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“They’ll be asking their way inland next,” he said.

Jamie set a bowl of broth in front of him. “And there’s nothing in our yard for them to find. We leave the casks where Tam hid them until the road is safe.”

“The merchants will complain.”

“They can complain to me.”

Ewan took a mouthful, then pointed his spoon toward the broken tower. “Ye’d best make the place look haunted enough to turn a bishop’s hair white. If they’ve heard the stories, they’ll come wanting proof.”

“A fine occupation for a man who’s been awake all night.”

“Olivia will enjoy it.”

From the far side of the room came the scrape of a chair. Olivia had been studying the strips of linen, and she looked up at the mention of her name.

“I heard that,” she said. “And you’re right.”

By afternoon the news of Finlay’s injury had spread through the glen. Kirsty sent clean linen and offered to sit with him if needed, Widow Fraser supplied a small jar of salve with firm instructions about its use, and Mairi arrived from the alehouse with bread, hard cheese, and the sort of expression that told Jamie she was going to supervise him whether he liked it or not. He sent most of the food back toward the coast with a reliable lad who was already bound that way, along with enough coin to repay the fisherman for keeping Finlay safe.

When the lad had gone, Mairi examined the ropes stretched across the hall. “Tell me you’re doing something about that pitiful sheet ye call a ghost.”

“The sheet has kept many a fool out of my castle.”

“Aye, but now the fools may arrive carrying muskets.”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell him,” Olivia said.

Jamie looked from one woman to the other and decided he was outnumbered before the work had even begun.

They already had a respectable ghost, thanks to Olivia’s earlier improvements, but frightening a curious traveler was considerably easier than discouraging armed excisemen who’d be coming looking for whisky.

“The trouble,” Olivia said, studying the old hall, “is that your ghost has only been haunting one part of the castle.”

“My ghost has been verra busy in that part of the castle.”

“And what happens when Robertson decides to search the rest?”

“He’ll discover a great many rooms without roofs.”

“Jamie.”

“Aye, lass. I’m listening.”

She pointed toward the gallery, where the broken stair disappeared into shadow. “We need them looking in the wrong direction from the moment they come through the door. And if they discover how one part works, something else needs to happen somewhere they can’t see.”

Jamie followed her gaze. He’d always depended upon the ruined castle’s reputation to discourage strangers from coming too close, but Robertson had been asking questions for weeks, and a determined officer might search every room despite the stories.

“Ye want the whole castle haunted?”

“I want Robertson wondering how many ghosts live here.”

“An ambitious undertaking. I’ve scarcely enough room for the living.”

Morag arrived carrying a basket of candles and set it on the hearth without asking whether anybody needed more light. Sorcha followed with a cracked mirror, while two of the village women brought a length of white linen that had once covered somebody’s wedding bed.

Within minutes they were discussing which passages could be reached without crossing the hall, how to conceal the cords behind the damaged stonework, and whether the bells from a flock of sheep might produce a sufficiently dreadful noise if someone shook them in the tower.

Jamie listened to the suggestions with growing admiration and a certain amount of alarm.