The Scotsman’s Ghost: or How to Wreck a Yule Party (Christmas With Darcy and Elizabeth)

7. Seven

Seven

Darcy

T he brooch sat on the bedside table, taunting me. It was a cursed little thing, gleaming smugly like it knew what it had done. I stared at it, my pulse quickening—not with fear, I told myself, but with frustration. Yes, just frustration. That was all this was.

I picked it up gingerly, turning it over in my hands as if by examining it from every angle, I might convince myself that none of this had actually happened. Maybe I’d had more to drink than I remembered. Maybe I’d hit my head on the carriage ride back from London. That would be logical. Sensible. Not like the mania I thought I had seen earlier.

No, no. It was nonsense. I was overworked. Tired. Exhausted, really. What I needed was sleep, not to be obsessing over this brooch. I could feel my pulse in my throat—practically knocking my cravat loose with how hard it was hammering away, like I was some country schoolboy caught misbehaving.

And then, as if he had been waiting for me to give in to the absurdity of it all, he was there.

Out of nowhere. Again.

“Aye, there ye be,” Ewan drawled, propped up in my favorite chair like a king of nothing, bottle in hand, his legs crossed as if he had all the time in the world. He didn’t just appear—he materialized, casually, as though being summoned to haunt a man’s bedroom was the most natural thing in the world.

I dropped the brooch—flung it across the room, really—and backed up so fast I nearly tripped over my own feet. “ You! ” I blurted, choking on the words, pointing like a fool. “How did you— where did you—”

“Still twitchy as a cat in a thunderstorm, are ye?” he said, taking a long swig from his bottle and wiping his mouth with his sleeve. “Ye’d think ye’d be used tae it by now.”

Used to it? The man was a ghost. Or… or a hallucination. Or—blast, I didn’t know what he was, but “used to it” was the furthest thing from my mind.

I swallowed, trying to rein in the shock, but failing spectacularly. “How are you doing this? Appearing like this?” I managed to say, though my voice had taken on a rather embarrassing note of hysteria. “It’s—it’s not possible.”

Ewan raised an eyebrow, as if I were the one making things difficult. “Aye, I’m here, am I no’?”

“Yes, but why ?” My pulse was going again—this time, I swear, it was trying to escape. “You just… show up whenever you please, with no warning, no—”

He cut me off with a wave of his hand, dismissing me like I was some fretting child. “Ach, steady yersel, will ye? Yer heart’s about to beat its way out o’ yer coat.”

I blinked. Steady myself? My nerves were shot to pieces. Calm? I hadn’t known calm since he’d first appeared out of thin air, and now I was meant to just… accept this?

My eyes landed back on the brooch, which glinted on the rug between us. “It’s that, isn’t it?” I asked, motioning toward the cursed thing, my mind racing. “That’s what’s causing this—this madness.”

That was it. All I had to do was get rid of it! I lunged for it before Ewan could respond and flung it out of the open window. I heard it make a ‘clink’ on the iron railing outside as it fell.

Ewan glanced down at his hand, and devil take me if he was not rolling the thing about between his fingers. How? I had just flung it…

“This wee thing?” He squinted at it and held it up to the light. “Aye, could be. Bonny Prince Charlie.” He toasted the air, then put his bottle to his lips as if paying tribute to another ghost. Oh, bollocks, I don’t know. Perhaps he was.

“ How? ” I demanded.

Ewan shrugged. “Ye nicked yer finger on it, did ye no?”

I stared at him, completely baffled. “What does that have to do with anything?”

He swirled the liquid in his bottle, looking thoroughly bored. “Blood magic, lad. Och, it’s always the blood wi’ these things.”

My mind was reeling. “Blood? What on earth are you talking about? Blood magic? What are you, some—some fairy tale?”

He took another swig, his eyes narrowing at me like I’d just insulted his entire clan. “Fairytale?” he said, his voice dripping with savagery. “Ye think I’m some daft fairytale? Lad, what’s in yer Sassenach books isnae worth the paper it’s scribbled on! Ye nicked yer finger, let a wee drap o' blood, an' here I am—same as it's been fer centuries. Maybe ye ought tae crack open a proper book now an' again.”

I blinked at him, my brain firing off half-formed thoughts at lightning speed. This could not be real. There had to be some explanation. Ghosts don’t just show up because of a drop of blood! For heaven’s sake, if they did, I should have been haunted by an entire battalion of them when I cut my head open climbing rocks as a boy.

