Once Upon a Star Read online

  Lianna slipped free of Ambrose and went to her and kissed her cheek, as she had that long-ago night when she’d been taken from Penmarren as a most reluctant bride.

  “Never did I think so either,” she murmured.

  “Will that be all, my lady?” Marthe curtsied.

  “Yes, Marthe. Thank you.” Ever since the day that Beorn had killed poor Sir Gryford and tried to murder Ambrose, Marthe had found herself once more able to speak. The shock of seeing Lianna in danger had somehow shaken her out of her silent state, and though she remained for the most part quiet as a moth, she did speak now and then, especially to Lianna, to whom she had become wholly devoted.

  As Marthe wove her way back toward the castle, Lianna bent her head and gave her son a kiss. “Now I believe it is my turn,” Ambrose chuckled, and she rose to go eagerly into his arms.

  “So that is what you wanted.” Rising up on tiptoe, she brushed a kiss across his jaw.

  “There. Will that serve, my lord?” she asked softly.

  “For now.” He took her arm and began leading her toward one of the peach-tree-lined paths that wound beneath the cliffs, away from the others, who were enjoying the May sunshine and the sweet profusion of flowers. “Constantine, will you be jousting in the tournament tomorrow?” he asked, as they passed the prince of Wyborn.

  “That I will. Lady Else has been so kind as to give me her handkerchief as a token.”

  “Well done.” Ambrose grinned. “And I suspect Sir William will have a token from the fair Lady Kira,” he added as Sir William and Kira appeared on the path above, strolling together beneath the trees.

  Lianna’s ladies-in-waiting, Else, Kira, and Gwenlyn had all come to Blackenstar shortly before she learned she was with child and had been attending her ever since. But she would soon need to choose some new ladies-in-waiting. Gwenlyn had already been pledged to marry one of Ambrose’s knights, and it appeared that Else and Kira would soon both be wed as well.

  Something in the air at Crow’s Keep—ever since the curse was broken—seemed to make love flourish.

  At least, Lianna thought, it had been so for her and her Barbarian Duke.

  As Ambrose led her to a secluded clearing that dipped off the path, out of the sight and earshot of those in the garden, she reflected on her life as the duchess of Blackenstar.

  Not only had love flourished here at the castle, but peace had settled like a silken coverlet across the land. Those aligned with Beorn had been found and dealt with. The borders were secure, and Ambrose’s enemies had turned their thoughts elsewhere, cowed by the strength of his new alliances.

  And since little Rowan had been born, an air of laughter and contentment had seemed to shimmer right off the ancient stone walls of the castle—a joy almost tangible, for all to see.

  The night of the falling star had brought the granting of all her wishes—hers and Ambrose’s both.

  “Now,” Ambrose said, and touched the star-brooch that glittered at the shoulder of her topaz silk gown, “what do you say to jugglers first and musicians second?”

  “I think musicians first and jugglers second,” Lianna teased, then drew in her breath as his arms slipped around her waist, drawing her so close she could feel the strong, steady beating of his heart.

  As always, her own heart began to thud in anticipation.

  “As you wish, Princess,” he murmured and cupped her face in his hand.

  “If this is your strategy, my lord, to accede to all my desires in order to win my favor, and to flatter me and to…”

  He brought his mouth down on hers and kissed her thoroughly.

  “And to kiss me until I can’t think straight…” she gasped.

  Ambrose ruthlessly kissed her again. “That is my strategy exactly,” he said.

  “Then let me advise you.” Lianna pulled his head down to hers and kissed him ardently, her mouth soft and pliant and eager upon his. Joy and love rose like soaring doves in her heart and shone from her eyes. “Proceed according to your battle plan, my lord. It is working splendidly.”

  THE CURSE OF CASTLE CLOUGH

  Ruth Ryan Langan

  For Nora, Marianne, and Jill—true friends

  And for Tom—best friend and love of my life

  Prologue

  Castle Clough, the Scottish Highlands

  “GRIFF.” SLIGHTLY OUT of breath, Lord Robert Cameron paused in the doorway of his father’s library. Not his father’s, he mentally corrected himself. It was his library now. As it had done for hundreds of years, everything at Castle Clough had once again passed from father to son. The land, the buildings, and everything in them. “I was busy with the herd when I got the message that you’d driven up from Edinburgh.”

