure that he wasn’t recovering from some mental illness, possibly grief-induced; but none of that mattered, for good or ill. He spoke to her. And God help her, she was listening! She felt like hugging herself. She was already smiling inanely at her random stack of books, touching her lips like a teenager after her first kiss. Oh, she would enjoy solving Lulach’s mysteries… It was the sound of a page turning below that brought her back to Earth. Peering over the rail, she saw Lulach sprawled full length upon the faded Persian rug by the fire, idly playing with the pages of his paperback while he looked up at her and grinned. “Have you made my coffee yet?” Julie asked severely. “Not yet. I couldn’t bear to leave you.” Julie stood up, lifting a small pile of books with her. She couldn’t concentrate anyway. “I want you to know,” she said as she climbed down the spiral stair with the books, “that I haven’t bought that line and never will. How do you like your …coffee?” The last word sounded irritatingly disconsolate to her own ears, for by this time she was at the last corner before bottom, facing the fireplace, and she could see that he had gone –finally to get her coffee? Or to vanish, like yesterday? She hadn’t heard him leave, but….

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Pulling herself together with an angry little shake, she moved to the bottom few steps, swinging round to discover him right in front of her, one foot resting on the last step. “You move like a cat!” she exclaimed. He didn’t answer, just lifted up his arms. Presuming he meant to help her with the books, she held them down to him, but he ignored them, both hands reaching instead for her waist and swinging her down the last few steps, books and all. Caught by surprise, she could only laugh, till she realized that she was being set back on her feet unnecessarily slowly, that his hand in the small of her back was pushing her close into him, letting her slide the final few inches to the floor against his body. She gasped – at the sheer unexpectedness of the contact, she assured herself. It had nothing to do with the strength of his muscular arms around her, or the shocking hardness of his slim, taut body. Certainly nothing to do with that extra-hard hardness pressing deliberately against her abdomen. She had nothing to say, no strength of will or body to pull away. The power of the desire coursing through her had thrown her completely. His hands, his arms left her, forcing her to bite her lip to prevent the physical cry of disappointment. Yet she was still held captive by his body, her back against the mesh of the spiral staircase while he deliberately took the books from her and reached high above her head to place them on one of the upper steps in the spiral. The feel of his stretched body against hers made her gasp aloud, and she saw him smile. His arms were back around her, his hands caressing her back, sweeping down across her buttocks. “You see? Our bodies speak to each other,” he said softly in her ear, and she could not doubt it. Her own felt weak with longing, yet it somehow had the strength to press back into him, feeling the ardent hardness of his own body’s speech with a pleasure that came close to triumph. He bent his head, brushing his lips against her neck, nuzzling, kissing the sensitive skin till she was gasping and wriggling with the electric waves of desire shooting downwards. He began teasing his way around to just that spot at the back of her neck, where his mouth seized her skin, and she could feel his tongue and his teeth and her whole body shuddered with pleasure. Wildly, she wondered if it was possible to have an orgasm like this… Of their own volition, her arms had gone around his back, caressing, clinging to him. She could feel his fingers in her hair, drawing back her head, and then his mouth was on hers in the most staggering kiss she had ever known. She was pushing, almost grinding her body into his, uncaring of the hard metal behind her as he pressed back, his breathing wildly uneven, his heart thundering against hers. And when he spoke, it was still against her lips, stroking, caressing, kissing in between words.

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“I would like,” he groaned out so softly, “to take off all…your many layers of …clothing, one by one …to carry you across to the …fireside and lie with you there… before the dancing flames…make slow… languorous… love to you all …day, and all night too… making it last and last and last…” His hands were tight on her buttocks now, kneading them, holding her so hard against his erection that she thought she would explode with desire. His words made it worse, conjuring up wild images of their naked bodies to add to what was actually happening to her. “But first,” he whispered, and now she was making it twice as difficult for him to speak, for when his lips weren’t kissing, hers were, deliberately provoking, egging him on recklessly, without clear though where this was leading, only that she wanted it more badly than she had ever wanted anyone or anything in her life before. “First… I have to… I really have to… have you here… and… now… or I… will… explode… all over… your… books.” Her gasp of laughter was more than half sob. Her mouth was buried in his again, sharing it. His mouth loosened, to whisper breathlessly against her lips, “May I?” And she had time to think achingly, “How sweet…” when her answer was surely already more than given. Repeating it, she kissed his mouth, tugging futilely at his tunic. He broke the kiss to grab the tunic, pulling it swiftly over his head, just as in her fantasy of yesterday. And just as then, she had a glimpse of the golden body beneath, the rippling muscles and fine hair of his chest, the tight, flat stomach and the tantalizing line of tiny hairs reaching down from his naval to where their bodies seemed to be melded together. Gasping, almost moaning, she felt him move again, allowing her first sight, as it were, of his manhood, big and stiff and curiously golden in the library’s musty light. Her skirt was unzipped, dropped to the floor, her abdomen welcomed back his pressing, grinding body. She was so wet below, he must have been able to feel it on his leg…she felt his hands on her breasts, urgently caressing the stiff nipples beneath her shirt, and then, reaching bare skin tenderly releasing them. His lips replaced his hands, which were again on her buttocks, pressing. Her shrieking body could stand the wait no longer. Reaching down, she tugged aside the wisp of cotton between her legs and grasped his hot hardness, hearing with wicked triumph the hiss of his breath, his anguished groan as she squeezed and then deliberately pushed him inside her. And so the hectic dance began. She was lifted onto the first step, crying aloud as it enabled his entire length to fill her, and she could feel the climax already beginning. The sheer unaccustomed strength of her desire had left her so weak she feared she would not be able to control or to give any pleasure except what he took for himself or gave, but as she felt his powerful thrusts, her own body

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began to move from instinct, grinding, pushing, squeezing until the unbearable pleasure exploded in wild colours and wave after wave of joy. And astoundingly, it did not stop. Seeing, feeling, the power of her orgasm, he pounded her, his voice groaning with his own rising pleasure, louder and louder while she gasped and cried out over and over as her pleasure went on and on with impossible strength until she thought she would actually faint with it, or die… Until his own climax crashed into them both with a deep-voiced shout, and they fell back against the library steps, his hands still remembering to hold and protect her – as if she cared! - as a final, unbearably intense shaft of sensation wracked her, and held, and began to fade slowly into stillness. For a few moments he lay on top of her, his head buried in her hair, one hand behind her head, the other tenderly holding her buttocks as his sobbing breath began to calm. Then he moved, lifting her, holding her against him while he sat her on one of the steps and settled himself on the one below, his hot face in her lap as he gazed up at her. “Sweetheart, I’m sorry – I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he whispered. From somewhere came a laugh, soft and wicked. “Do I look hurt?” And she heard his own breath of amazed laughter. “You are magnificent!” He kissed her bare leg, and she let her fingers trail through his soft, thick hair. “I was too… urgent. It’s been so long for me…” “And for me,” she said ruefully. His head moved, so that he could see her. “Then you don’t have many lovers?” “I’ve been celibate as a nun for four years, since Justin left,” she confessed. “I wouldn’t leave myself open to…” She broke off. She didn’t want to think of Justin, or hurt, or heartbreak. Neither did she want to think, if she were honest, of the quickness of this new relationship. If such it was. What she had just done with him was so out of character for her as to have been totally inconceivable even an hour ago. He was a complete stranger whom she had known only two days, and if ever she had done anything to leave herself open to hurt, this was it. “I know,” he said softly, reaching up to stroke her hair. “I know. You are so beautiful, though, so… I have been waiting a thousand years for you, just for you…” “I’m nothing special,” she muttered, suddenly embarrassed. “Just – ordinary. You should get out more, Lulach.” “You underrate yourself. You are special, and more so for me…”

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“Lulach, I was just here. You don’t have to make it something it wasn’t!” She knew she spoke too sharply, more to herself, in truth, than to him, but the sudden hurt in his eyes smote her with guilt. Struggling now, she said desperately, “I mean – give us time. You need time to build a relationship…” What relationship? she thought wildly. She had just had sex with a stranger – and without protection of any kind – jammed inside a library spiral staircase, ‘at work!’and the whole thing can’t have taken more than fifteen minutes! What kind of relationship was that? But he was smiling again. “Time is something I have plenty of,” he said. “I can court you.” One of his odd words, making her smile. “Was that courtship? What do you do when you have won me?” “More of the same,” he said contentedly, rubbing his cheek against her bare leg. “Every conceivable way, and forever.” Her sated body began to tingle again. Catching her breath, she pushed his head aside and stood up. “This is ridiculous! I’m supposed to be working! This time, I am going to get the coffee, and when I come back, you had better be dressed! Because I will be working! Now, do you want a drink?” He wrinkled his nose, getting slowly to his feet to let her pass.

Totally naked, he was

magnificent, golden-skinned, lean and strong. Yet he was covered in scars, big and small and of every imaginable shape. She tried to concentrate on them, to imagine how he might have got them – fencing? If only to keep her mind off her own body’s reactions.

Lulach, observing her scrutiny without

embarrassment, was finally answering her question about coffee in the negative. “Not I. I don’t need anything.” Smiling slightly, she touched his naked chest and would have passed him, except that he gathered her suddenly close to his naked body again for another of those astounding kisses. “Lulach,” she said unsteadily, breaking free. “Down boy!” She moved away, positively scurrying to the door before she changed her mind. “Julie?” he said, behind her, and she could hear the beguiling laughter in his voice. She only turned her head, refusing to stop. “Shouldn’t you put your skirt back on? Mrs. Burton might be shocked!” She didn’t know whether to swear or laugh. The latter won out in the end, because the whole situation was too ridiculous for words. Climbing back into her skirt and fending off Lulach as he came to help, he said, by doing up her zip, she could not avoid the overwhelming sense of well-being. That, she told herself cynically, will be the sex. It is not love!

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Eventually, determinedly, she left for the kitchen. Only then did she feel the panic that he might have vanished before she got back. Wasn’t that what men did when they had had an easy screw…? And yet she knew instinctively that Lulach was not like that. Didn’t she?

Mrs. Burton, just off the phone to her difficult sister in North Berwick, found Julie in the kitchen, somewhat absently pouring boiling water over the worktop instead of the instant coffee. “Here, let me do it!” she exclaimed, bustling over to mop up while Julie apologized. “Your mind’s still on your work,” Mrs. Burton excused her comfortably. “Something like that,” she said guiltily. She waited for an instant, then taking a deep breath, she said, “Your harmless friend is in the library again. Does he live here in this house?” There was a definite pause. Mrs. Burton’s hands actually stilled under Julie’s observant eyes, then briskly carried on wiping the surface and pouring the water straight into the mugs. “Yes,” she said neutrally, “he lives here.” “Is he related to you?” Julie asked curiously, aware that these were questions she should have put to Lulach himself. The trouble was, that when she was with him, common sense questions were nowhere near the front of her mind. “No,” Mrs. Burton said quickly. “Then he is part of the Drummond family?” “No. Jack is the last of old David Drummond’s family.” Her answers were almost curt now, quite unlike her normal friendly manner. It was clear she wanted the matter left alone, but perhaps for that very reason Julie would not leave it. Taking the milk from the fridge and passing it to Mrs. Burton, she said, “Then I’m curious. What is his connection with this house?” A snort of laughter escaped her lips. “There are a few who would like to know that!” Julie watched, frowning, as Mrs. Burton splashed the milk in with unnecessary force, leaving droplets of white scattered around the pristine work surface. Julie wasn’t sure whether or not she should be amused. She said, “You mean he has just always been here?” “Yes, he has always been here.” Almost angrily, Mrs. Burton pushed one mug across to the younger woman. She took it, absently, aware that her frown of incomprehension was deepening. “What, even when his wife was alive?”