“And what, exactly, am I supposed to do about it?” I asked, my voice shaking. “How do I—how do I get rid of you?”

He gave me a slow, deliberate grin that made me want to tear out my hair. “Why’d ye want tae get rid o’ me? Aye, I’m only just gettin’ started tae enjoy mesel’, so I am.”

“ Enjoy yourself? ” My hands were shaking now, and I had half a mind to throttle him—if only I were certain he wasn’t going to vanish the moment I tried. “You’ve been dead for mercy knows how long, and now you’re here, haunting me, and you’re telling me that you’re enjoying yourself ?”

“Ye’ve got it,” he said, raising the bottle in a mock toast. “Ach, ye can stop yer bawlin’, lad. I’m here, an’ I’m no’ budgin’.”

I blinked again, my mind racing back to the brooch. “The brooch,” I muttered, pacing the floor. “It has to be the brooch. If I… if I get rid of it…”

Ewan chuckled, an infuriating sound that grated on every last one of my nerves. “Aye, good luck wi’ that. It’s no’ that simple, ye know.”

“What do you mean, ‘not that simple’?” I stopped pacing, my pulse galloping as I contemplated impending disaster. “What is simple about any of this? Give me that thing!”

Ewan shrugged and opened his palm. I wasn’t taking any chances this time. Into the fire grate it went, into the very hottest part of the flames. With any luck, that bright silver would send up a scorching smoke within seconds that…

“I’ve telt ye, ye cannae be rid o’ it ‘cause I cannae be rid o’ it .” Ewan held out his hand, still brandishing that blasted brooch.

That was when my knees buckled. My head was swimming, and I wanted to be sick all over the carpet. But by some small miracle, I found my voice. Or at least a raspy whisper. “ How are you doing that?”

“It’s blood magic, ye daftie. Ye think ye can chuck that brooch out a window an’ be rid o’ me? Aye, I wish. Then maybe I’d get mesel’ a proper Highlander instead o’…” He gave me a once-over, curling his lip. “Ye.”

I stared at him, my mouth opening and closing, utterly speechless. This couldn’t be happening. This was some nightmare—yes, that was it. Any moment now, I’d wake up and laugh about it all.

“I’m losing my mind,” I muttered, pressing my fingers to my temples.

“Nay, lad,” Ewan said, grinning like the cat who’d caught the canary. “But ye’re stuck wi’ me, ye are.”

“And how long,” I ground out, “will that be?”

He took a slow, deliberate sip of his whisky. “Could be forever. Could be a few days. Depends, doesnae?”

“On what?” I snapped, desperate for anything to cling to. “And how on earth are you able to drink that? Aren’t you dead?” I strode forward and snatched the bottle out of his hand, then sniffed it. It was real—the bottle had weight and shape, it was cold to the touch and still half full of some awful-smelling foulness.

Ewan’s eyes darkened. He moved faster than I expected, lunging forward and yanking it back with a grip like iron.

“Are ye mad, lad?” he growled, his voice low and dangerous, far more threatening than I’d ever heard it. “There’s nae a more foolish thing in this world than layin’ yer hands on a man’s whisky. Ye want trouble, eh? Because that’s how ye get it.”

I just stood there, my fingers slack, and my hand open limply as he took another drink. “You… you’re dead!” I cried. “ How are you drinking?”

Ewan shrugged. “Ach, who’s tae say? Nae rules set down, ye ken, but I’m right glad o’ a bit o’ drink just now. Ye’re enough to drive a man tae it.”

I groaned, throwing myself into the nearest chair and staring up at the ceiling, my heart still thudding like it was trying to dig its way out through my ribs. Every rational bone in my body screamed that this wasn’t possible—that none of this was possible—but the ghost lounging in my chair with a whisky bottle said otherwise.

“Why…” I started, my voice tight, “…can nobody else see you?”

Ewan grinned, the kind of grin that made me want to throttle him. “Ach, now there’s a question, eh?”

“Yes!” I snapped, my temper fraying. “That’s exactly the question.”

He swirled the whisky around in the bottle, leaning back in my chair like he owned the bloody thing. “Well, lad, I reckon it’s ‘cause ye called me up wi’ yer blood. It’s yer doin’, after all. No’ like I’m hangin’ aboot fer a bit o’ fun.”

“That’s not an answer! I need to know this . Why ,” I asked, forcing my voice to remain steady, “can’t anyone else see you?”

