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

9. Nine

Nine

Darcy

“ W here’s the blasted answer?” I growled, shoving my chair back as I rifled through the old pages of A Tour in Scotland . The book thudded against the desk as I tossed it open, my finger tracing the lines, desperately searching for something—anything—that might help.

“Ye ken, that’s nae gonna work, aye?” Ewan’s voice echoed from the corner, but I didn’t look up.

I ignored him, teeth grinding, hoping Thomas Pennant, a man who’d traveled Scotland in the 1770s, might have written down some foolproof way to send a Highland ghost packing. There had to be something in here about how to rid myself of this curse.

“Ye’re wastin’ yer time, lad,” Ewan drawled. “Pennant’s a Sassenach. What does he know aboot the likes o’ me?”

“Let’s see,” I muttered, ignoring him as I skimmed the index for any mention of ghosts, spirits, or anything remotely useful. “Superstitions of the Highlands...” I turned to the relevant page and began reading.

It didn’t take long before I hit a passage on the “Second Sight”—the peculiar Scottish belief that certain individuals could foresee the future, often predicting death or misfortune. There were mentions of ghostly visitations, particularly those of men who had died in battle, and spirits lingering over unfinished business.

Of course. There was always unfinished business.

I sighed, running a hand through my hair. “Spirits of the deceased are said to linger until their souls find rest,” I muttered aloud, reading Pennant’s rather clinical explanation. “They haunt those connected to their past, often appearing to demand retribution or to seek justice for a wrong unavenged...”

“Aye, that’s me, right enough.” Ewan was no longer across the room. He had suddenly materialized on the other side of the desk, peering down at the book as though it were some quaint novelty. “I always said ye English like yer books more than yer women.”

I glared at him but kept my focus on the page. “Do you mind?” I asked sharply. “I’m trying to figure out how to get rid of you.”

Ewan snorted. ”Ye think some Sassenach writin’ about Highland ghosts has the answer, dae ye? Ha! Bet he never set foot in a proper Scottish hoose. Likely had a few too many ales in Edinburgh an’ started ramblin’ aboot the ‘mystical’ hills.”

I scanned further down the page. “‘Highland ghosts often appear tied to objects of personal significance—belongings of the deceased, which they seek to reclaim in order to sever the spiritual bond.’”

I paused and glanced at the brooch resting innocently on the bedside table. That had to be it. Somehow, my pricking my finger on it had woken Ewan, and now I was stuck with him until… well, that was the question, wasn’t it?

I looked back at the book. Pennant continued, listing ways ghosts could be laid to rest. Unfortunately, it wasn’t as simple as destroying the object.

I sighed again. “It says here I need to help you ‘finish your unfinished business.’” I glanced up at Ewan. “Do you even know what that is?”

He scratched his chin, clearly amused by my predicament. “Aye, that’s a fine question, lad. But what’s the fun in tellin’ ye?”

“You don’t even know, do you?”

He gave me a shrug that was far too casual for my liking. “Maybe I dae. Maybe I dinnae. I’m enjoyin’ seein’ ye squirm.”

I closed the book with a thud. “So, what? I’m just supposed to let you haunt me indefinitely while I play detective? What did you do, murder somebody?”

Ewan didn’t respond right away, and for a moment, I thought he’d actually left. I glanced back to find him staring off, his expression briefly clouded. But then he shrugged, his usual indifference settling back into place.

“Eh, maybe. Could be somethin’ like that.” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully, as if the idea of unfinished business was a mildly interesting curiosity, not the reason for his eternal haunting.

I narrowed my eyes. “Maybe? That’s it?”

He shrugged again. “Who cares? Ye think I’ve spent me afterlife wonderin’ what’s keepin’ me here? If I’m here, I’m here. If I’m no’, I’m no’.”

I pinched the bridge of my nose, fighting the urge to slam the book shut. “So, you don’t even know if there’s something you need to finish? How did you die?”

Ewan curled his lip. “Culloden. On a Sassenach blade.”

I swallowed. No wonder he did not care for me. Egad, what if I told him my cousin was a colonel in the Regulars? That I had a great uncle who fought in that battle? I… no, that did not seem like such a good idea, after all. I couldn’t figure out how to get rid of him, so it seemed impolitic to make him hate me any more than he already did.

“Well, there go all my ideas.” I’d been hoping for a clue, a hint—anything that might give me direction. But no, I was stuck with a ghost who didn’t care in the slightest whether he stayed or left.