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“His wife?” Now it was Mrs. Burton’s turn to do the staring. Julie repeated it. “Yes, his wife. Didn’t you know her?” Mrs. Burton’s breath drew in, almost with a shudder. “No, I didn’t know her. Is she there too?” “She’s dead!” Julie exclaimed. But Mrs. Burton continued to look at her as though expecting more. Finally, she appeared to grasp the meaning of the surely simple phrase, for she said lamely, “Oh.” Her fingers tapped on the work-top. Julie watched them, slowly sipping her coffee, then raised her eyes to the housekeeper’s face, where they met her half-curious, half-pitying gaze. Abruptly, Mrs. Burton said, “You’ve been talking to him then?” And when Julie nodded, she went on, “And you’ve – made friends with him?” “Yes.”

Julie could feel the flush mounting to her cheeks, but instead of hiding it in

embarrassment, she lifted her head and announced defiantly, “I like him.” “Oh, dear!” There was consternation in Mrs. Burton’s face now.

She was even biting her lower lip.

Uneasily, Julie began to wonder if she was about to tell her something about Lulach’s past. Or about his mental history. She wondered if she would mind. Then, abruptly, Mrs. Burton seemed to come to a decision. After all she liked the girl, and if he was coming to talk to her every day then she had better know the truth. If she could just make her believe it… “Sit down for a minute, dear,” she said, moving to the kitchen table, and pulling out a couple of the slightly rickety chairs there. Obligingly, Julie followed her and sat, setting down her coffee cup in front of her, but not letting it go. For some reason, she thought she might need something to hold on to. She did. Taking a deep breath, Mrs. Burton said, “He isn’t real, you know, dear.” Julie stared at her. “Not…?” “Oh, yes, I understand he is very charming. I’ve never seen him myself, but old Mr. Drummond was actually quite fond of him. They used to talk a lot.” Struggling here, Julie repeated stupidly, “You’ve never…?” “No, I haven’t. I can feel him though, which is why I never go in there to clean. Mr.. Drummond didn’t mind – he said he liked his library dusty!” A quick, affectionate smile flickered and died unhappily on her lips. “Mr.. Jack Drummond, however, doesn’t like him at all. To be honest he’s as spooked as me, though he won’t even admit to seeing him. Perhaps he didn’t – not everyone does…”

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“Mrs. Burton,” Julie interrupted firmly. “Forgive me, but you’re not making any sense!” The housekeeper looked her straight in the eye. “The man you have seen in the library, spoken to, made friends with, is not real. He is a ghost, for want of a better term, who haunts that room!” Julie actually laughed. “Mrs. Burton, he’s as real as it gets! You can touch him! Come with me, I’ll show you…” She stood up, invitingly, but Mrs. Burton stayed where she was, not angry, just – pitying. She had suspected it would be like this. Slowly, Julie sat down again. Mrs. Burton said patiently, “I know he seems real to you. He can make himself so, though I didn’t know you could touch him. Does he feel – warm?” “Oh yes,” Julie breathed, then quickly gulped down some coffee to cover herself. “Oh dear,” said Mrs. Burton again. Julie said kindly, “Mrs. Burton, he hides from you; though I can’t understand why you’ve never seen him. Where does he eat? He must sleep in one of the bedrooms…” “He doesn’t. I should know.” “But this is too weird for words! A complete stranger has been living in this house for years, and both you and Mr. Drummond have let it go on because you think he’s a ghost!” She stood up again, this time with energy. “Mrs. Burton, you should really call the police! However,” she added hastily, just in case Mrs. Burton was actually contemplating it, “I don’t think that’s really necessary – the man needs help!” “No, dear,” she said sadly as Julie marched towards the door, still clutching her coffee cup as a lifeline to reality. “I think maybe you do, if you could just see it…”

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CHAPTER 5

He was still there when she returned to the library, kneeling in front of the fire, gazing into the flames. He didn’t turn as she came in, though she saw a smile form on his lips, as if he had sensed her presence and liked it. “Mrs. Burton,” she said derisively, “thinks you’re not real. Either that,” she added reflectively as she walked over to him, “or she’s – er – yanking my chain.” His face turned up to her, and she felt her heart skip a beat. Perhaps it was the combination of strength and vulnerability she saw there, the curiously old sorrow and the surely genuine pleasure when he looked at her. But she found it didn’t matter what he had done in the past, or how mentally ill he had been or still was. To her, he was merely eccentric. And the best lover in eternity. And if she hadn’t fallen already, she was more than half way down… She said gently, “Lulach, how long have you been living in this house?” His eyes searched hers, one to the other, looking for a way out.. Then he said, “Two hundred years. A little more perhaps. Since it was built.” “Lulach!” Impatiently, she crouched down beside him, carefully setting down her cup between them. “Lulach, it’s not my house. I don’t care if you’ve been secretly living here for ten years! You don’t need

to

pretend

this

ghost-stuff

with

me;

you

just

need

to

tell

me

the

truth!”

“Yes,” he said patiently. “I do. I haven’t been honest with you, Julie. I was too – anxious – to keep you here. I couldn’t risk scaring you off.” “Lulach, look at me,” she commanded. Obligingly, he did. He even lifted one hand to her face, but she caught it and held it for safety in her lap. “Consider, for a moment, what we just did in here…” At once his face changed, clouding over with desire while he grinned at her with what she could only call wolfishness. Flushing, she held on to his hand more tightly. “Considering that,” she went on determinedly, “do you seriously expect me to believe that you are a two hundred year old ghost?” “Actually,” he said, “I’m nearer a thousand years old.”

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“Will you stop that? I have never encountered anything more substantial, more solid than you! I can’t and I won’t judge your past, whatever mistakes you may have made, however ill you might have been! All I want is for you to stop lying to me!” “I have,” he said simply. Impatiently, she flung his hand away and stood up. “When you decide you want to talk, I’ll be over here. Working.” And she walked away from him, letting him see all her anger, which was really not so much at his stupid continuation of the pretence, but at his lack of trust in her.

For several hours, she worked in silence, and actually got quite a lot done. She had to rearrange some of the shelves to separate out the books she wanted for the National Library, and it was while she was doing this that he appeared by her side to help. Taking the pile from her arms, he knelt and began to put them away on the correct shelves. Only when it was done, did he turn to her. She tried to look stern, was even opening her mouth to demand, teacher-like, if he had decided to be sensible yet. But not for the first time or the last, he forestalled her. Reaching out, he placed his two very solid hands on her shoulders, and like a love­ struck teenager, she melted. He said gently, “Sometimes you have to open your mind to other possibilities. To accept that not everything is the way you have always believed. Or the way you would like. There are more things in Heaven and Earth… and I’m afraid I am one of them. I am not mad, or ill. I am not a thief or a – squatter? I am all that is left of a man who died nearly a thousand years ago.” “Bloody substantial for a thousand years,” she muttered, pulling away. “Not always. Julie, don’t push me away.” “Then tell me the truth!” she snapped, and walked smartly back to her desk.

Restlessly, she was moving – almost rampaging - through her flat that evening, tidying, cleaning, doing all the detested jobs she had been putting off for weeks, just to prevent herself from thinking. When she remembered the brief but passionate interlude on the spiral staircase, she had to squash her own rising longing, hovering between shudders of remembered pleasure and shame at how quickly she had, as it were, given her all. And to a man who would not trust her, who despised her enough to give her the same cock-and-bull story he had been giving poor old Mr. Drummond for years!

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And then the image of his deep, serious eyes would creep into her consciousness and she wondered futilely if those could really be the eyes of such a liar. What she was trying not to think, was that he believed what he was telling her. Eventually, with the flat cleaner than it had been for a year, she threw herself onto the sofa and stared at the laptop lying on the coffee table in front of her. Five minutes later, she opened its lid and connected the modem. Accessing the internet, she called up Mr. David Drummond’s obituary. That was something of a surprise. He was in fact a Professor Drummond, who had taught for many years at Cambridge and Edinburgh Universities. And he had been only seventy-two when he had died, still involved in his own research. So, not your average simple-minded fool to be bamboozled by a charmer’s unlikely tales. Not senile. But what struck her most of all was that he was not a historian or a literature specialist, nor even the teacher of some woolly subject more recently invented. He had been a scientist, a physicist. Thoughtfully, she sat back. Professor Drummond had believed Lulach’s story. Lulach himself, she was coming to the conclusion, believed it too. Hating herself for a gullible idiot, she sat back up and reached for the keyboard. This time, she typed “Lulach” into the search-engine.

An hour later, a fresh mug of coffee in one hand, she sat down next to the phone, curling her legs under her, and dialed Peter’s number. His wife answered, and she could tell at once it was not a good time – a child was crying loudly somewhere in the background, and by the sound of it, the other two were fighting. It was nearly eleven o’clock at night – no wonder the poor woman sounded harassed. “Hi, Chrissie, it’s Julie,” she said apologetically. “Sorry to butt in so late, but I wondered if I could pick Peter’s brains about something…” “Sure,” Chrissie said generously, clearly relieved she could get rid of the intrusion so quickly. And Julie heard her voice turned away from the phone shouting without malice or spite: “Pete! Your other woman’s on the phone!” “Hallo Julie!” Peter said a moment later, having no trouble at all in recognizing her from his wife’s description. “How’s the Drummond Collection?” “Amazing,” she said frankly, “and in ways you wouldn’t believe. You could say it has thrown up a lot of confusion and I need you to help me out on something in your period.” “Fire away.” “Eleventh century Scottish character called Lulach…”

Ghost Unlaid

“King Lulach, reigned briefly in 1058,” Peter said promptly.

37

“Step-son of Macbeth.

Assassinated by Malcolm Canmore.” “No, not that one,” Julie said patiently. “From what I can gather King Lulach was a weak puppet of the Macbeth faction and an idiot to boot. It must be a different Lulach.” “Wrong profile, eh? Well, if it helps, yours is not the only interpretation of Lulach’s reign. It should be pointed out that Macbeth, a strong and able King from all we can gather, chose Lulach as his tanist – that is, heir – and that on Macbeth’s death, his followers adopted Lulach as King without a quibble. Something, arguably, they were unlikely to do with a weak idiot when Malcolm Canmore was waiting in the wings. Perhaps he was the only strong opposition possible.” Julie could feel her heart beating steadily, yet too fast for a conversation about a mere historical character. “Do you believe that?” she asked doubtfully. “I don’t disbelieve it,” Peter answered annoyingly. “Even if he was called Lulach the Simple by his own people?” “Ah. Well, “simple” didn’t have quite the same meaning or connotations as it does now. “Simple” was often used to mean not idiot but fey person, someone with second-sight, or unexplained powers of some sort.” “Really?” She jumped at it this time. “You mean Lulach might actually have been a strong, beloved monarch with ESP?” Peter laughed down the phone. “It’s possible! Have I solved your problem?” “I don’t know,” Julie said ruefully. “You may have solved one mystery, but I suspect I’m left with twice as many problems…” “Julie,” he said carefully. “You haven’t found an 11th century manuscript down there, have you?” “Better than that,” she said tantalizingly, and had mischievously hung up before she remembered she should not be encouraging him to come to the Drummond house just yet. Not until it was all sorted out. One way or another.