He shrugged. “Maybe ‘cause they didnae go jabbin’ their fingers on some auld bit o’ metal.” His eyes sparkled with amusement as he took another swig. “Or maybe I just like tormentin’ ye more. Gad’s teeth, but ye’re a toffee-nosed heid bummer.”

My fists clenched. “So, I’m the only one cursed to deal with you?”

He just shrugged and took another pull from his bottle.

I groaned, rubbing my face with both hands. This was utterly insane. I was losing my mind, that was the only explanation.

Before I could spiral any further into my own misery, Ewan’s voice cut through my thoughts. “But I’ve a wee question fer ye, lad.”

I didn’t look up. “I’m not interested.”

“Ah, but ye might want tae be, ye ken. An' who was that bonnie lass ye near knocked o’er on the lawn?”

I froze. Slowly, I raised my head to find Ewan staring at me, an eyebrow arched with far too much interest.

“Who?” I asked, though I knew exactly who he meant.

“The lass,” he said, waving the bottle like a man giving orders. “Dark hair, sharp tongue on her, aye? Looks like she can handle hersel’, that yin. Ye ken the lass I mean.”

“Miss Bennet?” I replied, trying to keep my voice neutral. “What of her?”

He grinned, leaning forward. “Och, she’s a bonny one, isnae she? Caught me eye, she did. Bold lass, by the looks o’ her. Not one o’ those simperin’ flowers ye see around here, but wi’…” He gestured with his bottle, pantomiming a woman’s… er… shape. “That’s a pair of sweet—”

My stomach dropped, and I moved to cut him off before he could blurt out whatever Scottish obscenity he was about to utter. “That is entirely inappropriate!”

He let out a bark of laughter. “Aye, well, what care I aboot yer Sassenach manners, eh? A Highland man kens fine how tae admire a bonnie lass when he claps eyes on one.”

My hands clenched into fists at my sides, the color rising in my face. “You will not speak of Miss Bennet that way.”

Ewan raised an eyebrow, his grin widening. “Och, have I struck a nerve, have I? So, she be yer lass, then?”

“You will not speak of any lady in that way, not merely Miss Bennet! Her honor,” I said sharply, standing straighter, “is not for you to question.”

I blinked, suddenly aware of just how absurd this situation had become. I was lecturing a ghost—or a figment of my imagination—about a lady’s honor. Her honor! As if that mattered to him, or as if he could do anything about it. Was I truly standing here, arguing with a man from another century about propriety?

Before I could dwell on the ridiculousness of it all, Ewan leaned back, his grin growing wider.

“Aye, an’ I’ll wager she’s got plenty more tae her name, eh? That spark in her eyes—ye ken that’s somethin’ special, don’t ye, lad?”

I glared at him, my blood boiling. “It is indecent. You are indecent.”

He waved me off, still chuckling. “Och, save yer preachin’, Sassenach. I’ve seen more decency in a pigsty. But that lass—she’s a canty one. Wouldnae mind learnin’ a thing or two aboot her.”

My jaw clenched so tightly that I thought my teeth might crack. “You will do no such thing,” I growled, my voice shaking with anger. “You’ll leave Miss Bennet entirely out of this.”

Ewan gave me a sly look, but thankfully, he didn’t push any further. Instead, he stood up, the bottle still clutched in his hand. “Ach, I’ll leave ye tae yer sulkin’. Got better things tae dae than sit here listenin’ tae yer greetin’.”

I blinked. “More important things? You’re dead .”

He grinned again, tipping his bottle in my direction. “Aye, but I’m not lettin’ that stop me.” He turned toward the door. “Think I’ll see if yer cook’s got anythin’ worth drinkin’. Or eatin’.”

“You can’t just—” I started, but before I could finish, he was gone, vanishing into thin air as if he had never been there.

I stood there, frozen, staring at the empty space where he’d stood only moments ago. Gone . Again.

But he’d be back. That much was certain. He’d be back, and no amount of yelling or scolding was going to change that.

My fists unclenched, and I pressed my hands to my temples, pacing the floor in front of the bed, trying to force my mind to work through the madness. What could I do? I couldn’t tell Bingley or anyone else in this house. They’d think I’d gone mad—and maybe I had.

Was I mad? Hallucinating? Had I somehow conjured this nightmare myself?

I ran a hand through my hair, trying to find some shred of rationality in all this. The brooch. It had to be connected to the brooch. But why?

And why me?