  “Still playing the part of a gentleman farmer, I see.” Griffin Mackenzie looked up from the ledgers he’d spread open across the desk and shot a challenging look at his former brother-in-law.

  “I’m proud of the herds I’ve developed, Griff. They’re the finest in Scotland. Maybe in the world. Now,” Rob said tiredly, “I was in the middle of an important test. What is it you wanted to see me about?”

  “It’s about these.” Griffin Mackenzie waved a hand over the ledgers. In his mid-sixties, he was thirty years Rob’s senior. He was still a handsome man, with smooth, even features and dark hair graying at the temples. Over the years he had parlayed his knowledge of finance into one of Scotland’s largest fortunes. He wore his success as easily as the perfectly tailored Saville Row suit and Italian leather shoes.

  “What about them?” Lord Cameron crossed to the desk and glowered at the man who had dared to invade his private sanctum while he’d been busy in the fields.

  “You’ll find them interesting reading, Rob.” Griff walked around the desk, then settled himself into a chair and stretched out his legs.

  “All right, Griff.” Rob crossed his arms over his chest. “You look far too smug to be here with good news. Why don’t you tell me what I’ll find.”

  “You’ll find that your father’s…vices were extremely costly.”

  Rob tensed. He knew all about his father’s drinking, gambling, womanizing. “How costly?”

  “More than fifteen million pounds.”

  Stunned, Rob sank down onto the desk chair and stared blindly at the ledgers. “And how would you know all this?”

  “Because he came to me for the money.”

  “Which you were only too happy to lend him.”

  “I was, indeed.” Griff’s eyes glittered. He leaned forward, lowering his voice for emphasis. “You’ll find that the documents your father signed are all legal and binding. If you can’t repay the loans by month’s end, the entire estate becomes my property.”

  Rob clenched a fist atop the ledger. “You know I can’t raise that kind of money in only a few weeks’ time.”

  Griff sat back and picked a piece of lint off his cuff. “A pity. But it should be some consolation that Castle Clough and all the surrounding land will still be in the family, in a manner of speaking.”

  “You aren’t family, Griff. And you never were.”

  “I was married to your sister.”

  “And we all know why you married her.” Rob’s eyes narrowed. “I never realized until this moment just how much you resented me.”

  “I don’t resent you, Rob.” Griff closed his hands around the lions’ heads carved into the arms of the chair, worn smooth by use over the centuries. The piece would be a fine addition to his office in Edinburgh. “I pity you. You had the misfortune of being born to a weakling father, who could never resist the lure of slow horses and fast women. He didn’t deserve Castle Clough. You probably do, but now you’ll never have it. It will all be mine.”

  “You said I have until the end of the month.”

  “I did. But don’t get your hopes up.” Griff smiled, though his eyes remained cold. “There isn’t a bank in Scotland that will lend you a dime. Those I don’t own outright, I control through stock or personal friendship. They’ll do
as I tell them.”

  “Then I’ll sell everything.” Rob glanced around at the elaborate coat of arms hanging over the fireplace. At the paintings, several of which were priceless and had been in the family for generations. “If I have to, I’ll sell them for a fraction of what they’re worth.”

  “I don’t believe you.” Griff leapt to his feet and stood facing him. “You love these things too much to sell them. It would kill you to part with them.”

  “I do love them. Not for their dollar value, as you do, but because they’ve been in my family for centuries. But I’d rather give them away than see them in your hands.”

  “Go ahead, then. Do what you please. But know this. When I take possession of Castle Clough, I’ll retaliate by making the sale of your beloved cattle my first priority. Better yet, I’ll have them all slaughtered.”

  He had the satisfaction of seeing Rob’s face drain of all color. “And your pathetic staff will be out on the street. At their age, I doubt there’ll be much demand for their services.”

