Free In Bed with the Highlander by Ann Lethbridge

 
    The object floating above the mist in Moirag’s
headlights might have been a UFO hovering over a landing pad, if it didn’t look
quite so much like a castle. Chilly fingers walked down her back. Because it
looked identical to something she’d seen as a child. Something creepy wobbling
on the surface of a bowl of water held by Granny “the auld witch” McLellan as
her mother had called her great grandma. Destiny put out in plain sight, the old
girl had breathed staring into the water at the image of a medieval castle. As a
child, she’d believed it. She’d even studied history at school at Granny’s
suggestion.
    Not much call for history. Or superstitious rot as her mother
had called Granny’s strange ideas. A degree in business had proved more useful.
But history remained her passion.
    And what she was looking at in her headlights was definitely a
castle, when there hadn’t been one marked on Google maps anywhere near the hotel
she’d booked. Probably one of those private places where they paid to be blacked
out from prying eyes. So where was her hotel? She had to be lost.
    Moirag geared down to a crawl and rubbed at the windscreen. Not
fogged on the inside. She flicked the lever. The wipers did a quick one, two and
park. Nope. Not misted on the other side of the glass. Definitely a
pea-souper.
    A glance at the Sat Nav on the dash didn’t help, either. It
remained stubbornly blank, having given up the ghost an hour ago. Must be out of
range. The dark shape ahead of her solidified, its stone walls and crenellations
looming out of the mist. There was a sign over a stone arched entrance in the
outer wall. Hotel Glencovie. Really? The description on the internet hadn’t said
a word about it being a castle and there had been no picture to clue her in.
    And this place looked more like the setting for a horror flick
than your friendly B and B. The hairs on the back of her neck waved in a
nonexistent breeze. A creepy sensation she didn’t appreciate with fog snaking
over the road ready to swallow her and her car.
    She shivered. Enough. She’d so been looking forward to this
little holiday. To exploring the local library and church, looking for family
connections. The finishing touches to her surprise for her parents’ twenty-fifth
wedding anniversary. The McLellan family tree went all the way back to seventeen
hundred and ten. All it needed were a few details about her ancestor, the first,
and apparently very naughty, Lady Moirag Breton.
    A quick glance in the rearview mirror revealed a blank wall of
white. No going back to Glasgow tonight. She was here and that was that.
    The road took a twist right, and then left, and her lights
picked out the jagged points of a raised portcullis. Water gleamed with an oily
incandescence on her near side. Must be the moat. A little too close for
comfort.
    Slowing to a crawl, she eased the car across the wooden slats
of the drawbridge.
    The car did a rock and roll number over the cobblestones in the
courtyard. Tarmac was invented by a Scot, but did anyone care about your
springs? Nah. It was all about atmosphere. No doubt she’d be greeted by some old
fogy in a kilt who had a Scottish accent as thick as a steak, only to discover
the man came from Kent or York. That was how it was these days. She pulled up to
the sign displaying the word Reception in Gothic
lettering, popped the boot and opened her door.
    Five hours on a trip that should have taken three locked her
knees when she pushed off the seat. Standing up, she rolled her shoulders to the
tune of cracking vertebrae. Ah, that was better. A blinding beam of light hit
her full in the face. She blinked madly. Oh, right. Sensor light. At least she’d
be able to pick her way across the courtyard. The heels of her favorite shoes
hated to be jammed between two blocks of stone on any day of the week.
    The thick oak plank door opened and...yeah. There he was.
Knobby knees, hairy calves, a swath of green plaid and a foaming jabot. In