By the morning, after a disturbed night’s sleep, Julie was in no state to judge anyone else’s state of mind. Astoundingly, she no longer doubted that Lulach’s claim could be true. On the other hand, that didn’t mean it was. True, he wore ‘constantly’ a tunic of the right period design, and it did feel sort of – old. And she could remember things he had said that fitted in with his claim – he had been brought

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up in Moray, home of King Lulach’s father and descendents. But costumes could be copied, history could be read, personas could be adopted until they were believed. Common sense told her that he was still a clever if misguided nutter who had come to believe in his own fantasies. Or just enjoyed winding people up. But maybe she didn’t want to think she had made love with such a person. It made him sound – creepy. And she hadn’t found him creepy at all. She had found him charming and kind and funny and unbelievably sexy. So was she secretly hoping that he was in fact the ghost of an eleventh century Scottish king? Did that make what she had done somehow easier to cope with? By the time she was dressed – this time in her severe black interview suit with its straight nononsense skirt and smartly buttoned jacket over a plain dusky-pink shirt – she had began to think ruefully that if she was seriously considering all this, then it was she not Lulach who should be carted off to the institution. Today, she decided, staring at herself determinedly in the full-length mirror, today was Truth Day. And today she really would stand no nonsense from him. On a whim, she even found the scrunchy she had last used at her failed promotion interview, and ruthlessly tied back her struggling hair. Now she looked far more like a female Harding, she thought with approval. ‘So why hadn’t they given her the job instead?’ Maggie called it power dressing.. But actually Julie had never felt terribly powerful like this. She felt – reined in and suppressed. Which was exactly the feeling she was aiming for this morning. Besides, with luck it would have the same effect on Lulach… She even took the bus part of the way, instead of walking and risking her arrival with blown out and tangled hair and mud-spatters all up her legs. Mrs. Burton greeted her as if they had never had the previous day’s conversation, informing her that she would be going out later, and that she’d let Julie know when she left. This time Julie collected her coffee before going to the library; this time she was not going to risk any interruptions. But the library was silent when she went in. Though she could almost imagine the brooding, immovable shelves of books to have their own, tangible life, there was no sign of Lulach anywhere. The fire was lit again, she saw, laying down her mug and moving slowly towards it, but she could neither see nor feel yesterday’s lover… Wrong direction of thought! Perhaps he had gone. Perhaps she had frightened him off after all. That idea, somehow, was not comforting. Now she would have to worry where he was, what, if any, help he was getting, how he was living, if he missed her…

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Wrong direction again! “Lulach!” she shouted recklessly into the flames. “Wherever you are come here and talk! Lulach! Oh!” On the last call of his name she had spun round, shouting it to the whole room – and there before her, only inches away, was the man himself, still wearing the inevitable brown tunic and an amused expression. “Yes?” he said mildly. “Where were you hiding?” she demanded, trying to recover her suddenly lost dominance of the situation. It was difficult with him so close, and she refused to admit her weakness by moving away. He said, “Nowhere. I was here.” “I didn’t see you. Or hear you,” she said suspiciously. “No. But I came when you called me. Which,” he added thoughtfully, “is interesting…” “I don’t see why,” she objected with unnecessary aggression. “Because it’s new,” he explained, apparently surprised by her reaction. “I didn’t mean to come. I was going to stay away today, give you time to lose your anger and understand. But you called, and here I am. Involuntarily, on my part.” “Oh, dear!” She had began to tug her hand through her hair before she remembered it was tied back, and stopped abruptly before it all came surging out. “Lulach, you said you were here, so how could you have been staying away?” she said reasonably. “I was here. But not – as this.” He waved one deprecating hand at himself. “As you could not see me. A spirit if you like.” Julie stared up at him. He appeared perfectly serious. There was even the faint crease of a frown between his light eyes. “You mean, you can change – you believe you can change your state, your form, whatever you call it, at will?” “It seems I have two choices. I can be part of the air, or I can be – this, which, so far as I can remember, is how I used to be. Before I died.” She had meant to sit behind her desk on arrival, talk to him from a position of distance, of sensible authority. Yet now, she found herself simply sinking down on the fireside rug, while he squatted down opposite her, crossing his legs as she had first seen him on top of the two book columns.

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She tried not to look at his bare legs or the gaps in the tunic, for now she knew exactly what was underneath. Wrong direction, Julie! She said faintly, “And you can control which form you take?”. “Mostly. Occasionally, if my thoughts are far away, I find I have slipped unintentionally from one to the other. That happened when we first met.” And that had a terrifying air of truth, of logic. She hadn’t heard him enter the room that first day, and even if he had been already there, hiding, there was no way she could think of that he could have climbed on to the desk, and up on top of those high book towers, without making any noise whatsoever. If, however, he had simply materialized… “Well, this is different… Or perhaps not…” “Does it frighten you?” His oddly beautiful voice, gentle now with a sort of contrite compassion, jerked her back to the moment. Her breath caught. “Yes,” she said truthfully. “True or not, it frightens me. You frighten me now.” All the advantage of her severe, authoritarian dress was gone. She had given it away in her own moment of unpalatable truth. She felt lost. And she must have looked it, for his hand came up to touch her cheek in that already familiar caress. Instantly, she jerked away as though burned, and his hand fell back into his lap. “I won’t hurt you,” he said steadily. “I couldn’t. I haven’t hurt anyone since I died – except once and that doesn’t count because he was a complete bastard.” Unexpectedly, she found herself laughing, a choked-hiccup sound that made him smile faintly in return. He said, “I’m the same person that you liked yesterday. And if I have not been totally honest it was because I was afraid to frighten you. As you are frightened now.” Yes, she was frightened, but today was still the day of truth. For both of them. Lifting her head, she looked straight into his eyes. “Who was your mother, Lulach?” “Gruach,” he said promptly. “And your father? “Gillacomgain, Mormaer of Moray.” “You are telling me that you are King Lulach?” “I was,” he said steadily, “for a few months…”

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“How did that happen?” She was trying to catch him out and he knew it. The trouble was, it was easy to find out all the things she knew about this hazy period of Scottish history, and even as she asked the questions, she had the lowering feeling that she was proving nothing. Lulach said, “I am descended through my mother from the royal line. So was her second husband, Macbeth…” “Son of Light…” Julie murmured, almost involuntarily, as he had at the beginning, over her own name. A smile flickered across his face and was gone. How could that not be real? “Son of Light,” he agreed. “The Son of Light slew my father, in revenge for the killing of his own step-father, and took Moray and my mother both. Not so long later, he took the crown too and ruled most of what is now Scotland. When I grew up, he made me his heir. And when he was killed, I too was crowned at Scone.” “You say it all with no emotion,” Julie observed, not looking at him now, but gazing steadily into the fire. “As if you were reading from a book.” He smiled. She could hear it in his voice, that low, deep, seductive voice. “Well, I have had nearly a thousand years to get it straight in my head and to translate it into your tongue.” “And your tongue, Lulach – what is that?” “Mostly what you call Gaelic. I could speak Saxon too, though, and Norse, and French and Latin. I was well educated. I could even read.” “Your English,” she pointed out, and now she looked him straight in the eye. “Your English is hardly eleventh century Anglo-Saxon. Slipping a few odd anachronisms into your conversation doesn’t really fool anybody who knows anything at all about history.” “Anachronisms?” he said at once.

Ridiculously, all Julie could see in his face was mild

annoyance, no sign of chagrin or embarrassment at being caught out. “What anachronisms?” “Courting for one. People don’t really use that word now. Except in historical novels.” He grinned. “I expect that’s where I got it from.” Julie didn’t know whether to be pleased or annoyed by the significance of this. Still wavering, she said neutrally, “You learned your English from books?” “From books over the years, and conversing with various people.

Davie Drummond was

particularly helpful there. He even used to leave me his radio when he wasn’t in the house.” The smile on his lips died. “I liked Davie,” he said quietly.

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42

Hardening her heart, she retorted, “I should have thought that grief was something you could have grown used to in a thousand years!” He shrugged. “Once you have seen your wife die, and watched your children die or be killed by the violence of your enemy, other griefs do tend to pale. But it is human nature to nurture feelings for other people, and whatever I am, I refuse to believe I am not human. I can grieve for Davie Drummond, and I can love you.” As a speech it was masterly, managing to be at once simple, profound and sincere. It threw her right at the beginning by hinting at the awfulness of what had happened to King Lulach’s family, and the implication that in her quiet, ordinary little life she had never had to face such outrage, or such grief. She felt taken to task, and if Lulach was who he said he was, she deserved to be. There was that, and then, when she was already over-set, he quite unfairly threw in the line about love. She could feel the blood flooding into her face and neck, but her eyes were held in his gaze, and she could not look away. Nor could she think of a suitable or sensible response, so the silence stretched on till her floundering brain finally managed to find another, desperate question, one which might just catch him. “Can you see the future, Lulach? Do you have second-sight?” Unexpectedly, he smiled, though it was a rather grim and rueful gesture, almost a grimace. “Once, I did. When I was alive.” “Then could you not have avoided Macbeth’s death? Or your own?” “Apparently not,” he said steadily. “It’s hard to remember when you doubt me.” “Do you blame me?” she asked drily. “No, I don’t blame you. But if you believed me, we might be able to move on.” She stared at him. “Move on where, Lulach?” she asked harshly. “What exactly is it you want of me? Apart from the far from ghostly sex, which you have now had! Am I to be added to your list of the gullible? Taken with you to the other side? Or perhaps you’ve chosen little old me to set you free?” For a moment, he stared back. She knew she was lashing out from her own unfocused anger and confusion, and she didn’t want to read the responsive expressions flitting across Lulach’s mobile, so­ unspectral face, or understand her sarcastic words from his point-of-view. Yet the one comprehensible thought flying through her mind with all the other muddled halves and quarters, was that he was not a con man after all, but a very sweet and sexy lunatic whose feelings she had just hurt. He said slowly, “Contempt. Mockery. Mistrust. They have no place with love.”

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And then, as she continued to stare at him defiantly, she saw him smile sadly. And she realized that in his face, she could see the glowing embers of the fire behind him. She frowned, blinking several times to dispel the illusion. But it was true. Before her very eyes, he was becoming transparent. She could see the hearth through his body, the fire-surround, the burning coal. In silence, he was fading into nothing.

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CHAPTER 6

A sound unlike anything she recognized bubbled up in her throat. She was on her feet, backing away from the impossible thing that was happening right in front of her. She tried to speak, though what words she had no idea, and they never came out anyway. Her throat had closed up. She could only peer harder and harder into the dim features until she realized she was looking only at the fire. “Lulach…” she whispered. Her hand groped for the support of the table behind her.. Then she gave up and just slid down the table leg till she sat on the floor, still gazing at the spot where he had, he really had, vanished. If he was mad, it seemed they should be sharing the same padded cell. Hysterical laughter bubbled up at that and was lost in a sob. Burying her face in her hands, she finally acknowledged the truth. She had been unforgivably rude – she had been horrible – to the ghost of one of Scotland’s more ancient kings. She had doubted him, mocked him, insulted him and hurt him by the implication that she did not, could not, love him. And she did. Dear God, she did. How it was possible in three days, how any of it was possible, she had no idea and didn’t really care anymore. All that mattered was that she had made him vanish. And that she had to make it right with him now, straight away. Immediately. “Lulach?” she whispered again, no longer feeling foolish, just astonished. “Lulach, are you there? Please come back.” She looked behind her, all over the library, in vain. “Lulach, please. I’m sorry. Please come back…” Nothing happened. He had said he did not leave the library – did that mean he could not? That he had to be here still, in his other, spirit form? She waited. She cajoled, pleaded, shouted. And waited some more, terrified that by her cruelty she had banished him altogether.