  “You really are a bastard, Griff.”

  “A very rich one. And about to become much richer.” He sauntered to the door, then turned for one last thrust of the knife. “I’ll see you in a couple of weeks, Rob, old boy. Have the keys to the estate ready to hand over.”

  1

  “THERE IT IS, miss.” The driver of the aged Rolls pointed to a break in the trees.

  Estelle Sinclair leaned forward from her position in the backseat. At first all she could see was the curtain of rain that had been falling for the past hour or more. Suddenly lightning sliced the sky, revealing ancient turrets. The castle itself was hidden from view behind tall hedgerows and scattered woods. Then, as the car rounded a curve, she caught her breath at the sight of Castle Clough. She could see why it was often called the castle in the clouds. It was situated high on a hill, overlooking green, rolling meadows dotted with sheep. Despite the rain, the lovely pastoral setting made Estelle sigh with pleasure. At last she would see for herself the place she had been researching nonstop in her New York offices for the past four days.

  Her heart raced at the rugged beauty of the Scottish Highlands. On the long drive from Glasgow she had seen the gradual changes, from long, lonely glens and open farmlands to craggy mountain peaks and wild, rushing streams. She had nearly wept at the sight of heather hills and cool, lovely lochs half hidden in dense woodlands and steep-sided glens.

  The castle suited its rugged surroundings. With the mist-shrouded Highland forest behind it, it loomed like a fortress, dark and forbidding. The ancient stones had weathered to a dull gray. Though the towers were now empty, Estelle could imagine how they must have looked filled with Highland warriors holding their swords aloft, standing their ground against invading armies.

  “Is this your first visit to the castle, miss?” The driver studied her in the rearview mirror as he swung the car through the open gates and up the wide, curving ribbon of drive.

  “Yes.” She met his eyes in the mirror and saw them narrow with speculation.

  With a frown he brought the car to a stop and stepped out, then opened her door and offered his hand.

  She accepted his help and stood admiring the ornate front entrance while he began removing her luggage from the trunk. He struggled under the weight of her first oversized suitcase and led the way up the wide stone steps.

  Before he could lift the heavy brass knocker, the front door was thrown open and a tall stick of a man in a dark suit, crisp white shirt, and perfectly knotted tie stood glowering at them.

  “What’s this now, Angus?” he demanded.

  The driver nodded toward Estelle. “The lass says she’s here at the lord’s request, Desmond.”

  Estelle stepped forward, eager to explain. “I’m Estelle Sinclair, with Smythe-VanPell Auction House in New York.”

  The older man looked down his nose. “We were told to expect you yesterday.”

  “Oh, dear. My original flight was delayed, and then I missed my connection. I see you haven’t received the communication from New York about the change in plans.”

  Her driver reached into his pocket and produced an envelope. “I’ll bet that’s what this is, Desmond. I was told to deliver it with all haste.”

  “All haste, is it?” With a look of censure in the driver’s direction, the man in the doorway tore open the envelope and read, then nodded.

  When he spoke, his tone became brisk and businesslike. “Come in, Professor Sinclair. Welcome to Castle Clough. My name is Desmond Snow.” He turned to the driver. “Angus, you may leave the bags here. I’ll see that they’re taken to the professor’s rooms.”

  Angus looked relieved as he backed away from the door and hurriedly retrieved the other bags.

  As he set them down, he leaned close to whisper, “Be warned, miss. There are those, myself included, who would never dare set foot inside this place. There’s a curse on it.”

  He looked up to see Desmond staring holes through him. He hurried back to the car. Within minutes he was driving away, the wheels of the car spewing gravel in his haste to depart.

  Estelle looked after him thoughtfully. She’d read of the ancient curse of Castle Clough. Something about all the women dying young. But it was nothing more than an old wives’ tale. It was difficult to believe that in this enlightened age people would still fret over such a thing.

  Desmond stood aside, beckoning her in. “I’ll show you to your room and see that you’re given some tea and a bite to eat. I’m sure you’ll want some time to rest after your long journey.”

