Free Much Ado In the Moonlight by Lynn Kurland Page B

be equal to the task.
    Connor made a mental list of those misguided souls for use another time.
    “Is it perhaps the madman from the other day?” a man asked nervously.
    Connor grinned.
    Several of the men fell back, their hands at their throats.
    “If he is, he’ll regret his cheek,” Connor said, with relish. “If the lad is some other, then I’ll give him a tale to tell. But I want no aid. Not until I have souls about me with spine enough to do a proper bit of haunting.” He looked at them mockingly. “You spent far too much time dancing to the tune of Iolanthe MacLeod.”
    “But, my laird,” one daring soul interrupted, “she was mistress of the keep until just a short time ago . . .”
    Connor looked at him. It wasn’t a particularly unpleasant look, he knew that, but it was intended to promise things the man wouldn’t want to experience if he continued to babble on.
    The man shut his mouth abruptly and slunk behind several wiser, more silent souls.
    “Perhaps she did have a claim to this place,” Connor said, “but she left it behind and now ’tis mine. Unfortunately, before she left, she made women of you all. When you’ve learned to act like men again, then you can combine mischief alongside me. Until then, the haunting is mine.”
    The men slunk away, their consciences obviously shaming them into silence.
    He turned only to find that ridiculously dressed woman, Roderick St. Claire, standing next to him, a look of amusement on his face. Connor scowled and put his hand to his sword. Roderick held up his hands in surrender.
    “Do not stab me,” he said, still smiling. “I’m just admiring your technique. I wish I had your commanding presence.”
    “No doubt you do.”
    Roderick walked with him toward the front gates. “Who do you think this is? V. McKinnon?”
    “I can only hope,” Connor said with a yawn. “I’m in sore need of decent sport.”
    “You mean to do this new McKinnon lad a serious injury, do you?”
    “’Tis a fair repayment for Thomas’s irritation,” Connor said.
    “I suppose,” Roderick said slowly. “But he’s gone now and the keep is yours. Why torment any of his hapless relations?”
    “I wish none of them to have the idea that they would be welcome here,” Connor growled. “Damnable place that it is, ’twould be far worse with pesky, interfering McKinnon mortals loitering about.”
    “Hmmm,” Roderick said thoughtfully, “I suppose. But it is entirely possible that this new McKinnon relative might be to your liking.”
    Connor found that not even worthy of discussion. Of course, this new lad wouldn’t be acceptable. He was a McKinnon. Connor suspected that he wouldn’t even care for a MacDougal.
    Connor turned away from the gate. What he needed was the proper location for a good scare. He paused in the bailey and looked about him. There were many places that vied for his attention, but in the end he decided upon the great hall. It was full of old, rotting furniture and several overturned stones. All quite useful in truly making a mortal uncomfortable as he endeavored to flee for safer ground.
    “My laird,” one of the garrison lads said breathlessly, running up to Connor. “The mortal comes!”
    Connor rubbed his hands together expectantly. “I will await him in the hall. Keep the other lads out of the hall and out of sight. I prefer the screams of terror to be thanks to me alone.”
    The man nodded nervously, then bolted for parts unknown.
    Connor looked at Roderick. “Have you stomach for this deed?”
    “I’m honored to be included in the scheme.”
    Connor looked at him to see if he jested or not, but could tell nothing from Roderick’s expression. Indeed, it was hard to tell anything at all about him. Roderick was completely out of Connor’s experience. He’d known no one in his time who would have permitted himself to be bedecked in the frilly bits that Roderick seemed to enjoy so greatly. But despite his obsession with lace, Roderick did