Ten minutes later, she fled the library to seek out the sanity of Mrs. Burton and good, strong coffee.

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What she really wanted was a stiff whisky, though at ten-thirty in the morning even she balked at asking Mrs. Burton for that. Her head was still whirling, not unnaturally, with what had just happened, with her own confusion and fear and shame, so she was actually at the closed kitchen door before it registered that Mrs. Burton had company. And not just any company – the voice she could hear was Peter’s, saying, “… able to take care of herself. Physically. Very able. Clever. Definitely not gullible. But you’re right – she does get very involved, with people as well as projects – which is good, because once she decides she likes you you’ve got a friend for life. But she doesn’t give that easily, Mrs. Burton. I don’t think you’ve cause for worry.” Were they talking about her? Mrs. Burton said, “Then at least she has a normal social life?” And Julie grasped the doorknob, ready to barge in and put an indignant end to this discussion, but Peter was already answering, and his unpalatable words stilled her hand. “Normal? I don’t think I’d call it that. For the last few years it’s been worse, but actually she was always far too much in her own little world. She’d get lost for days in stories and histories, spend hour after hour alone with the dustiest books.” “Then she has few outside interests?” Mrs. Burton sounded anxious. “None now that I know of. She used to do Taekwon-do – you know, martial art? She was very good at it too,” Peter went on, “but she gave it up after some trouble –injured her fiancé in a demonstration – stupid bugger was too slow, even though the moves were all prearranged. He left her, and she gave it up, and has done nothing but work since.” Julie’s eyes closed.. She found her forehead was resting against the closed door in all the old pain and guilt which Mrs. Burton’s voice barely penetrated. “Then she is quite the wrong person for this job!” “But you say she doesn’t believe in ghosts, so she’ll just get the job done and leave, and never hear of this place again. No harm done.” So, Julie thought dully, she had told him about the ghost. More surprising than that was the fact that Peter appeared to be swallowing it without a murmur. All the years Julie had known him and she had never realized that he believed in ghosts. Although, she thought doubtfully, he could just be humoring Mrs. Burton…

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“No harm?” Mrs. Burton was exclaiming now. “I think it’s already done, Mr. Forbes! When I spoke to her yesterday I had the uncomfortable feeling that she was already half in love with him!” Oh God, had she really been that obvious? But at least she could hear the grin in Peter’s voice now as he said, “I doubt that! She’s a bit repressed in that area you know. Doesn’t fall easily. Made it even harder when that twit Justin buggered off, too. She was always better than him – and not just at the sparring! But she could never see that. Fell to emotional bits and hasn’t trusted anyone since.” It was strange, not to say downright unpleasant, to hear herself discussed in this way. For the first time she saw herself through her friends’ eyes and didn’t like what they saw. She had never thought of herself as this pitiful creature Peter was describing. She had thought she was being strong over Justin, never weeping in public or discussing her pain with friends or colleagues. Yet they just thought she was repressed! Well, she hadn’t been repressed yesterday at the foot of that spiral staircase! However, that was most definitely a wrong direction of thought. Yanking herself upright, mentally as well as physically, she twisted the doorknob and marched in, so forcefully that Peter knew at once that she must have overheard what he had just said. Swearing beneath his breath, he lifted a friendly hand to her. She was wearing the severe interview suit, and would have looked terribly smart had it not been for the hair tumbling untidily from the scrunchy at the back of her head. It looked as if she had tugged it in frustration. She said brightly, “Hallo, Peter – I thought I heard your dulcet tones!” Peter had the grace to blush, but he was damned if he’d let her make him feel guilty. He said casually, “I came to find this eleventh century manuscript of yours – you piqued my interest.” Julie, who had gone to the worktop to switch on the kettle, turned to face him, leaning her back against the cupboards, and he could see she was ready for a fight. “Peter, you know very well I said it was better than a manuscript, and I’m sure Mrs. Burton has already filled you in.” Peter had never let her intimidate him, so although Mrs. Burton was looking at him guiltily, he said only, “Then you believe this about the ghost?” Julie picked up the almost boiling kettle to fill her mug. “Come and see for yourself,” she mocked. “You know you want to!” He rose with alacrity, but as they left, he saw Julie give Mrs. Burton a quick smile to make up for her unpleasant manner. Clearly her anger was reserved for him. Peter sighed.

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“She’s worried about you,” he said excusingly as they crossed the hall. “Fair enough,” Julie said tightly. “I was pretty worried about her yesterday when she started to talk about ghosts. What’s your excuse?” “I need permission to talk to someone who’s worried about you?” he said at once. “That’s your excuse for discussing my private life with a stranger?” “Julie, it wasn’t like that!” he said impatiently, although he could feel a faint flush on his cheek as she pushed open the door of what was, presumably, the library. “Well, this is what you’re both worrying about,” Julie said, waving one expansive arm around the room. “Can you see any ghosts?” Peter frowned at her. She had already more or less admitted to believing in this ghost, so why back to this? To punish him for talking about her? To protect herself from gossip spreading at work, about Julie being so mad since she didn’t get the head-of-department job that she had started seeing things? Getting no help on these points, he went and stood in the middle of the floor looking about him. “Magnificent place,” he observed neutrally. “Got some amazing books, too. The manuscripts are over there – they’re bound in leather, nineteenth century.” “What period are the manuscripts themselves?” “There are some seventeenth century letters – civil war related, mostly Scottish. Others I’m not sure of – some late medieval, I think. Illuminated. “Wow.” He glanced back at her challengingly. “Nothing eleventh century?” “I was winding you up,” Julie said, walking across to the desk she had obviously been working at. “You can use the other desk if you like.” “How do I do that when it’s piled high with books – is that standard practice for the treatment of early-printed books now?” He was pleased to see her grin at that. “It’s Harding’s pile of rarities,” she said gleefully. “I found them like that. Have a look!” Idly, Peter began a cursory examination. At his fourth book, he cast her a comical look. “I thought you’d be amused,” she said smugly. “Ah well, let Harding do the accounts – and the joke-monitoring. The rest of us can run the department. Where’s your friend today then?”

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But she was ready for his sudden change of subject. They had known each other for many years. “He was here earlier,” she said carelessly, sitting down and pulling a book towards her. “He left.” “Where did he go?” “I didn’t ask.” Peter turned his chair around, sitting astride it with his arms resting across its back, regarding her fixedly. “Do you think he’s a ghost?” “You tell me.” She was already typing something into the computer. Forcefully. He said, “You don’t believe in ghosts.” “There you are then.” He hesitated, then, “I believe.” “Why?” Julie asked baldly, glancing up at him. He shrugged. “I grew up in a houseful of spirits. Doors would open and close for no reason, temperatures would alter…” “You had draughts,” Julie said drily. He smiled slightly. He had known she would say that. “No, we had presences. Several of them. Voices. My grandmother – she lived with us, or at least we lived with her – used to take it all in her stride. She said they had always been there, made us just speak politely to the spirits when we sensed them, and oddly, we were never afraid of them.” Julie sat back a little. “So,” she said, a little too carefully, “What do you think they are? What causes them to be there? Because presumably most people just die and their spirits go – wherever spirits are meant to go! Why do some hang around?” “I don’t know. Experts – don’t snigger, Julie, there are experts in this area as well! Experts believe that some trauma in their life, or death, left unresolved, keeps them tied at least partially in our world.” “To particular places?” “Sometimes.” “Like your grandmother’s house?” He hesitated an instant, then, “Yes, sort of, though I think it was to her family they were tied. When she died, we sold the house and the spirits became unhappy.” A day ago, this would have been too much for Julie. Now she found herself asking seriously, “What did they do? Did they leave?”

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“They slammed a lot of doors for a bit while we packed up. Then my mother brought in this – expert. He – freed them.” Julie’s heart was beating harder now. She said, “How did he do that?” “I’m not very sure,” Peter confessed. “But there was peace in the house afterwards. There was no more anger. Only…” he shrugged deprecatingly. “I’m not sure I could have continued to live there with the silence.” “You missed them?” Julie asked, without incredulity. “I would have done. We moved out only days later. In other houses, the silence doesn’t bother me.” He was looking at her steadily. “I don’t think it is always silent here.” “Sometimes,” she acknowledged minutely, “you feel you’re being watched.” “And are you?” She smiled unhappily, “I don’t know. Go and get your manuscripts, Peter!” He went and brought back a large bound volume to his desk while she began to move the book towers in easy stages to a safer home on the shelves. Helping her place the last of them, he said, “I can get the man who freed our spirits to come and talk to you.” “No,” she said quickly, then as he glanced at her in surprise, she flushed, conscious that she spoke from sheer instinct, because she didn’t want Lulach to vanish forever. If he hadn’t done so already… She mumbled, “Leave it just now. I’ll get back to you about it. Okay?” For a second he searched her eyes, then: “Okay,” he agreed.

Peter dragged her out for lunch at a nearby pub, which was refreshingly normal, and by the time they got back, Mrs. Burton was in the hall with her raincoat and hat on, ready to go out. “I’m going to my sister’s – see if we can manage to live together! I’m later than I meant to be,” she fussed, “so I’m not sure when I’ll be back. I’ll try for five o’clock, Julie, but if it’s a wee bit after that…” “I’ll wait for you,” Julie reassured her. “I could show you how to set the burglar alarm, but then I’ll miss my train…” “I’ll be here,” she insisted. “I should be further on than I am, so it gives me time to catch up if I work a bit late for once. Don’t worry!”

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Peter left about three o’clock to go back to the National Library, after asking repeatedly if she would be all right alone. By then she was disloyally desperate for him to leave because she thought that if she was alone then Lulach might come back. He didn’t. She worked on till after five o’clock with no sign of either him or Mrs. Burton. But at least, despite her periodic distraction, she was making progress now. And the work seemed to be calming her. The weight of the solid books passing through her hands, the vast quantities of knowledge penned and printed and owned by centuries of unknown strangers, were all curiously, almost physically, comforting. Eventually, at five-thirty with her stomach rumbling, she decided to make some more coffee to keep her going, and went out to the kitchen. Five minutes later, coffee mug clutched in one hand, she was only half way across the big, wide hall when she heard the noises from the library that told her he was back. Instantly, she felt a smile of sheer pleasure form on her face. There was relief there too, and excitement. For her heart was thundering and singing at once, all because she was going to see him again. Although, it struck her as she laid her fingers on the door handle, that it sounded as if he was behaving more like Peter’s spirits had when his parents had sold his grandmother’s house. Lulach, it appeared, was angry, and throwing things about. Surely not books? Not the incunabula please God! Anxiously now, she charged into the library, coffee mug to the fore – and witnessed devastation.

