The snowcat stopped in front of what Grace could only describe as a castle. It was built completely of stone, four stories high, and it was the darkest, ugliest structure she had ever laid eyes on.
It had to cover nearly four acres in footprint, with towers marking each of the four corners and slits for windows rising up each rounded turret in a diagonal procession, as if following the rise of stairs. The stones that made up the walls were black and gray speckled granite. But arched over the doorway and each window the stones were pure black, only slightly less rough than the walls.
The architect they’d hired must have thought he’d died and gone to heaven, being able to design such a huge, modern-day castle. He also must have been drunk.
There was even a moat. Sort of. Grace stared at the bridge that ran over a wild, frothing brook roaring past the castle’s foundation.
So this was Gu Bràth.
Grace wondered if Grey thought she would marry him and actually live here. Talk about regressing. The man she’d fallen in love with lived in a castle, for crying out loud.
Ian came out the front door and across the bridge, hurrying over to help Father Daar out of the snowcat.
He handed the old priest over to Callum, who had followed him outside, and then Ian descended on Grace.
“Well? Did ya find what you needed up there?” he asked.
She stared at him blankly. No, she had found heartache, and she hadn’t needed that at all. She suddenly blushed as his words sank in. She hadn’t even seen the ski-lift shed on the summit.
“Ah…I…” She darted a look at Grey, who had walked up beside her.
“She’ll fix the lift,” he told Ian, taking her by the arm and leading her toward his home. “After we do a small chore first, she’ll save the damn ski lift for us.”
Grace let him lead her away without protest. Truth be told, she wanted his support to walk across the narrow, high, slippery-looking bridge that ran over the churning brook.
She walked ahead of him the minute she saw the inside of the castle. Having expected the worst—a dank, dark, chilling interior to match the outside—Grace was amazed at what she found inside.
It was magnificent. Beautiful. The foyer was larger than her house and ran the full four stories up to an oak-beamed ceiling. A stairway as wide as a train ran up the right wall, curving onto an open balcony railed with hand-hewn timber. She walked to the center of the room and turned around, trying to take it all in.
It was so bright inside it hurt her eyes. Lights—tens of dozens of bulbs—shone into every nook and cranny, glistening off the black stone that shined like the ebony keys of a piano. Grace recognized the rock. It was from the mountain. TarStone got its name from fissures of black rock that ran like rivers through the granite. Instead of absorbing the light, the rock had been polished to reflect it.
The effect was so magical it made her dizzy.
She closed her eyes and lowered her head to get her bearings, only to open them up to see five men watching her with grins on their faces.
“You’re not the first to have such a reaction,” Morgan told her. “Stunning, isn’t it?”
“It’s beautiful. I never would have guessed, looking at it from the out-” Grace snapped her mouth shut before she finished insulting their home and quickly walked through the archway opposite the entrance.
She found herself in a very large, tastefully and comfortably furnished living room. There was a big-screened television in the corner, three leather couches arranged into a sitting area facing it, and a desk in the other corner that held a computer.
She breathed a sigh of relief. She had been entertaining visions of Greylen MacKeage walking up and telling her, “Oh, by the way, I came through time with MacBain.” Grey certainly seemed medieval to her sometimes, what with his talk of women being weaker, her belonging to him now, and his general alpha-male attitude. And he did live in a castle.
“Well,” she said to the men staring at her. “This is a very nice home you have.”
They just kept staring. Grace looked at Grey, her eyes pleading with him to do something. With a laconic smile contradicting the harsh planes of his face, he stepped forward to move beside her. “Father Daar,”
he said. “Why don’t you take a seat?”
The old priest hadn’t really waited for the invitation. He was already making his way to a big chair by the fireplace that stood in the center of the far wall. He shut off the television on his way by, shaking his head and muttering something under his breath.
Seeing that he was settled, Grey turned back to the three remaining men. Grace thought about running for the door before the fireworks began, but then she remembered the bridge. She started to inch her way toward Father Daar instead. Grey stopped her, taking her by the hand and pulling her beside him.
“Grace has a favor she wants from us before she gets the ice off the gondola lift,” he said, ignoring her nails biting into his palm.
“What would that be, lass?” Ian asked, squinting at her. “It won’t take long, will it? The weather’s lifted a bit, but it could start raining again soon.”
Grace stared at the three men all staring back at her and dug her nails deeper into the hand imprisoning hers.
Grey sighed in resignation. “We’re to set up our snow-making equipment,” he answered for her, “at the Bigelow Christmas Tree Farm.”
The fireworks went off right on schedule, and they were just as loud and far more colorful than she expected. Ian was the worst of the lot, turning as red as his hair and waving his fist in the air.
“That bastard’s not getting any help from us!” he shouted, glaring at her while he did.
“Ya canna mean it, man!” Callum said, taking a step forward, his fists clenched at his sides.
Morgan stared in open-mouthed shock, then spit on the floor. “He’ll rot in hell before we help him!” he said, his face contorted with rage.
The blast of hatred made Grace take a step back. Grey stood tall and calm beside her, weathering the human storm. She stared up at him, wondering what he was thinking.
She wasn’t afraid of the three men still ranting and raving and scorching the air with their curses. She knew to the soles of her feet that Grey would never let them hurt her.
“Grey!” Ian hissed. “What has gotten into ya?” Ian pointed a finger at Grace. “It’s her, isn’t it? She’s softened ya to where you’re willing to help an enemy.”
“That’s enough,” Grey said, his expression still calm, his voice whisper soft.
The litany of curses suddenly stopped. The rage, however, continued to emanate from the three men in icy-cold waves. A silence more deafening than the storm that had preceded it settled like lead over the room.
“That’s the deal, if you want to save our ski lift. We set up our equipment at MacBain’s, and Grace gets the ice off the cable. Or both of our businesses can go to hell along with this accursed storm. Which will it be?”
Ian shook his head in disbelief. “That’s blackmail, is what it is.” He looked at her, the loathing clear in his eyes. “How do we know she can do as she claims?”
“She can,” Grey said succinctly.
“Do you even understand what you’re asking of us?” Callum asked her.
“No, actually, I don’t,” she returned, lifting her chin as she tried to move closer to them. Grey checked her step, keeping her beside him. “Why don’t you explain it to me?” she said to Callum.
Clearly surprised to get an answer to his obviously rhetorical question, Callum looked at Grey. So did Grace. She saw him nod curtly.
“Michael MacBain,” Callum said, sounding as if just saying the name was painful, “fancied himself in love with the MacKeage’s betrothed,” he told her. “And he lured her to his bed. Maura was only a naive lass at the time, and she had a romantic notion that they were star-crossed lovers. She lay with MacBain and soon discovered she was carrying his child,” he explained, the distaste for his story obvious in every harsh line on his face.