I skimmed the text again, looking for some practical advice. “It says here that spirits can be bound to objects—like the brooch.” I glanced over at that thing sitting on the desk, the thing that had started this whole nightmare. “But it’s not as simple as just getting rid of it. Apparently, there’s something more to it. Something tied to your past.”

Ewan leaned over, peering at the brooch like it was some boring trinket. “Aye, that’s ma brooch, sure as. Bonny, ain’t it?”

I shot him a glare. “‘Bonny’ isn’t exactly the word I’d use. The thing was a seditious commodity. Probably illegal just to own.”

Ewan frowned and nodded, conceding my point. “Weel, ye pricked yersel' on it, so now we’re tethered, aye? Reckon bad luck flows in yer blood, lad.”

“Or it’s just bad luck being around you,” I shot back.

He let out a laugh. “Aye, that too.”

I rubbed my temple, the beginnings of a headache forming. “So, let me get this straight. You’re going to keep haunting me, and you don’t even care if I figure out what’s keeping you here?”

Ewan leaned back against the wall, crossing his arms again. “Nah, no’ really. I’m havin’ a braw time, an’ ye’re just makin’ it all the merrier, ye ken.”

I closed the book with a thud and threw myself back in the chair. “Fantastic. I’m haunted by the most unhelpful ghost in history.”

“Could be worse,” Ewan said with a grin. “Ye could be dead like me, lad. At least ye’ve got a bed tae sleep in, and, if ye’d give yerself the trouble o’ it, you could feel the warmth of a lassie’s—”

I stood abruptly and began pacing the room, my mind spinning. “This is absurd. According to Pennant, Highlanders believed spirits would appear during storms, or in the dead of night, sometimes in dreams. You, however, appear whenever you feel like it and make yourself perfectly at home.”

“Aye, well, that’s true,” he said, sounding quite pleased with himself.

I rolled my eyes and returned to the desk, sitting heavily. I stared at the book, trying to will some piece of information to jump off the page and save me from this nonsense.

“Here,” I said, reading aloud again, “Many Highlanders believe that spirits linger where they are wronged, seeking justice or completion of a vow left undone in life. Only once these tasks are fulfilled can they cross over into peace.”

I glanced up. “Does that sound familiar to you?”

Ewan’s expression faltered, just for a second, but it was enough to catch my attention. He quickly masked it with a laugh. “Maybe. Or maybe I’m havin’ a laugh watchin’ ye fret over that book, like it’s gonna wave a wand an’ fix all yer troubles.”

I sighed and closed the book again, leaning back in my chair. “You’re insufferable.”

“Aye, but I’m also yer problem,” Ewan shot back, leaning on the desk with a grin. “Instead o’ buryin’ yer nose in books about ghosts, why don’t ye get on wi’ livin’, lad? Go chase after the lasses. That one wi’ the sharp tongue an’ those bonny eyes would be—”

I shot him a glare. “The real world would be much easier to navigate without a dead Highlander criticizing my every move.”

“Och, ye’ll get there, lad. Or I’ll stick around long enough tae make ye wish ye’d sorted it sooner.”

I resisted the urge to throw the book at him, knowing it would pass right through. Instead, I leaned back, closed my eyes, and tried to remember what life was like before a ghost had taken up permanent residence in my life.

Elizabeth

T he evening had unfolded predictably enough. Miss Bingley, with a smug little smile, had settled herself at the piano and begun to play—a performance designed, no doubt, to impress a certain Mr. Darcy. Well, she was welcome to him, the madman.

I sat by the fire, half-listening to the music and bouncing my foot along with the rhythm, more amused than anything. Miss Bingley was decent at the piano, but there was an air of over-rehearsed perfection about it that left no room for real enjoyment.

I glanced around the room. Mr. Bingley, of course, was beaming, happy to encourage any activity that didn’t involve people talking over one another. Mr. Hurst was dozing, as usual, and Mr. Darcy… well, Mr. Darcy was being his usual stiff, inscrutable self. Or so I thought, until I noticed something strange.

His posture, always so rigid, was even more so tonight, if that were possible. He sat straight as a rod, his jaw clenched, his eyes darting around like a man looking for an escape route. And then he… twitched.

Not a graceful shift, mind you, but a sudden jerk, as if someone had whacked him in the back of the head with a shepherd’s cane.