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CHAPTER 7

Her smart jacket was on the floor under her upturned chair. The fireside rug was a scrunched up heap. There were books all over the floor, amid fallen chairs and the pieces of a broken mug – Peter’s, she had time to think blankly, before her stupefied mind registered the presence of two men, one on the mezzanine, grasping the rail and peering downwards, not at Julie, but wildly around the whole room, and one only feet from her, his hands held in front of his face, as if warding off an attack. Neither of them were Lulach. Her heart gave a sickening jolt. Her mug fell to the floor, as from sheer instinct she assumed the old defensive posture, demanding loudly, “Who the hell are you?” Both pairs of eyes turned on her in surprise, and then, in irritation. What in God’s name had they been doing? Having a book fight in a stranger’s house? The one on the mezzanine snarled something she didn’t catch, causing his friend to advance purposefully on her. He moved quickly, quiet and lithe as a cat, but as he reached for her, she blocked him with her crossed arms, again from instinct, or habit. He swore and this time balled his fist for a serious strike. Her conscience was clear. She blocked his punch easily, kicking out at the same time with enough force to send him sprawling backwards, clutching his stomach with a yell of pain. “Who are you?” she repeated more shakily. “What do you want?” “Get her for Christ’s sake!” said the man on the mezzanine between his teeth. “She’s only a wee lassie!” Spurred on by this encouragement, the other came at her again, his eyes huge with fury. He came low, trying to get under her guard. She kicked him twice and hit him in quick succession, but again he came back. From the corner of her eye she saw the other start down the spiral stair and for the first time was aware of real fear. She had never fought before, only sparred in competition, for points. Not to avoid whatever it was these two meant to do. Thieves. They had to be thieves after the rare books. Just thugs, stealing to order… The first one was up again, coming back at her like a bull, trying to force her to fall back so that she would be trapped against the door. Again he fell, suddenly and spectacularly. But Julie hadn’t touched him.

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A book had flown into his head with enough force to knock him dizzy. Caring nothing for Queensbury rules, Julie kicked him when he was down – cleanly in the head - and turned, breathing hard, to face his companion. Him she found half-way across the room, struggling towards her under a positive hail of missiles that included her handbag and a 4-way extension socket. “Lulach?” she whispered. “Jimmy get up!” the beleaguered man yelled. “We’re off!” She had time to see, through her relief, the abject fear in his face. Jimmy crawled towards him. The missiles paused, while she stood nervously by with her guard up. When the upright one bent quickly to pick up Julie’s favourite discovery – a seventeenth century demonology - it suddenly span away from him and he simply turned tail and fled to the open window. At which Jimmy finally managed to get to his feet and lope drunkenly after him. “You want to get out of here, hen!” he shouted back at Julie. “Bloody place is haunted!” “Good thing too!” she shouted back, and began to laugh. Fortunately she managed to control herself before it got hysterical. When they had both struggled out of the window, she dropped her hands at last and ran after them to pull down the sash and slide over the catch, quickly pulling the curtains shut so that nobody could see in. Her hands were shaking. But he was beside her, real and solid and she turned into his arms without a word, holding him, clutching him as if she would never let him go. His hands were in her hair, pulling it free of its confines, then on her back, tenderly pressing her to him. “Are you hurt?” he kept saying. “Are you hurt?” She shook her head. “I’m fine. I’m fine now… I thought you’d gone – I thought you’d never come back…” “I’ll always be here for you,” he said softly. “As long as you want me.” Releasing her clutch enough to draw back and look into his face, she said brokenly, “I do want you, I do so much Lulach that I want to die with it…”And he bent his head to kiss her, claiming her lips with an aching tenderness that made her weep. Salty tears ran into their mouths, passed from tongue to tongue until the taste faded and there was only his essence in hers, strong, earthy, and natural, and her mouth clung to his, even when he would have broken the kiss. He gathered her closer, lifting her in his arms and carrying her to the easy chair by the fire which was still glowing feebly in the gathering dusk.

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Laying her there, he knelt before her, covering her face with his kisses, his tongue gently licking at what tears were left there. She caressed his neck and shoulders, reaching up with her lips to taste his golden throat. How could a spirit taste, feel, and smell so real? She didn’t care. She wanted everything about him. He shuddered under her lips, letting her drag at his tunic and pull it over his head, only reaching out with his hands as she stretched upwards, to cup her breast caressingly, groaning, and again seizing her mouth in one of those astoundingly sensual kisses that seemed to swallow her entire body. Gently, slowly, he removed her clothes, his lips following where his fingers led, deliberately arousing, teasing her with the wildly growing pleasure. At last, when she was as naked as he, he placed his palms, butterfly light against her nipples and watched them strain and harden unbearably to his caress. “All night,” he whispered, “all night…” And she moaned quite involuntarily at the delicious thought. For a second, he left her, spreading the disrupted rug back in its place before the hearth, then lifted her again, pausing only to plunder her mouth on the way. She was laid on the rug, her back already arching to meet him, her hands reaching for his long, golden body. He laid it gently over hers, kissing, caressing every part of her, his lips lingering over her breasts while his hands slid lower and lower, making her gasp as his long, sensitive fingers slid tenderly across the wet welcome between her legs and began to explore. Gasping, trembling with the strength of her longing, with the intensity of her delight, she reached for his hardness, rejoicing in his instant groan of pleasure. But he would not oblige her with that; his fingers were too busy in their teasing exploration, slipping inside to make her gasp with joy, caressing until the waves of orgasm began and then drawing back, letting her push herself against him in abject pleading. And each time he began again, the pleasure was already greater, the waves stronger until inside her it was constant; and when at last he covered her and entered her body with a huge shudder of relief and joy, the orgasm followed the penetration of his flesh, mounting and growing with its every movement. But this time he rode her slowly, tenderly, joyously, not letting it run away with them as before, but drawing it out, making it last as he had promised, as she had not thought it possible to do. Without words he sensed her every desire, her every state, and when at last he brought them to the final climax, it was both of them together, crying out in one voice as it crashed into and around them, higher and higher in rolling wave upon wave of undreamed of ecstasy. At last, still inside her, he rolled to the side, smiling with triumph as he gazed into her face, because he knew the wonder of what he had given her.

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“Now do you love me?” he whispered. She turned her face into his shoulder, breathing in the sweet earthy scents of his skin. “Oh Lulach,” she said, choking on a laugh that was half sob, “I have always loved you!”

Laughably, it was true, and with a truth that went far beyond understanding, even further beyond the three days she had known him. It seemed now that there had never been a time when she had not known him, had not loved him. Common sense, any kind of normal reality, seemed to have deserted her as they lay naked in each other’s arms before the fire, which became their only light as the autumn darkness fell. Their soft talk was languid, comfortable, unimportant to anyone else. Until suddenly, Lulach sat up, listening. “Mrs. Burton,” he said. “Oh God, I forgot about her!” Julie panicked, reaching wildly around for her clothes. She could hear the front door closing with a sharp click, the housekeeper’s voice calling, “Julie? Miss Macbeth? Sorry I’m so late back…! They cancelled two trains!” “Just as well!” Julie muttered. “Sh-sh.” He caught her arms, pulling her back against him. “It’s dark. She won’t come in.” “But I told her I would wait for her!” “Sh.” With a sinking feeling of inevitable discovery – it was too late to dress, to do anything at all to prevent it, she lay still against Lulach’s chest, listening to Mrs. Burton’s sensible shoes click across the parquet floor of the hall. “Julie?” The door opened a crack. She braced herself for the older woman’s shock. But her head never even poked round the door. Seeing only the darkness – thank God, for the whole room was still in post-robbery shambles – Mrs. Burton said crossly, “Wretched girl was supposed to wait for me!” and shut the door again with an irritated little snap. Her footsteps retreated. Julie could hear the buzz of the alarm being set. “Oh dear this is stupid!” she exclaimed, not knowing whether to laugh or run after her. “What am I supposed to do now?” “Nothing,” said Lulach comfortably, drawing her back down onto the rug. “I’ll have to stay here all night!”

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“Exactly,” said Lulach, his trailing fingers on her back making her shiver with sudden memory. She looked at him doubtfully. “All night,” he said softly. Her breath caught. The singing in her body was no longer contented, sated, it was hungry. And his light eyes reflecting the glowing fire, were full of promises as irresistible as the fingers now caressing her left breast. “Oh, what the hell,” she said, and snuggled into his strong arms.

As a night of passion, it was unrivalled in her life or, she firmly believed, in anyone else’s. Lulach knew ways of making love that she had never even thought of, wild exciting ways, ways that increased the intensity of pleasure, or drew out it’s length, changing positions and holds the better to explore and delight.And with him, Julie had no inhibitions, seeking to return in any way she could the wonder and joy he gave to her. There was little time for sleep. Once, she dozed, sliding into delicious, sated slumber with him still warm and wonderful inside her; only to wake again half an hour later with the feel of him moving within, awakening her yet again to new passion. All that energy, so little sleep – she should have been completely shattered by the time the dawn light began to creep through the chinks in the library curtains. Yet it seemed to have the opposite effect. Whether it was happiness or adrenalin, she was ready to face the day’s work with enthusiasm. And that meant, first of all, tidying up the mess left by the would-be robbers. Leaving Lulach lying on the rug, his head resting on his hand while he watched her, she padded into the little bathroom for a quick wash before slipping at last back into yesterday’s clothes. Then she began to pick up the books, ruefully acknowledging the damage some of them had sustained. She didn’t hear or see him move, just suddenly felt him beside her, helping. Once, crouched down and reaching across her for another book, he sniffed and smiled at her wickedly, and when she looked enquiringly back, he said, “You still smell of sex.” She blushed. “Hardly surprising!” she retorted. “Do you suppose Mrs. Burton will notice?” “Bound to,” he teased. “Rats. I can’t even open the window to air this place or it’ll set the alarm off! Lulach?” “Yes?” He rose, walking to the shelves and infallibly placing the books back in their proper place while they spoke. He would, she reflected, have made an excellent librarian! “Should I tell Mrs. Burton about the break in?” “Why scare her for nothing? They won’t be back.”

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Laughter bubbled up at the memory of those eerily and lethally flying books. “You were magnificent! I’d have been petrified myself if I’d had time to think.” “Have to protect my ladylove,” he said deprecatingly.

The day passed in a daze that was only partly due to sleep deprivation. Mostly, it was to do with happiness, with last night’s amazing love, and the day’s wonderful companionship. Guilt having re-inspired her work ethic, Julie checked and catalogued and moved vast quantities of books from one place to another. Lulach watched her tolerantly, if uncomprehendingly while he lounged around reading. They talked intermittently, with the ease of a much longer friendship than they had actually known, of various things to do with her life and his, sheering away still from his supernatural afterlife. The avoidance was Julie’s, and quite unconscious. Though somewhere she was acknowledging that the people he spoke of were the legendary Macbeth, his wife and others who had lived a thousand years ago, she simply wasn’t ready yet to deal with the impossibility of her relationship with Lulach. She was still too lost in its wonder. Mrs. Burton, who had been already regaled with a story about her falling asleep in the library last night, stuck her head round the door once to remind her to eat lunch. Julie made a sandwich and brought it back to the library to eat while sitting on the fireside rug with Lulach’s arm around her.. The unspeakable Mr. Harding called on her mobile phone to enquire about progress. She gave him a slightly exaggerated report which she determined to make fact before the end of the day, and went back to work. In the afternoon, Peter phoned to ask if he could drop round to the flat that evening. Julie said yes from habit and told him to bring a bottle. When she laid the phone back on the desk, Lulach was watching her from the easy chair. “This is the Peter who was here?” he said carefully. Astounded, she recognized jealousy in his badly veiled eyes, and could not help rejoicing in her unexpected power. She supposed ruefully that it spoke volumes for her insecurities rather than his. Repressing the unkind urge to tease, she said wryly, “Yes, married Peter with three kids, who despises my pitiful life.” “And who worries about you.” She sighed. “He’s a good friend,” she agreed. Then, frowning, she added. “You saw him yesterday?” “I never leave,” he reminded her. “Can’t you?” she asked, suddenly gentle.

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His eyes slid away. He shook his head. “No. I can’t. Not yet.” She left it there.