  “Thank you. But I’d really like to see Lord Cameron. I’m eager to get started on my work here.”

  “I’m afraid that isn’t possible right now, Professor Sinclair.” His tone was brusque. “Lord Cameron is in a most important meeting. But I’ll inform his lordship that you’ve arrived.”

  He led the way up a wide, curving staircase. Estelle couldn’t help darting glances of admiration as she followed. The highly polished balustrade was hand-carved mahogany, each step of the staircase a slab of gold-veined marble. A chandelier was suspended on silver chains from four stories above. After a cursory glance, she estimated it to be the finest crystal, several hundred years old. The soaring walls were softened with ancient tapestries whose symbols of lions and stags and warriors may have faded through the centuries but were still excellent examples of superb craftsmanship.

  Along the hallway leading to her room were portraits of lavishly dressed women and darkly handsome men. She had the odd feeling that they watched as she passed by.

  Desmond opened a set of double doors, then stood back, allowing Estelle to precede him. Inside was a sitting room, with a mix of seventeenth-and eighteenth-century furnishings in remarkable condition. The room smelled of beeswax and ammonia, attesting to the fact that it had been thoroughly cleaned in preparation for her arrival.

  “It’s a bit drafty, with all this rain. If we had known…” He stopped and cleared his throat. It wasn’t his place to criticize a guest’s late arrival. “I’ll have one of the lads sent up to start a fire.” Desmond opened another door revealing a bedroom fit for a queen, with a huge four-poster bed decked with peach-and-white-silk bed hangings and an ivory comfortor adorned with what Estelle recognized as the Cameron crest.

  He stood aside as she slowly circled the room, touching a hand to the silk hangings, pausing to study the signature on the painting that hung over a Louis XIV desk.

  “I hope you’ll be comfortable here, Professor Sinclair.”

  Despite his words, Estelle had the distinct impression that this man wasn’t as much concerned with her comfort as with her untimely arrival. “Thank you, Desmond. I’m sure I will be.”

  She waited until he left. As soon as the door closed behind him, she kicked off her shoes and began slowly circling the room again, pausing to touch, to examine, to admire.

  What a treasure trove. For someone like Estelle, who had spent years studying Scottish antiquities, this wa
s the opportunity of a lifetime. She spread her arms wide and danced around and around before dropping onto a sixteenth-century chaise to catch her breath. Despite the less-than-cordial welcome, nothing could dampen her excitement at being here. And, she reminded herself, perhaps Desmond Snow was merely annoyed at being caught unawares. If he was in charge of the household staff, he probably took his duties very seriously.

  Still…she considered her surroundings further. How could anyone remain annoyed at anything for any length of time in a place as regal as this?

  At a soft tap on the door she looked up. Before she could cross to the sitting room, the door was opened and a brawny young man entered, carrying an armload of wood. Though such a burden would stagger most men, this lad carried the logs as though they weighed no more than a feather.

  He looked at her, then quickly away. But in that moment she caught sight of his eyes. They had a strange, vacant stare.

  He crossed the room to the fireplace, where he knelt on the hearth and deposited his burden.

  Behind him trailed a boy of about twelve or thirteen. “Good afternoon, miss.” The boy’s cheeks turned a becoming shade of pink when he caught sight of Estelle in the doorway. “Desmond sent us up to start a fire and see to your comfort.”

  “Thank you.” Estelle watched as the older lad carefully arranged the logs, then held a match to the kindling. His movements were slow and deliberate. Like someone who was sleepwalking. “My name is Estelle Sinclair. What’s yours?”

  “I’m Arley Barclay. And this is my brother, Fergus.”

  “It’s very nice to meet both of you. Do you live here at Castle Clough?”

  The younger boy laughed. “Oh, no, ma’am. We live in the village you can see from the window. Just down that winding road a bit. Dunfield, it’s called. I help out here after school and on weekends. Fergus doesn’t go to school, so he’s here most every day.” He studied the newcomer. “Will you be staying here long?”