I blinked, watching in fascination as his whole body seemed to be locked in a silent struggle. One moment he stiffened further, as if trying to resist some unseen force, and the next, he jerked again, this time almost rising out of his seat and then pushing himself backward again.

What on earth was happening?

Just as I was about to gesture to Mr. Bingley to witness this strange display, Mr. Darcy lurched to his feet, his face set in what could only be described as a mask of shaking resignation. He took a toe-dragging step forward, then another, his shoulders tipped backward and his entire body moving as if it were being pushed along by invisible hands. I barely had time to process the absurdity of it before he was standing directly in front of me.

“Miss Bennet,” he said, his voice strained, “would you do me the honor of dancing the reel?”

A dance? With Mr. Darcy?

I stared up at him, half-expecting him to retract the offer immediately. His expression was a study in discomfort, as though he were bracing himself for an unpleasant task. His eyes flicked toward the piano, then back to me, and I could have sworn he looked… apologetic.

What in heaven’s name was going on?

There was a long pause in which I seriously debated the risks of saying yes or no. If I accepted, I’d be touching him—and he was clearly unhinged. But if I refused… well, what if he really was mad? I didn’t want to provoke a man in the middle of some bizarre fit.

“Yes,” I said, a little too quickly. “Of course.”

Miss Bingley’s hands hit the piano keys with a bit more force than necessary, and her smile dropped faster than a stone in a well. That, at least, gave me a flicker of satisfaction. But that flicker vanished as soon as Mr. Darcy held out his hand, and I realized that I had no choice but to take it.

His grip was firm, but not unkind, though his whole body seemed as tense as a bowstring. He led me to the center of the room, where we took our places, and I tried not to think about how this man—this impossibly confusing man—was about to hold me for the next several minutes.

The music began, and we started to dance.

At first, it was exactly as awkward as I feared it would be. His movements were stiff, mechanical, and I could feel the tension radiating off him like steam from a boiling kettle. His eyes were focused somewhere above my head, as though he couldn’t quite bring himself to look at me, and I found myself holding my breath, convinced that at any moment, he might flee the room entirely.

But then, something changed.

After a few measures, his posture eased—ever so slightly—and his movements became smoother. His hand, which had been gripping mine as if he were trying to avoid being dragged into the sea, relaxed. By the time we reached the middle of the dance, Mr. Darcy had transformed into something unexpected.

He was… graceful.

I blinked in surprise as he spun me gently, his steps confident, his hands steady and—dare I say it—almost tender in the way they guided me through the movements. The tension was still there, simmering beneath the surface, but he was no longer fighting the dance. In fact, he was keeping up with me with remarkable ease.

“You’re quite the dancer, Mr. Darcy,” I said.

He glanced at me then, and for a moment, I saw something in his eyes that made my breath catch. It wasn’t the rigid, distant look I’d come to expect from him. No, this was different—focused, yes, but softer. As though he were actually seeing me, not just enduring me.

“Thank you,” he said quietly, and there was a sincerity in his voice that startled me.

As the reel picked up rhythm, I couldn’t help myself. I began to add a few flourishes to the steps—playful claps and lively footwork. To my astonishment, Mr. Darcy didn’t miss a beat. He matched my steps effortlessly, even adding a few flourishes of his own. Mr. Bingley even started clapping along from the sidelines.

It was… fun. There was no other word for it. Somehow, in the midst of all the confusion and stiffness and awkwardness, Mr. Darcy had become not only a competent partner, but an enjoyable one. And the way he was looking at me now…

No . No, I couldn’t trust that look. The warmth in his eyes, the gentleness of his touch—it was all a trick of the light. Or perhaps I was misreading him entirely. After all, this was Mr. Darcy. The man who had done everything but run from my presence just a few days ago. I couldn’t believe he was now dancing with me as though he… liked me.

As the final notes of the song played, we came to a stop. Mr. Darcy released my hand slowly, and for a moment, he looked at me as if he wanted to say something. But whatever it was, he swallowed it back, the discomfort creeping back into his posture.

He bowed stiffly. “Thank you for the dance, Miss Bennet.”

“Thank you, Mr. Darcy,” I replied, still trying to make sense of the man standing in front of me.

He nodded once and then retreated—no, bolted—back to the sofa, where he sat as stiff as a statue, fixing his gaze firmly on something across the room. He didn’t move for the rest of the evening.

And I was left standing there, feeling as though I had just danced with a man I would never truly understand.