“Brought the wine,” Peter said, brushing past her into the flat with a bottle held out before him like a talisman. “Brought a friend,” Julie observed, regarding the other, slightly older man who still stood by the door, smiling a little apologetically. He had a very full head of greying hair that looked wildly uncombed, but under a smart wool overcoat, he was wearing an equally smart three piece suit and an eye-dazzling tie reminiscent of the psychedelic sixties. Always intrigued by such eccentric contrasts, she greeted him amiably. “Hallo.” “Hallo! I’m Marcus Dewey.” He spoke with one of those English accents impossible to locate precisely; educated but not plummy. “Julie Macbeth,” she said and they solemnly shook hands. “Peter said you wouldn’t mind.” “More the merrier,” she said largely. “Come in!” “It’s very tidy in here,” Peter said suspiciously, looking around her living room. “Did you get a cleaner?” “No. I got fed up with the mess,” she said dryly, passing him the corkscrew and going off to fetch glasses. “Nice flat,” Marcus Dewey said politely as she poured out the wine. “Good cornicing,” she agreed, handing him his glass. “Cheers.” Peter cleared his throat. “Marcus is the man I was telling you about, the one who helped us with my grandmother’s house?” Julie paused, her lips on her glass. After a moment, she lowered it, the wine untasted. As neutrally as she could, she said, “I thought we had agreed to do nothing for now.” “I know. But I was…” “Worried. I know.” She wasn’t quite sure how she felt about this. She didn’t want to be pushed into anything. She didn’t want Lulach analyzed and made into some freak for scientific, or other, study. She didn’t want their relationship put under a spotlight. She didn’t want it spoiled. And yet she wanted to know how it was all possible. She knew she should want to know what to do about it.

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Marcus leaned forward on the sofa. The girl was somehow not what he had expected. She was too blunt, too down-to-earth, and yet she looked like a pre-Raphaelite angel. He said carefully, “Peter told me about your ghost, and I’m afraid I rather pushed him to take me to you at once. You see, I already knew about this specimen. I had once spoken to Professor Drummond about it and to be honest I was fascinated. I have never heard of so physical, so permanently physical, a manifestation.” “It’s not permanent,” Julie said mechanically. “He switches back and forth. Why did Professor Drummond call you? I can’t believe he wanted to get rid of him!” “He didn’t. He was merely seeking information.” Marcus Dewey took a sip of his wine. Julie had the impression he was used to holding audiences and felt an unkind desire to get up and go to the bathroom just to prove he hadn’t got her. She suppressed it. Dewey said, “We were colleagues of a sort. I am Professor of Parapsychology at Edinburgh University.” Julie said, “Ah.” Then, pulling her brain back into gear, she roused herself to add, “I thought you guys were more into ESP – telepathy and so on.” “All aspects of the paranormal,” Marcus Dewey said gently. “Including physical manifestations of the spirit-world which is, in fact, my speciality.” Julie sat on the floor, tucking her legs under her, and took a couple of sips of wine. “Two days ago,” she observed, “I would have labeled you an amiable nutter, let you finish your share of the wine and sent you away with a polite request to Peter not to bring you back.” “Julie!” Peter protested, but Marcus only smiled. “And now?” he prompted. “Now…” She waved one arm expansively. “As the man said, there are more things in heaven and earth… I’ll listen.” “Good girl!” Briefly, she felt her hackles rise at his mode of address, but he gave her no time to retort, asking immediately, “Now, Professor Drummond told me he thought this was a very old spirit, medieval at least. Would you agree?” “Yes…” “Does he remember who he was?” “Yes,” she said again, with just a hint of impatience. “Peter,” said Marcus, “thinks you know his identity.” Julie just looked at him expectantly until he sighed and went on for himself. “Eleventh century, Scottish, to do with King Lulach the Simple?”

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She said carefully, “For some reason, he seems to prefer to keep his name to himself. I’m prepared to respect that.” “But he told you?” She hesitated, then, “Yes, he told me.” “Then I am right in assuming, as Peter does, that there is some sort of bond between you and this manifestation? A bond greater even than that formed with Professor Drummond over many years?” Julie could feel herself flushing, but she had always considered her private life to be her own, and saw no reason to change the rules now. “Assume what you like,” she said acidly. “If you want to ask this manifestation questions, why don’t you do it yourself?” “I would love to,” Marcus said frankly, “but the fact remains I doubt he will – er - manifest for me. He didn’t for Peter, and he too is a sensitive. May I ask if you are?” “Haven’t the foggiest idea,” Julie said with some satisfaction. “Look, what is it you really want to know about…” She paused, nearly saying the name and only managing to pull herself up in time. “…about this manifestation?” “Everything,” said Marcus ruefully. “I have the feeling he could forward my work by leaps and bounds. But from a humanitarian view – and I use the word in its widest sense – I want to know how he is trapped in that house, and how to free him.” Inexplicably shocked, she lifted her glass, giving herself time to adapt, to think. Lulach as a humanitarian case? Was he to be pitied, trapped and alone in the Drummond Place library? Marcus was saying gently, “You do accept the idea that he must be freed?” Julie took another drink, slowly, before laying the glass down on the carpet, after which she continued to watch the red liquid ripple and settle. When it was quite still again, she said, “I don’t know that I do.” She glanced up at him. “He doesn’t seem trapped.” “Is that your interpretation or his?” She drew in her breath. “Mine,” she confessed. “Mine.” Peter said, “Julie, he has been alone for nearly a thousand years with no companionship except the odd passing friendship with people like you and Professor Drummond. Marcus has been tracking this ghost’s manifestations, through contemporary diaries, journals and newspapers and so on, back over two hundred years – since the New Town house was built, in fact. And what he has found is many reports of unexplained noises and movements, and very few, only three, full physical manifestations, one in the 1790s to a Sophia Drummond, one in the 1850s to Sir George Drummond, and then Professor

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Drummond’s sightings which occurred off and on for forty years from the 1960s. And now, almost immediately, you.” She stared at him, frowning. “What are you getting at?” “How do you interpret it, Julie?” Marcus asked. “Long breaks between manifestations, and now, suddenly, it’s constant. What has changed?” “Loneliness,” she said slowly. “He is lonely now.” “He needs human companionship,” Marcus agreed, “more than ever before.

Either he is

desperate to return to this world – which is impossible – or to go on to his own, which he should have done a thousand years ago.” “Why didn’t he?” Julie wondered aloud, as much to herself as to them, but Marcus chose to answer. “I can’t say, since you won’t tell me who he is.” He gave her the opening, but when she didn’t take it, he went on anyway. “The eleventh century was turbulent. Almost constant wars as kings fought to secure and enlarge their kingdoms. The time of Duncan and Macbeth and Malcolm Canmore. There were still Viking threats from the north, Norman threats from the south with the Conquest of England. Who knows what horrors occurred in his life? Or why he holds on?” In his life, his father was murdered by his stepfather; and that step-father was murdered by Malcolm Canmore who also slew him, Lulach, in an ambush. Perhaps he had stayed because of the strength of his desire to protect, or to see protected, his displaced family. Perhaps by now, it had just become – habit. For the first time Julie began to regret avoiding this discussion with him. She had been ignoring what he was, intent on making him what she wanted… “The question is, Julie, does he want to be free?” “Can you not leave?” she had asked him “No,” he had answered. “Not yet.” Restlessly, she got to her feet, at the last moment reaching back down for her glass as her only grasp on reality. “What is it you want to do?” she asked slowly. “Help him to move on,” Marcus said gently. She raised the glass to her lips, draining it before she answered. “The thing is,” she said carefully, “I’m not sure he wants to move on. I think he actually – likes it here.” Is that your interpretation or his?

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CHAPTER 8

It wasn’t her house. It wasn’t her library. In the absence of Mr. Jack Drummond, Julie insisted they ask Mrs. Burton for permission. Even so, she fully determined to be there early the following morning, to warn Lulach, to find out what it was he did want before they arrived. She didn’t know if it was possible to impose his freedom if he did not choose it, she didn’t even know if that would be truly wrong, only that she did not want it. Yet Lulach’s existence went against the natural order and people might well consider themselves justified in trying to restore that. And so she had to get to him first. However, she had reckoned without her sleep-deprivation of the previous night, and without all the tossing and turning and heart wrenching that she had to go through when she finally got to bed. Despite almost total exhaustion, it was well after three am before she fell asleep. And she didn’t wake until eight. As a result, she ran most of the way to Drummond Place and still arrived, breathless and disheveled, to find them already in the hall with Mrs. Burton. Her face must have fallen, no doubt ludicrously, because Peter said hastily, “We haven’t gone in without you. Marcus was just speaking to Mrs. Burton…” But it seemed to be Mrs. Burton who was speaking to him, and quite forcefully at that. “That room gives me the creeps and always has! If I’d been expected to clean it, I just couldn’t have worked here. So, as far as I’m concerned you should clear out – set free, if you prefer,” she corrected hastily with a quick glance at Julie “– whatever – er – manifestations you find! I think I can safely speak for young Mr. Drummond in that too!” Marcus paused in the act of taking off his smart overcoat, to ask quickly, “Has he seen the ghost as well?” “I don’t think so,” Mrs. Burton said doubtfully. “But he knew of it, of course – his uncle had talked to him about it. And he certainly felt it. It blew the pages of his book, knocked others off the shelf in front of him…” “Did he think it was angry?” Marcus asked.

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“I don’t think he gave two hoots about its emotions,” Mrs. Burton said tartly. “He was just spooked and decided to sell the place. Would you all like tea or coffee?” Before Julie could get in her heartfelt affirmative, Marcus had turned it down for all of them and bowed exaggeratedly for her to lead the way to the library. Casting him the indignant look of a child unfairly deprived of her sweets, Julie marched across the hall and laid her hand on the library door handle. For an instant she paused, for the first time reluctant to go in. She found herself hoping that he would not be there, that he would not come… Taking a deep breath, she turned the handle and led the way inside. The fire was lit again. It had only struck her last night that Mrs. Burton was very unlikely to be responsible for lighting the library fire. Somehow, Lulach was doing it, and she knew he was doing it to welcome her.. The thought made her smile now. “Is he here?” Peter asked curiously. “Of course he’s here,” Julie said impatiently. “Ask him to manifest,” Marcus urged, irritating her yet again with that word. But she managed to swallow it enough to speak, just a little ruefully, to Lulach. “Are you watching us?” she asked. “Listening? Well, this is Peter, as you know, and this is Professor Marcus Dewey of the University’s Department of Parapsychology.” Her scanning eyes picked out no movement, no “manifestations”. She said, “They’re afraid you’re trapped in this house, in this room. They want to talk to you, to see if they can help. But you don’t need to talk to them,” she added hastily. “You don’t need to at all…” “Julie…!” Peter protested. He seemed to be doing that a lot lately. But, “I am happy to talk,” said a quiet voice behind them, causing them all to spin round and discover him standing not so very far from the door, hands at his side, looking more solid and at ease than any “manifestation” should have the right to. “My God…!.” That was Marcus, in little more than a whisper, clearly blown away. Lulach was his newly discovered incunable. Julie tried to understand that, and failed. Lulach was not an object for study.. He was her lover. “Your God? I assure you I am not,” said Lulach, and Julie laughed. His eyes found and held hers, an answering smile within, but only for a moment before they returned to the men. She had never seen him quite like this before, serious, watchful. But suddenly she could imagine him in his real, violent life, facing some stranger, some potential enemy, like this. Prepared to be polite, but prepared also for trouble…

