Chapter 1
Ninety-seven. Ninety-eight. Ninety-nine.
Ninety-nine pages of coital positions. It really was remarkable. Most notably because the vellum was bloody expensive, and here she was, filling it up with something most people would consider silly.
With a sigh, Wynda Oliphant rolled her shoulders, trying to work out the knots in her muscles. She’d been sitting at her desk in the women’s solar, the one in front of the window because it had the best light all morning. She’d been finishing up the last of the positions, and now…
“Are ye done counting?” The voice came from over her shoulder, even though no other humans were in the room. “Ye mutter to yerself. I didnae want to disturb ye.”
Without turning her head, Wynda answered. “Ninety-nine,” she said dully. “Please tell me that’s enough for ye to feel satisfied?”
Surely there was a joke in there about ninety-nine sexual positions being enough to satisfy anyone, but she was just too exhausted to think of it.
Ye’d be too exhausted to do anything, if ye’d actually tried all ninety-nine.
Her visitor, of course, wasn’t satisfied. She never was.
With a breathy laugh, the voice moved further away. “Ninety-nine? Nay, that is no’ enough satisfaction. For certes. I’ll need to think of one more…”
Sighing again, Wynda twisted on her stool to glare at her tormentor.
Luckily, she’d learned long ago not to scream when confronted with ghosts, because otherwise she’d be screaming at all hours. For some reason, only certain women in her bloodline could communicate with the spectres of Oliphant Castle, and she was just the lucky one.
It had been a disturbing childhood realization to learn her sisters didn’t consider the headless Sir Timothy a playmate. They couldn’t even see him.
Sir Timothy was a dear—despite his permanently shortened appearance—and the Mad Monk was annoying, while the twins were depressing, and The Beast was best avoided. There were others, but the bane of Wynda’s existence was the ephemerally beautiful woman attempting to pluck at the strings of Robena’s harp.
“One more,” Wynda said firmly. “One hundred sexual positions, plus the anecdotes and history behind them. Surely that’s good enough, in terms of a life’s work? Surely ye can consider yer knowledge passed on, then?”
The Gray Lady straightened, an enigmatic smile on her lips. “Mayhap.”
“Mayhap?” Wynda growled.
“Likely.”
Oh thank St. Tiffani!
“And…” After five years of transcribing the Gray Lady’s tales, Wynda felt safe nagging her. “Then ye’ll move on? Ye’ll Cross Over to the other side? Please?”
“Why, my dear lass, one would think ye dinnae value my helpful advice!”
Blast.
“Milady, I’ve listened to yer stories. I’ve transcribed yer exploits. I’ve even made my sisters pose for me so I can sketch out these positions ye keep describing. That was the only way to discover exactly how two men could get their legs behind a woman’s— Ye ken, never mind.” Where had she been going with that sentence? “Och, my point is, I’ve made yer life’s work my life’s work, and now…”
The Gray Lady smiled knowingly. “And now ye want the opportunity to try out all this knowledge. I understand.”
Wynda’s mouth dropped open.
“Nae need to thank me, my dear. Dinnae think I’ve failed to understand the benefits of my knowledge. Yer sisters have been grateful.”
“What?” Wynda managed to bleat.
With a tsk and a wave of her hand, the Gray Lady floated toward Nicola’s work table, where the healer’s herbs and spices were spread. “Two of yer younger sisters are married already. Ye ken yer father has declared all of ye must marry. The first one to present him with a grandson, her husband will become the next Laird Oliphant.”
“I—I ken that,” Wynda spluttered. “How do ye ken that?”
“Because I pay attention, my dear.” She shot a smirk over her shoulder. Ghosts should not be able to smirk. “Just because ye dinnae see me, doesnae mean I’m no’ watching.”