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She could hear Marcus swallowing before speaking, far more humbly than was usual for him. “We are grateful for your…” “…manifestation,” Julie finished for him with unhidden mockery. Peter glared at her, but Marcus might not have heard. He was going on, “I wonder if we might talk with you about your state, how you came to be as you are, what your wishes are?” Lulach graciously waved him to the easy chairs by the fire, and Marcus went at once. Peter fell into the chair at the desk he had used before and stayed there, since he seemed incapable of further movement. His childhood ghosts had only been voices, rushes of air - nothing like this. Since Lulach was waiting politely for her, Julie went and sat in the other easy chair, opposite Marcus, the one in which had begun that amazing night of passion. Her body began to get hot. Lulach moved with his own grace towards them, and there was notably nothing of the gliding Scooby-Doo ghost about him. You could see the movement of his limbs beneath the tunic, see the muscles of his legs as he perched on the arm of Julie’s chair, stretching one arm behind her to the chair back. Peter twitched, and was still. Marcus said, “May I ask your name?” Lulach smiled. “Don’t you know?” “I could hazard a guess, based on Julie’s questions to Peter…” Julie twisted round to give Lulach a rueful grimace of apology. Seeing it, the fleeting smile glanced across his face. He said, “Very well. Then I am Lulach, son of Gillacomgain, who was King for just eight months.” Astounded at the ease of this, Marcus let out a breath and sat back in his chair. “Thank you! I can’t help wondering why you have revealed it to no one else but Julie?” Again the fleeting smile. “Pride,” said Lulach surprisingly. Marcus blinked. “Pride?” “You must be aware how I am described in most of your histories. The ones that don’t ignore me altogether. I do not find it flattering.” Julie began to laugh, silently, and felt his fingers stroke her neck in quick, secret response. She shivered. “How do you know how you are described?” Peter asked from across the room. Lulach barely spared him a glance. “I read.”

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“You like books?” Marcus pounced. “Love them,” Lulach maintained largely, “We have all the greats here, Homer, Tolstoy, Carlyle, Dickens, Archer…” “Archer?” said Marcus, frowning without comprehension. “Jeffrey,” said Lulach tranquilly, setting Julie off again. Marcus clearly didn’t know when his leg was being pulled, but he smiled thinly and went on with his questions. “I think you have been in this room since it was built in 1790?” “More or less,” Lulach said vaguely. “Have you ever been anywhere else?” Lulach stared at him. “I’ve been dead for nearly a thousand years. Of course I have.” “I’ll come back to that,” Marcus said patiently. “I mean since 1790.” “Since 1790, no. I don’t think so.” Marcus frowned. “Don’t you know?” Lulach shrugged. “Sometimes I sleep. I wake up in odd places. But they are usually here in this room. I don’t think I go anywhere else.” Leaning forward again, Marcus said intensely, “Why do you stay, Lulach?” “I am comfortable here, and I have nowhere else to go.” Quickly, Julie’s eyes flew round to his again, but he was not looking at her. She began to wonder if she had got it wrong, if Marcus was right after all; if all he really wanted was to be free… “And before that, why did you stay in the world when you died?” Beside Julie, his body shifted. “To watch over my family,” he said steadily. “Then it was something you chose? You were not afraid to find yourself trapped between worlds?” “Ah.” Lulach stood up, moving towards the fire, resting one arm along the mantle shelf as he gazed into the crackling flames. “Something I chose? No, not really,” he said at last. “It was already chosen. And no, I was not afraid.” His head moved, turning towards Julie so that only she could see his face. “You see, I already knew when I died how it would be.” “You saw it,” Julie whispered. “Yes,” he confessed. He turned, standing now with his back to the fire, a solid block to the heat. “I was born out of time. I don’t quite understand how, or why, but these things sometimes happen. I lived out my life, which in some ways was stranger to me than this, as best I could. I loved my mother, I loved Macbeth; I loved my wife and my children; I loved this land. I knew I could be a good king for

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the people, and I knew too that I would never have the chance. I knew when and how I would die, and at whose hand; only the exact place remained a mystery until it happened. But I was not afraid to die, because I knew I would still be here, waiting, although they would not see me…” Julie could feel the tears coming at last, tears of the empathy she had been afraid to feel for his past, for his condition. “And my wife never saw me again. Nor did my children. But my granddaughter did. She was the first…” Marcus said, “You said you were waiting. What are you waiting for?” Lulach gave a faint smile. “For my own time, of course. The time I should have been born.” Peter said curiously, “How do you know that?” Lulach shrugged. “The same way I always know all such things.” “And will you know when that time has come?” “Of course.” Julie’s throat felt dry now. Clearing it, she asked her question. “And then what happens?” “At the time which was originally allotted for my death? I shall die properly, if you like. Move on with the other spirits.” “To those of your wife and children?” she asked in a small voice. She wasn’t jealous. She genuinely pitied them their awful loss almost as much as she pitied him his. And her own to come. But he was smiling at her as if the others weren’t there. “I hope so,” he said steadily. “And all the others.” “And will this all happen quite naturally?” Marcus interrupted. “Without outside help?” “I believe so. Unless…” He broke off, shrugging. Marcus was quick, much quicker than Julie, who had time only for sudden new fear before he was saying, “Unless… unless you have become too attached to these walls?” “If that were so, I would still go at my allotted time.” “And if it were so, and someone pulled the walls down?” Lulach was standing very still now. He said lightly, “If that was all so, then I would be lost, my spirit disintegrated like dust. I don’t know if I would ever find my way back…” “Lulach!” The exclamation was wrung from Julie like a sob as she flung herself out of the chair towards him. He caught her by the shoulders, tightly, giving her a little shake. “Julie, it won’t happen! I’m not attached to the walls! What are walls to me?” “Your home for two hundred years?” Marcus suggested drily.

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“I lived – well, existed - drifting on the air for eight hundred. No contest.” “Then why did you look that way?” Julie demanded. “You did see something of the sort, didn’t you?” He definitely hesitated a moment before saying, “I saw many things, some only as possibilities. Not everything is written in stone.” “And you can tell the difference?” Peter said, clearly skeptical. Lulach cast him a sardonic grin. “Actually yes, I can. Or I could. I don’t see any more, not since I died.” “So you are working from thousand year old memories?” “My memory is excellent. But I can’t see why any of you are actually considering this – who’s going to pull down a protected building in Edinburgh’s New Town?” Julie laughed in quick relief. “No one,” she said. “No one at all! Now, Lulach, answer their question – you have already told us you are trapped in our world waiting for your own time. Do you want their help to go early?” Go early, she thought hysterically, as if he were getting a lift to work, or an earlier train to London… Lulach’s hand slid down her arm to take her hand. “No,” he said. “I don’t want to go early.” She had known he would say that. She had known, and yet when the words were spoken, she rested her head on his shoulder, and closed her eyes with relief. They had time. Lulach’s arm crept around her. He said, “However, if it happens that – some disaster does befall me – I may yet be grateful for your help.” And suddenly her eyes were open again – what did he mean by that? Pulling away, she tried to see his face. Marcus was saying, “I would be glad to – but if it’s not now when we are face to face, how will I know?” Lulach said, “Julie will know.” “And if she doesn’t?” “Then it won’t matter.” He stepped back, gently moving her with him. Somehow, he was indicating that this audience was at an end. And Marcus and Peter both understood it as such, standing and collecting coats. It must have been a hangover from his kingship days – interesting that it still worked. In his own time, he must have been an imposing character, very far from the puppet history had too often assumed him.

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She thought Marcus might collapse with joy when Lulach solemnly shook hands with him. Peter, none of whose worries seemed to have been dissipated by this conversation, merely raised a rueful hand in farewell. “Call me later,” he said to Julie, and followed Marcus out. Only at the door did he pause, turning back, his frown even further deepened. “Lulach? What does tie you to this place? Why did you choose to stay in this house all this time?” Lulach smiled. “Because I had seen it before. This is where my time should have been, and where it will end.”

By the time Julie got home to her still quite tidy flat, she was contented, almost joyous that Lulach would not choose freedom over her. Her fears of the “spiritual disintegration” he had mentioned had been calmed and soothed by his explanation of the ways in which he had seen different possible endings when he was alive. Yet it was still only almost joyous. And that had to do with the implication that she was somehow equated with “trapped” as opposed to “free” in terms of Lulach’s future. That and something nagging at the back of her mind that was not right. There had been an expression on his face during the conversation with Marcus that was worrying her, even warning her; and yet she couldn’t quite see it, nor remember which part of the conversation had inspired it. She spent a good hour in the bath that evening, and then, determined to have that early night, she dried herself vigorously and padded into the bedroom to find a night-shirt. Opening the drawer, she pulled out the one on the top, a large, unglamorous T-shirt. But she was too careless and rumpled up the entire drawer in the process, revealing the gold silk nightdress at the bottom. For a moment, she paused, looking at it. Slowly, she moved her fingers over it and drew it out. It felt deliciously cool and soft, and on impulse she slipped it over her head before wandering over to the cheval mirror in the corner. Had she ever worn this? No. She had bought it for her honeymoon four years ago, and now she remembered why. It did make her look pretty sexy, she thought wistfully. Low cut, lacy, feminine, it clung to her figure, and the bright golden colour seemed to reflect the natural lights of her wild hair. She had never worn it for Justin. Now, she found she was glad. Without malice, she just knew it would have been wasted on him. She knew who she wanted to wear it for. Sensually, she slid her hand down the silk from breast to hip, thinking of him until the inevitable ache of desire took hold. Suddenly she wanted him here, not for the sex, although God knew she would

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hardly object, but because she wanted to climb into bed with him, lie in his arms all night wearing her sexy silk. She wanted to wake in his arms the next day, eat breakfast together, make love in her bed, buy new curtains… Yes, well, the curtains might have been a bit off-topic perhaps, but still symptomatic. She wanted a normal life with a man who was not normal, a man who was not even a man whatever his body said to the contrary. And how exactly did that work anyway? It felt to Julie as if all his body worked, so could he then give her babies? She hadn’t been on the pill for four years. Ghostly babies. She smiled unhappily at her reflection. Not yet, anyway. It was not yet near the middle of her cycle. Still, she had to grow used to this idea. If it was Lulach she wanted, and God it was, then she would just have to take the rough with the smooth, the drawbacks with the advantages. And tomorrow, tomorrow she would try to think beyond her work in Drummond Place, what would happen when it was done and she had no further excuse to be there. When the house was sold to some other stranger. Would Lulach reveal himself to them and forget her? Tugging back the quilt, she slid into bed, hugging herself against jealous thoughts, closing her eyes tightly and imagining that it was his arms which held her, which brushed so deliciously against her silk-covered breasts, as she drifted almost immediately into sleep. She didn’t even put the lamp off. She knew she didn’t, because when she awoke only an hour later, sitting bolt upright in bed, it was still glowing brightly. “The books,” she said aloud, staring stupidly into it. “It’s the books! Oh God, what am I doing?”

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CHAPTER 9

Pushing open the library door the next morning, she was aware that she looked dreadful. She hadn’t slept last night after the unwelcome knowledge had hit her. She had just sat up in bed drinking cup after cup of coffee and trying to think what to do. Now, haphazardly dressed in an old soft skirt and loose top, with red, dark-shadowed eyes and no make-up, she suspected that she looked as awful as she felt.

Even without Mrs. Burton’s concerned frown of surprise as she greeted her with gentle

disapproval, “Julie, it’s only eight o’clock!” That didn’t matter. He was hardly likely to be sleeping late. Fortunately, she hadn’t said the words aloud. Now, entering the library, she knew at once that he was not there. She felt crushed. Weak and exhausted, she just wanted to cry. Slowly, she laid her bag and computer on the table, trying to gather strength as she took off her jacket and walked across to the fire. She knelt on the rug, gazing into the dead embers. “Lulach?” she said softly. “Lulach, I need to talk to you…” He didn’t answer. Don’t be gone already, please don’t, there is no need yet… She could feel her hands clenched into fists, her stomach tight with anxiety. Her eyes darting around the room could see that all the books were still here; only in her waking nightmares had Mr. Harding come during the night and removed them. Sh-sh, Julie… Relax… The voice spoke inside her head, yet was so real that she jumped, staring wildly round her. Don’t you ever listen? said the voice with gentle mockery. You must be calm, and let me soothe you. Don’t fight it… “Lulach?” she whispered Who else would it be? Stop talking, and feel… “But where are you? What are you…? Oh!” Gradually, during this strange interlude, her fists had unclenched. She began to feel very strange, as if she were being gently, rhythmically massaged from the inside.

Which caused the

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involuntary gasp of understanding. Lulach, in his spirit form, was inside her, comforting, calming, easing her overwrought muscles until, slowly, she began to feel positively languorous. Her eyes closed. At some point, she had lain back on the rug, her feet and calves still tucked under her body, and now she found herself arching upwards with purely sensual pleasure. From the inside out, her flesh was tingling. Inwardly totally relaxed now, her entire body was ready and utterly susceptible to physical pleasure. And she was receiving it in ever-increasing strokes that she could not see. Without outward caress, her body was aroused and assuaged at once until, writhing and moaning with the pleasure, her clitoris seemed to explode on its own, shooting the ecstasy through her entire body, making her cry out his name over and over. And while the orgasm still rocked her, she became aware of something else within her, very slight, then growing and filling her, until it came to her with unspeakable joy that it was him, that it was Lulach, materializing inside her body and out, thrusting powerfully into her, over and over until he reached his own pleasure fully manifest, as Marcus might have said, and as a wonderful bonus gave Julie even more. Gradually, as the world began to come back and she could see again, she realized he was supporting himself on his elbows, grinning down at her. “Wow,” he said. “Well, that was different!” And she began to laugh, flinging her arms tightly around his neck. “Oh Lulach, I do love you!”

Later, cup of coffee clutched in both hands, she made him sit beside her on the rug and talk. “It’s the books, isn’t it?” she said, getting straight to the point. “You are somehow attached to the books. And it’s the power, the knowledge in them that somehow gives you the energy of this physical form.” Lulach looked at her quickly, then away. “I think it has happened that way. How did you guess?” “I’m not sure. You know every book here so well, they have been your only entertainment for more than two hundred years. They almost feel like you… And then, the night of the robbery – you had been defending them ferociously. Even before I came and added to your cares, you were making sure that none of the books were stolen. And they must have been stealing to order – they would only have taken a handful. So it came to me last night, when I was asleep. I think I was remembering your face when you were talking to Marcus about the walls not containing any of your spirit, and then asking for

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his help later, if you needed it. And I knew you expected to. Because it’s me breaking up the collection. I would have dispersed your spirit and lost you…” She had him by the shoulders, shaking him quite fiercely. “How could you let me do that? And you would have, wouldn’t you? Even though it’s the only thing you’re afraid of…” “I still will,” he said gently. “This is my time. We have this together, and then, when the books are split up, it will be over.” “No,” she said, burying her face hard in his shoulder. “I will not accept that! You cannot have seen that!” He said, “I saw you.” After a heartbeat, she slowly lifted her head to see his face. “You saw me?” He nodded. “It is you I have been waiting for all my life and all my death. Our souls were predetermined to meet, to be together. That is why I have not truly died. You are my time.” Her lips parted, but there was no sound. The enormity of his words took time to sink in. And yet they felt so right that she knew their truth instantly. “Then you are my time,” she said at last, in little more than a whisper. “And you cannot have seen that I destroyed you. I won’t do that…” “Yes, you will. I have it worked out. When the books are separated, you must find Marcus Dewey to bring me home.” She stared at him, struck, with the beginnings of hope.. “Home to me?” He hesitated, his eyes too honest to lie. “I don’t know. I don’t think so. Either way, I will not be lost. I think I will move on. And we will have had this time.” “It’s not enough!” she cried, brushing futilely at the wetness on her cheeks. His arms went round her, holding her close. “Julie, Julie, what did you expect? There was never going to be a future in this world for you and me – we must just enjoy the time we are given…” But she could not accept that; she would not. Pulling away, she said intensely, “But it is not written in stone. You said that. It is one possibility, the one you were prepared to let happen.” “Because it brought you to me.” She took a deep breath, as the great idea she had been stumbling around last night finally began to take proper form. “Lulach,” she said slowly, “if the collection stayed together, would your time still be up?”

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He smiled slightly at her turn of phrase. “No, I don’t believe so. When you die, our spirits would move on together.” She blinked, momentarily distracted. “And join those of your wife and children?” “In that world,” he said gravely, “I believe such considerations would be so petty as to be nonexistent.” He hesitated, then, his fingers gently touching her cheek, he said, “I loved my wife; alive and dead, I have loved many people. But it is you who are my soulmate, the other-half of my whole.” Suddenly she wanted to cry again, but other things were far more important. So contenting herself with pressing his hand hard to her lips, she said determinedly, “Right then!” And getting to her feet, she strode to the door and went out calling, “Mrs. Burton? Do you have Mr. Drummond’s phone number? I need to talk to him. About a business proposition!”

She was early the next day for her prearranged meeting with Mr. Harding. The office was quiet – everyone had gone for lunch, apart from whoever was on duty in the reading room. She didn’t look to find out, just let herself into the boss’s office and sat down in the visitor’s chair, gazing at his on the other side of the desk and reflecting with some wonder how much she had once wanted to sit in it. She had an envelope in her hand and she was tapping it restlessly against the desk while she waited. They all arrived together in the end, Mr. Harding, Peter and Maggie, the latter two grinning to see Julie early for once. Peter went off to fetch more chairs, Harding bustled over some papers while Maggie hissed at her, “What’s this I hear about you and the ghost of the Drummond Collection?” “I don’t know. You tell me,” Julie said tranquilly. “Poor old Peter’s convinced you’ve fallen in love with it.” “Maybe I have.” Maggie’s eyes widened. “Do you suppose he can…?” “Oh yes,” Julie said with feeling, and Maggie, eyes widening impossibly, gave a delighted giggle, one so dirty, however, as to attract Mr. Harding’s disapproval. Fortunately Peter reappeared just then, dragging a couple of chairs behind him, and they all settled down. Mr. Harding said importantly, “Well, Julie, what is all this about? Has something happened over at Drummond Place?” “Yes,” Julie said, pleased to have exactly the right introduction. “Many things, actually. I believe that even as we speak, Mr.. Drummond is on the phone to the Trustees, and the Librarian, withdrawing the offer of his book and manuscript collections.”

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Harding’s brows rose under his trendy glasses. He didn’t look impressed. “I haven’t heard that,” he said witheringly, “and I very much doubt that you have a hotline to the Trustees.” “True,” Julie agreed, “but I have been in negotiations with Mr. Drummond.” Harding’s mouth closed like a fish’s. Beside her, Julie could feel the perplexed gazes of the other two. “Negotiations?” Harding all but spluttered.. “For what? If your interference has pushed up his price, I will not take responsibility…!” “His price only concerns me now.” Julie smiled amiably. “Mr. Drummond and I have become business partners.” “You’ve what?” demanded Maggie, her Glasgow origins well to the fore in this crisis. “Are you aff your heid?” “Not at all. I wanted to tell you all first. I am putting money into a business venture with Mr. Drummond, involving the running of his library as a commercial concern. I got lots of ideas from you, Mr. Harding – charging to use the collection, photocopy charges, souvenir postcards, posters, replicas, well marketed and widely distributed, extra services such as translations of Latin, Anglo-Saxon and Norse language documents.” Those would be Lulach’s contribution. She added happily, “It will be the most famous library in the country – not least because it is haunted, though of course we will deny that. The collection is rare and valuable to many scholars…” “Julie, calm down!” Peter exclaimed, “You don’t have any money!” “I will have when I’ve sold the flat – I had it valued this morning at more than twice what I paid for it. That, plus a small loan, a little judicious fundraising and sponsorship, should raise my share of the capital.” “Aye, and where are you going to live?” Maggie demanded belligerently. Julie smiled. “In Drummond Place.” There was total silence for at least five seconds. Then Peter groaned, “Oh Julie!” And Maggie yelled, “Julie, you sly, perverse…!” And Mr. Harding, completely baffled, interrupted with dignity, “Until I receive word to the contrary, I am taking all this as nonsense. Please go and get on with the work you are paid for.” “Sorry,” Julie said, pushing her envelope across the desk to him. “This is my resignation.” His hand closed over the envelope so quickly it was almost a pounce. “Now that,” he said with undisguised malevolence, “I accept with pleasure!” Julie grinned at him across the table, and blew him a kiss.

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CHAPTER 10

Six months later, she got out of her bath in the elegant first floor bathroom in Drummond Place, humming as she dried herself on a very large and soft old towel. Still singing, she wandered through to the large bedroom that was now hers, and lifted the moisturizing bottle from the Victorian dressing table. Above her, she could hear Mrs. Burton moving around in her flat. Saved at the last minute from having to move in with her sister, she was still housekeeper here; Mr. Drummond paid her wages too. On the big bed lay the gold silk nightdress that she had laid out earlier. She put it on and as once before appraised the effect in the mirror. On balance, she thought she looked better now. There was a glow about her skin that screamed health and happiness. And success at bringing this project to fruition. Today had been the first day of the library’s official opening. And it had been busy. There was press and nosy locals, university and other scholars from all over the world, her old colleagues from the National Library, and Professor Marcus Dewey, looking expectantly around him the whole time he was there. Only Jack Drummond was absent. He was a sleeping partner, so determinedly so that they could hear him snoring from London. Julie herself had given several short interviews, denying the existence of any ghosts and emphasizing the beauty and knowledge of the collection, and then, with the new, assertive confidence she had learned from an ancient Scottish king, she had ended each interview exactly when she chose. Spraying a touch of her favorite perfume on her wrist, Julie wrapped herself in her all-consuming old woolen dressing gown and quietly left the bedroom. She ran lightly downstairs and across the hall, avoiding the alarm beam now by instinct, and went straight to the library. There was the light from one lamp and from the fire, warm and gentle. It was the most welcoming room in the world. He was there, sprawled on his side on the mezzanine, watching her as she closed the door with a click. The book he had been reading fluttered closed by itself. For a moment, neither of them moved, or spoke. Then she lifted her hands, untied the dressing gown and let it fall at her feet. Even over that distance, she heard his intake of breath. He stood slowly, his eyes never leaving her, though they roamed freely over her whole body. As he came down the spiral staircase and walked

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across the floor towards her, his taut muscular body moving with strength and grace inside the same old tunic, she found she was trembling, aching for his touch. And yet the anticipation was so sweet. He came to a halt before her. His hands reached for her and fell lightly on her shoulders. “You,” he said low, “are the most beautiful creature who ever lived….

My astonishing,

wonderful soulmate… ” Smiling with pure joy, she wound her arms around his neck and moved in for a kiss. Not for the first time or the last, she thanked God, profoundly, for the weirdness of her life.